ALL things I can endure, save one.The bare, blank room where is no sun;The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;The dreary faces here within;The outer women’s cold regard;The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;—These things could I endure, and countNo overstrain’d, unjust amount;No undue payment for such bliss—Yea, all things bear, save only this:That you, who knew what thing would be,Have wrought this evil unto me.It is so strange to think on still—That you, thatyoushould do me ill!Not as one ignorant or blind,But seeing clearly in your mindHow this must be which now has been,Nothing aghast at what was seen.Now that the tale is told and done,It is so strange to think upon.You were so tender with me, too!One summer’s night a cold blast blew,Closer about my throat you drewThe half-slipt shawl of dusky blue.And once my hand, on a summer’s morn,I stretched to pluck a rose; a thornStruck through the flesh and made it bleed(A little drop of blood indeed!)Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and boundYour handkerchief about the wound;Your voice came with a broken sound;With the deep breath your breast was riven;I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?How strange, thatyoushould work my woe!How strange! I wonder, do you knowHow gladly, gladly I had died(And life was very sweet that tide)To save you from the least, light ill?How gladly I had borne your pain.With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,—Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain.Even if one had told me this,“A poison lurks within your kiss,Gall that shall turn to night his day:”Thereon I straight had turned away—Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain—Andnever kiss’d your lips again.At night, or when the daylight nears,I hear the other women weep;My own heart’s anguish lies too deepFor the soft rain and pain of tears.I think my heart has turn’d to stone,A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast;Here, on my pallet-bed alone,I keep apart from all the rest.Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed,I often cannot sleep all night;The future and the past are dead,There is no thought can bring delight.All night I lie and think and think;If my heart were not made of stone,But flesh and blood, it needs must shrinkBefore such thoughts. Was ever knownA woman with a heart of stone?The doctor says that I shall die.It may be so, yet what care I?Endless reposing from the strife?Death do I trust no more than life.For one thing is like one arrayed,And there is neither false nor true;But in a hideous masqueradeAll things dance on, the ages through.And good is evil, evil good;Nothing is known or understoodSave only Pain. I have no faithIn God or Devil, Life or Death.The doctor says that I shall die.You, that I knew in days gone by,I fain would see your face once more,Con well its features o’er and o’er;And touch your hand and feel your kiss,Look in your eyes and tell you this:That all is done, that I am free;That you, through all eternity,Have neither part nor lot in me.
ALL things I can endure, save one.The bare, blank room where is no sun;The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;The dreary faces here within;The outer women’s cold regard;The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;—These things could I endure, and countNo overstrain’d, unjust amount;No undue payment for such bliss—Yea, all things bear, save only this:That you, who knew what thing would be,Have wrought this evil unto me.It is so strange to think on still—That you, thatyoushould do me ill!Not as one ignorant or blind,But seeing clearly in your mindHow this must be which now has been,Nothing aghast at what was seen.Now that the tale is told and done,It is so strange to think upon.You were so tender with me, too!One summer’s night a cold blast blew,Closer about my throat you drewThe half-slipt shawl of dusky blue.And once my hand, on a summer’s morn,I stretched to pluck a rose; a thornStruck through the flesh and made it bleed(A little drop of blood indeed!)Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and boundYour handkerchief about the wound;Your voice came with a broken sound;With the deep breath your breast was riven;I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?How strange, thatyoushould work my woe!How strange! I wonder, do you knowHow gladly, gladly I had died(And life was very sweet that tide)To save you from the least, light ill?How gladly I had borne your pain.With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,—Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain.Even if one had told me this,“A poison lurks within your kiss,Gall that shall turn to night his day:”Thereon I straight had turned away—Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain—Andnever kiss’d your lips again.At night, or when the daylight nears,I hear the other women weep;My own heart’s anguish lies too deepFor the soft rain and pain of tears.I think my heart has turn’d to stone,A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast;Here, on my pallet-bed alone,I keep apart from all the rest.Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed,I often cannot sleep all night;The future and the past are dead,There is no thought can bring delight.All night I lie and think and think;If my heart were not made of stone,But flesh and blood, it needs must shrinkBefore such thoughts. Was ever knownA woman with a heart of stone?The doctor says that I shall die.It may be so, yet what care I?Endless reposing from the strife?Death do I trust no more than life.For one thing is like one arrayed,And there is neither false nor true;But in a hideous masqueradeAll things dance on, the ages through.And good is evil, evil good;Nothing is known or understoodSave only Pain. I have no faithIn God or Devil, Life or Death.The doctor says that I shall die.You, that I knew in days gone by,I fain would see your face once more,Con well its features o’er and o’er;And touch your hand and feel your kiss,Look in your eyes and tell you this:That all is done, that I am free;That you, through all eternity,Have neither part nor lot in me.
ALL things I can endure, save one.The bare, blank room where is no sun;The parcelled hours; the pallet hard;The dreary faces here within;The outer women’s cold regard;The Pastor’s iterated “sin”;—These things could I endure, and countNo overstrain’d, unjust amount;No undue payment for such bliss—Yea, all things bear, save only this:That you, who knew what thing would be,Have wrought this evil unto me.It is so strange to think on still—That you, thatyoushould do me ill!Not as one ignorant or blind,But seeing clearly in your mindHow this must be which now has been,Nothing aghast at what was seen.Now that the tale is told and done,It is so strange to think upon.
You were so tender with me, too!One summer’s night a cold blast blew,Closer about my throat you drewThe half-slipt shawl of dusky blue.And once my hand, on a summer’s morn,I stretched to pluck a rose; a thornStruck through the flesh and made it bleed(A little drop of blood indeed!)Pale grew your cheek; you stoopt and boundYour handkerchief about the wound;Your voice came with a broken sound;With the deep breath your breast was riven;I wonder, did God laugh in Heaven?
How strange, thatyoushould work my woe!How strange! I wonder, do you knowHow gladly, gladly I had died(And life was very sweet that tide)To save you from the least, light ill?How gladly I had borne your pain.With one great pulse we seem’d to thrill,—Nay, but we thrill’d with pulses twain.
Even if one had told me this,“A poison lurks within your kiss,Gall that shall turn to night his day:”Thereon I straight had turned away—Ay, tho’ my heart had crack’d with pain—Andnever kiss’d your lips again.
At night, or when the daylight nears,I hear the other women weep;My own heart’s anguish lies too deepFor the soft rain and pain of tears.I think my heart has turn’d to stone,A dull, dead weight that hurts my breast;Here, on my pallet-bed alone,I keep apart from all the rest.Wide-eyed I lie upon my bed,I often cannot sleep all night;The future and the past are dead,There is no thought can bring delight.All night I lie and think and think;If my heart were not made of stone,But flesh and blood, it needs must shrinkBefore such thoughts. Was ever knownA woman with a heart of stone?
The doctor says that I shall die.It may be so, yet what care I?Endless reposing from the strife?Death do I trust no more than life.For one thing is like one arrayed,And there is neither false nor true;But in a hideous masqueradeAll things dance on, the ages through.And good is evil, evil good;Nothing is known or understoodSave only Pain. I have no faithIn God or Devil, Life or Death.
The doctor says that I shall die.You, that I knew in days gone by,I fain would see your face once more,Con well its features o’er and o’er;And touch your hand and feel your kiss,Look in your eyes and tell you this:That all is done, that I am free;That you, through all eternity,Have neither part nor lot in me.
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AT last; so this is you, my dear!How should I guess to find you here?So long, so long, I sought in vainIn many cities, many lands,With straining eyes and groping hands;The people marvelled at my pain.They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad;What ails her, we should like to know,That she should be so wan and sad,And silent through the revels go?”They clacked with such a sorry stir!Was I to tell? were they to knowThat I had lost you, Christopher?Will you forgive me for one thing?Whiles, when a stranger came my way,My heart would beat and I would say:“Here’s Christopher!”—then lingeringWith longer gaze, would turn awayCold, sick at heart. My dear, I knowYou will forgive me for this thing.It is so very long agoSince I have seen your face—till now;Now that I see it—lip and brow,Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear;Last time was long ago; I knowThis thing you will forgive me, dear.
AT last; so this is you, my dear!How should I guess to find you here?So long, so long, I sought in vainIn many cities, many lands,With straining eyes and groping hands;The people marvelled at my pain.They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad;What ails her, we should like to know,That she should be so wan and sad,And silent through the revels go?”They clacked with such a sorry stir!Was I to tell? were they to knowThat I had lost you, Christopher?Will you forgive me for one thing?Whiles, when a stranger came my way,My heart would beat and I would say:“Here’s Christopher!”—then lingeringWith longer gaze, would turn awayCold, sick at heart. My dear, I knowYou will forgive me for this thing.It is so very long agoSince I have seen your face—till now;Now that I see it—lip and brow,Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear;Last time was long ago; I knowThis thing you will forgive me, dear.
AT last; so this is you, my dear!How should I guess to find you here?So long, so long, I sought in vainIn many cities, many lands,With straining eyes and groping hands;The people marvelled at my pain.They said: “But sure, the woman’s mad;What ails her, we should like to know,That she should be so wan and sad,And silent through the revels go?”They clacked with such a sorry stir!Was I to tell? were they to knowThat I had lost you, Christopher?Will you forgive me for one thing?Whiles, when a stranger came my way,My heart would beat and I would say:“Here’s Christopher!”—then lingeringWith longer gaze, would turn awayCold, sick at heart. My dear, I knowYou will forgive me for this thing.It is so very long agoSince I have seen your face—till now;Now that I see it—lip and brow,Eyes, nostril, chin, alive and clear;Last time was long ago; I knowThis thing you will forgive me, dear.
There is no Heaven—this is the best;O hold me closer to your breast;Let your face lean upon my face,That there no longer shall be spaceBetween our lips, between our eyes.I feel your bosom’s fall and rise.O hold me near and yet more near;Ah sweet; I wonder do you knowHow lone and cold, how sad and drear,Was I a little while ago;Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir;But I have found you, Christopher.
There is no Heaven—this is the best;O hold me closer to your breast;Let your face lean upon my face,That there no longer shall be spaceBetween our lips, between our eyes.I feel your bosom’s fall and rise.O hold me near and yet more near;Ah sweet; I wonder do you knowHow lone and cold, how sad and drear,Was I a little while ago;Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir;But I have found you, Christopher.
There is no Heaven—this is the best;O hold me closer to your breast;Let your face lean upon my face,That there no longer shall be spaceBetween our lips, between our eyes.I feel your bosom’s fall and rise.O hold me near and yet more near;Ah sweet; I wonder do you knowHow lone and cold, how sad and drear,Was I a little while ago;Sick of the stress, the strife, the stir;But I have found you, Christopher.
If only you had come before!(This is the thing I most deplore)A seemlier woman you had found,More calm, by courtesies more bound,Less quick to greet you, more subduedOf appetite; of slower mood.But ah! you come so late, so late!This time of day I can’t pretendWith slight, sweet things to satiateThe hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,I cannot blush and turn and tremble,Wax loth as younger maidens do.Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,You would not wish me to dissemble?
If only you had come before!(This is the thing I most deplore)A seemlier woman you had found,More calm, by courtesies more bound,Less quick to greet you, more subduedOf appetite; of slower mood.But ah! you come so late, so late!This time of day I can’t pretendWith slight, sweet things to satiateThe hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,I cannot blush and turn and tremble,Wax loth as younger maidens do.Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,You would not wish me to dissemble?
If only you had come before!(This is the thing I most deplore)A seemlier woman you had found,More calm, by courtesies more bound,Less quick to greet you, more subduedOf appetite; of slower mood.But ah! you come so late, so late!This time of day I can’t pretendWith slight, sweet things to satiateThe hunger-cravings. Nay, my friend,I cannot blush and turn and tremble,Wax loth as younger maidens do.Ah, Christopher, with you, with you,You would not wish me to dissemble?
So long have all the days been meagre,With empty platter, empty cup,No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,That if I crave—is it over-eager,The deepest draught, the fullest measure,The beaker to the brim poured up?
So long have all the days been meagre,With empty platter, empty cup,No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,That if I crave—is it over-eager,The deepest draught, the fullest measure,The beaker to the brim poured up?
So long have all the days been meagre,With empty platter, empty cup,No meats nor sweets to do me pleasure,That if I crave—is it over-eager,The deepest draught, the fullest measure,The beaker to the brim poured up?
Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,Says, and would make the matter clear,That love divided is larger love;—We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear.For you never wrote a verse, you see;And I—my verse is not fair nor new.Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.
Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,Says, and would make the matter clear,That love divided is larger love;—We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear.For you never wrote a verse, you see;And I—my verse is not fair nor new.Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.
Shelley, that sprite from the spheres above,Says, and would make the matter clear,That love divided is larger love;—We’ll leave those things to the bards, my dear.For you never wrote a verse, you see;And I—my verse is not fair nor new.Till the world be dead, you shall love but me,Till the stars have ceased, I shall love but you.
Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did runTheir purport. Idly seeking in the chest(You see it yonder), I had found them there:Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.”Twice on the writing there was scored the dateOf ten years back; and where the words had endWas left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,As tho’ the writer minded, presentlyThe matter to pursue.I questioned her,That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine,Who, nothing loth, made answer.There had beenAnother lodger ere I had the rooms,Three months gone by—a woman.“Young, sir? No.Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day!A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends;Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.Short in her temper—eyes would flash and flameAt times, till I was frightened. Paid her rentMost regular, like a lady.Ten years back,They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years backThe lady had a lover. Even thenShe must have been no chicken.Three months sinceShe died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.I did my best to tend her, yet indeedIt’s bad for trade to have a lodger die.Her brother came, a week before she died:Buried her, took her things, threw in the fireThe littered heaps of paper.Yes, the sheets,They must have been forgotten in the chest;—I never knew her name was Adelaide.”
Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did runTheir purport. Idly seeking in the chest(You see it yonder), I had found them there:Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.”Twice on the writing there was scored the dateOf ten years back; and where the words had endWas left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,As tho’ the writer minded, presentlyThe matter to pursue.I questioned her,That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine,Who, nothing loth, made answer.There had beenAnother lodger ere I had the rooms,Three months gone by—a woman.“Young, sir? No.Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day!A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends;Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.Short in her temper—eyes would flash and flameAt times, till I was frightened. Paid her rentMost regular, like a lady.Ten years back,They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years backThe lady had a lover. Even thenShe must have been no chicken.Three months sinceShe died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.I did my best to tend her, yet indeedIt’s bad for trade to have a lodger die.Her brother came, a week before she died:Buried her, took her things, threw in the fireThe littered heaps of paper.Yes, the sheets,They must have been forgotten in the chest;—I never knew her name was Adelaide.”
Thus ran the words; or rather, thus did runTheir purport. Idly seeking in the chest(You see it yonder), I had found them there:Some blotted sheets of paper in a case,With a woman’s name writ on it: “Adelaide.”Twice on the writing there was scored the dateOf ten years back; and where the words had endWas left a space, a dash, a half-writ word,As tho’ the writer minded, presentlyThe matter to pursue.I questioned her,That worthy, worthy soul, my châtelaine,Who, nothing loth, made answer.There had beenAnother lodger ere I had the rooms,Three months gone by—a woman.“Young, sir? No.Must have seen forty if she’d seen a day!A lonesome woman; hadn’t many friends;Wrote books, I think, and things for newspapers.Short in her temper—eyes would flash and flameAt times, till I was frightened. Paid her rentMost regular, like a lady.Ten years back,They say (at least Ann Brown says), ten years backThe lady had a lover. Even thenShe must have been no chicken.Three months sinceShe died. Well, well, the Lord is kind and just.I did my best to tend her, yet indeedIt’s bad for trade to have a lodger die.Her brother came, a week before she died:Buried her, took her things, threw in the fireThe littered heaps of paper.Yes, the sheets,They must have been forgotten in the chest;—I never knew her name was Adelaide.”
“Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurigDoch lustig leuchtet der Mai.”
“Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurigDoch lustig leuchtet der Mai.”
“Mein Herz, mein Herz ist traurigDoch lustig leuchtet der Mai.”
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THERE’S May amid the meadows,There’s May amid the trees;Her May-time note the cuckooSends forth upon the breeze.Above the rippling riverMay swallows skim and dart;November and DecemberKeep watch within my heart.The spring breathes in the breezes,The woods with wood-notes ring,And all the budding hedgerowsAre fragrant of the spring.In secret, silent placesThe live green things upstart;Ice-bound, ice-crown’d dwells winterFor ever in my heart.Upon the bridge I linger,Near where the lime-trees grow;Above, swart birds are circling,Beneath, the stream runs slow.A stripling and a maidenCome wand’ring up the way;His eyes are glad with springtime,Her face is fair with May.Of warmth and sun and sweetnessAll nature takes a part;The ice of all the agesWeighs down upon my heart.
THERE’S May amid the meadows,There’s May amid the trees;Her May-time note the cuckooSends forth upon the breeze.Above the rippling riverMay swallows skim and dart;November and DecemberKeep watch within my heart.The spring breathes in the breezes,The woods with wood-notes ring,And all the budding hedgerowsAre fragrant of the spring.In secret, silent placesThe live green things upstart;Ice-bound, ice-crown’d dwells winterFor ever in my heart.Upon the bridge I linger,Near where the lime-trees grow;Above, swart birds are circling,Beneath, the stream runs slow.A stripling and a maidenCome wand’ring up the way;His eyes are glad with springtime,Her face is fair with May.Of warmth and sun and sweetnessAll nature takes a part;The ice of all the agesWeighs down upon my heart.
THERE’S May amid the meadows,There’s May amid the trees;Her May-time note the cuckooSends forth upon the breeze.
Above the rippling riverMay swallows skim and dart;November and DecemberKeep watch within my heart.
The spring breathes in the breezes,The woods with wood-notes ring,And all the budding hedgerowsAre fragrant of the spring.
In secret, silent placesThe live green things upstart;Ice-bound, ice-crown’d dwells winterFor ever in my heart.
Upon the bridge I linger,Near where the lime-trees grow;Above, swart birds are circling,Beneath, the stream runs slow.
A stripling and a maidenCome wand’ring up the way;His eyes are glad with springtime,Her face is fair with May.
Of warmth and sun and sweetnessAll nature takes a part;The ice of all the agesWeighs down upon my heart.
SO late, and yet a nightingale?Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale,The summer fields are ripening,And yet a sound of spring?O tell me, didst thou come to hear,Sweet Spring, that I should die this year;And call’st across from the far shoreTo me one greeting more?
SO late, and yet a nightingale?Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale,The summer fields are ripening,And yet a sound of spring?O tell me, didst thou come to hear,Sweet Spring, that I should die this year;And call’st across from the far shoreTo me one greeting more?
SO late, and yet a nightingale?Long since have dropp’d the blossoms pale,The summer fields are ripening,And yet a sound of spring?
O tell me, didst thou come to hear,Sweet Spring, that I should die this year;And call’st across from the far shoreTo me one greeting more?
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IF within my heart there’s mould,If the flame of PoesyAnd the flame of Love grow cold,Slay my body utterly.Swiftly, pause not nor delay;Let not my life’s field be spreadWith the ash of feelings dead,Let thy singer soar away.
IF within my heart there’s mould,If the flame of PoesyAnd the flame of Love grow cold,Slay my body utterly.Swiftly, pause not nor delay;Let not my life’s field be spreadWith the ash of feelings dead,Let thy singer soar away.
IF within my heart there’s mould,If the flame of PoesyAnd the flame of Love grow cold,Slay my body utterly.
Swiftly, pause not nor delay;Let not my life’s field be spreadWith the ash of feelings dead,Let thy singer soar away.
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IN the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,And the keen blast blew through the city drear,When delight had fled from the night and the day,My chill heart whispered, “June will be here!“June with its roses a-sway in the sun,Its glory of green on mead and tree.”Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,June-tide, and never a joy for me!Is it so much of the gods that I pray?Sure craved man never so slight a boon!To be glad and glad in my heart one day—One perfect day of the perfect June.Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.This is the boon of the gods that I crave—To be glad, as the music and night were fair.For once, for one fleeting hour, to holdThe fair shape the music that rose and fellRevealed and concealed like a veiling fold;To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.For once, for one hour, to catch and keepThe sweet June secret that mocks my heart;Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,Now hither and thither with start and dart.Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;The long days of labour, the nights of tears—No more these things would I hold in vain.I would hold my life as a thing of worth;Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.Lo, June in her fairness is on the earth,And never a joy does the niggard bring.
IN the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,And the keen blast blew through the city drear,When delight had fled from the night and the day,My chill heart whispered, “June will be here!“June with its roses a-sway in the sun,Its glory of green on mead and tree.”Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,June-tide, and never a joy for me!Is it so much of the gods that I pray?Sure craved man never so slight a boon!To be glad and glad in my heart one day—One perfect day of the perfect June.Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.This is the boon of the gods that I crave—To be glad, as the music and night were fair.For once, for one fleeting hour, to holdThe fair shape the music that rose and fellRevealed and concealed like a veiling fold;To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.For once, for one hour, to catch and keepThe sweet June secret that mocks my heart;Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,Now hither and thither with start and dart.Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;The long days of labour, the nights of tears—No more these things would I hold in vain.I would hold my life as a thing of worth;Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.Lo, June in her fairness is on the earth,And never a joy does the niggard bring.
IN the long, sad time, when the sky was grey,And the keen blast blew through the city drear,When delight had fled from the night and the day,My chill heart whispered, “June will be here!
“June with its roses a-sway in the sun,Its glory of green on mead and tree.”Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done,June-tide, and never a joy for me!
Is it so much of the gods that I pray?Sure craved man never so slight a boon!To be glad and glad in my heart one day—One perfect day of the perfect June.
Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave;Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air.This is the boon of the gods that I crave—To be glad, as the music and night were fair.
For once, for one fleeting hour, to holdThe fair shape the music that rose and fellRevealed and concealed like a veiling fold;To catch for an instant the sweet June spell.
For once, for one hour, to catch and keepThe sweet June secret that mocks my heart;Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep,Now hither and thither with start and dart.
Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years,The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain;The long days of labour, the nights of tears—No more these things would I hold in vain.
I would hold my life as a thing of worth;Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing.Lo, June in her fairness is on the earth,And never a joy does the niggard bring.
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UP those Museum steps you came,And straightway all my blood was flame,O Lallie, Lallie!The world (I had been feeling low)In one short moment’s space did growA happy valley.There was a friend, my friend, with you;A meagre dame, in peacock blueApparelled quaintly:This poet-heart went pit-a-pat;I bowed and smiled and raised my hat;You nodded—faintly.My heart was full as full could be;You had not got a word for me,Not one short greeting;That nonchalant small nod you gave(The tyrant’s motion to the slave)Sole mark’d our meeting.Is it so long? Do you forgetThat first and last time that we met?The time was summer;The trees were green; the sky was blue;Our host presented me to you—A tardy comer.You look’d demure, but when you spokeYou made a little, funny joke,Yet half pathetic.Your gown was grey, I recollect,I think you patronized the sectThey call “æsthetic.”I brought you strawberries and cream,I plied you long about a streamWith duckweed laden;We solemnly discussed the—heat.I found you shy and very sweet,A rosebud maiden.Ah me, to-day! You passed insideTo where the marble gods abide:Hermes, Apollo,Sweet Aphrodite, Pan; and where,For aye reclined, a headless fairBeats all fairs hollow.And I, I went upon my way,Well—rather sadder, let us say;The world looked flatter.I had been sad enough before,A little less, a little more,Whatdoesit matter?
UP those Museum steps you came,And straightway all my blood was flame,O Lallie, Lallie!The world (I had been feeling low)In one short moment’s space did growA happy valley.There was a friend, my friend, with you;A meagre dame, in peacock blueApparelled quaintly:This poet-heart went pit-a-pat;I bowed and smiled and raised my hat;You nodded—faintly.My heart was full as full could be;You had not got a word for me,Not one short greeting;That nonchalant small nod you gave(The tyrant’s motion to the slave)Sole mark’d our meeting.Is it so long? Do you forgetThat first and last time that we met?The time was summer;The trees were green; the sky was blue;Our host presented me to you—A tardy comer.You look’d demure, but when you spokeYou made a little, funny joke,Yet half pathetic.Your gown was grey, I recollect,I think you patronized the sectThey call “æsthetic.”I brought you strawberries and cream,I plied you long about a streamWith duckweed laden;We solemnly discussed the—heat.I found you shy and very sweet,A rosebud maiden.Ah me, to-day! You passed insideTo where the marble gods abide:Hermes, Apollo,Sweet Aphrodite, Pan; and where,For aye reclined, a headless fairBeats all fairs hollow.And I, I went upon my way,Well—rather sadder, let us say;The world looked flatter.I had been sad enough before,A little less, a little more,Whatdoesit matter?
UP those Museum steps you came,And straightway all my blood was flame,O Lallie, Lallie!
The world (I had been feeling low)In one short moment’s space did growA happy valley.
There was a friend, my friend, with you;A meagre dame, in peacock blueApparelled quaintly:
This poet-heart went pit-a-pat;I bowed and smiled and raised my hat;You nodded—faintly.
My heart was full as full could be;You had not got a word for me,Not one short greeting;
That nonchalant small nod you gave(The tyrant’s motion to the slave)Sole mark’d our meeting.
Is it so long? Do you forgetThat first and last time that we met?The time was summer;
The trees were green; the sky was blue;Our host presented me to you—A tardy comer.
You look’d demure, but when you spokeYou made a little, funny joke,Yet half pathetic.
Your gown was grey, I recollect,I think you patronized the sectThey call “æsthetic.”
I brought you strawberries and cream,I plied you long about a streamWith duckweed laden;
We solemnly discussed the—heat.I found you shy and very sweet,A rosebud maiden.
Ah me, to-day! You passed insideTo where the marble gods abide:Hermes, Apollo,
Sweet Aphrodite, Pan; and where,For aye reclined, a headless fairBeats all fairs hollow.
And I, I went upon my way,Well—rather sadder, let us say;The world looked flatter.
I had been sad enough before,A little less, a little more,Whatdoesit matter?
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THAT was love that I had before,Years ago, when my heart was young;Ev’ry smile was a gem you wore,Ev’ry word was a sweet song sung.You came—all my pulses burn’d and beat.(O sweet wild throbs of an early day!)You went—with the last dear sound of your feetThe light wax’d dim and the place grew grey.And I us’d to pace with a stealthy treadBy a certain house which is under a hill;A cottage stands near, wall’d white, roof’d red—Tall trees grow thick—I can see it still!How I us’d to watch with a hope that was fearFor the least swift glimpse of your gown’s dear fold!(You wore blue gowns in those days, my dear—One light for summer, one dark for cold.)Tears and verses I shed for you in show’rs;I would have staked my soul for a kiss;Tribute daily I brought you of flow’rs,Rose, lily, your favourite eucharis.There came a day we were doomed to part;There’s a queer, small gate at the foot of a slope:We parted there—and I thought my heartHad parted for ever from love and hope.* * * * *Is it love that I have to-day?Love, that bloom’d early, has it bloom’d lateFor me, that, clothed in my spirit’s grey,Sit in the stillness and stare at Fate?Song nor sonnet for you I’ve penned,Nor passionate paced by your home’s wide wall;I have brought you never a flow’r, my friend,Never a tear for your sake let fall.And yet—and yet—ah, who understands?We men and women are complex things!A hundred tunes Fate’s inexorable handsMay play on the sensitive soul-strings.Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns)From colour and sound; and like unto these,Soul has its tones and its semitones,Mind has its major and minor keys.Your face (men pass it without a word)It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain;When your name is spoken my soul is stirr’dIn its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain.I paced, in the damp grey mist, last nightIn the streets (an hour) to see you pass:Yet I do not think that I love you—quite;What’s felt so finely ’twere coarse to class.And yet—and yet—I scarce can tell why(As I said, we are riddles and hard to read),If the world went ill with you, and ICould help with a hidden hand your need;But, ere I could reach you where you lay,Must strength and substance and honour spend;Journey long journeys by night and day—Somehow, I think I should come, my friend!
THAT was love that I had before,Years ago, when my heart was young;Ev’ry smile was a gem you wore,Ev’ry word was a sweet song sung.You came—all my pulses burn’d and beat.(O sweet wild throbs of an early day!)You went—with the last dear sound of your feetThe light wax’d dim and the place grew grey.And I us’d to pace with a stealthy treadBy a certain house which is under a hill;A cottage stands near, wall’d white, roof’d red—Tall trees grow thick—I can see it still!How I us’d to watch with a hope that was fearFor the least swift glimpse of your gown’s dear fold!(You wore blue gowns in those days, my dear—One light for summer, one dark for cold.)Tears and verses I shed for you in show’rs;I would have staked my soul for a kiss;Tribute daily I brought you of flow’rs,Rose, lily, your favourite eucharis.There came a day we were doomed to part;There’s a queer, small gate at the foot of a slope:We parted there—and I thought my heartHad parted for ever from love and hope.* * * * *Is it love that I have to-day?Love, that bloom’d early, has it bloom’d lateFor me, that, clothed in my spirit’s grey,Sit in the stillness and stare at Fate?Song nor sonnet for you I’ve penned,Nor passionate paced by your home’s wide wall;I have brought you never a flow’r, my friend,Never a tear for your sake let fall.And yet—and yet—ah, who understands?We men and women are complex things!A hundred tunes Fate’s inexorable handsMay play on the sensitive soul-strings.Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns)From colour and sound; and like unto these,Soul has its tones and its semitones,Mind has its major and minor keys.Your face (men pass it without a word)It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain;When your name is spoken my soul is stirr’dIn its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain.I paced, in the damp grey mist, last nightIn the streets (an hour) to see you pass:Yet I do not think that I love you—quite;What’s felt so finely ’twere coarse to class.And yet—and yet—I scarce can tell why(As I said, we are riddles and hard to read),If the world went ill with you, and ICould help with a hidden hand your need;But, ere I could reach you where you lay,Must strength and substance and honour spend;Journey long journeys by night and day—Somehow, I think I should come, my friend!
THAT was love that I had before,Years ago, when my heart was young;Ev’ry smile was a gem you wore,Ev’ry word was a sweet song sung.
You came—all my pulses burn’d and beat.(O sweet wild throbs of an early day!)You went—with the last dear sound of your feetThe light wax’d dim and the place grew grey.
And I us’d to pace with a stealthy treadBy a certain house which is under a hill;A cottage stands near, wall’d white, roof’d red—Tall trees grow thick—I can see it still!
How I us’d to watch with a hope that was fearFor the least swift glimpse of your gown’s dear fold!(You wore blue gowns in those days, my dear—One light for summer, one dark for cold.)
Tears and verses I shed for you in show’rs;I would have staked my soul for a kiss;Tribute daily I brought you of flow’rs,Rose, lily, your favourite eucharis.
There came a day we were doomed to part;There’s a queer, small gate at the foot of a slope:We parted there—and I thought my heartHad parted for ever from love and hope.* * * * *Is it love that I have to-day?Love, that bloom’d early, has it bloom’d lateFor me, that, clothed in my spirit’s grey,Sit in the stillness and stare at Fate?
Song nor sonnet for you I’ve penned,Nor passionate paced by your home’s wide wall;I have brought you never a flow’r, my friend,Never a tear for your sake let fall.
And yet—and yet—ah, who understands?We men and women are complex things!A hundred tunes Fate’s inexorable handsMay play on the sensitive soul-strings.
Webs of strange patterns we weave (each owns)From colour and sound; and like unto these,Soul has its tones and its semitones,Mind has its major and minor keys.
Your face (men pass it without a word)It haunts my dreams like an odd, sweet strain;When your name is spoken my soul is stirr’dIn its deepest depths with a dull, dim pain.
I paced, in the damp grey mist, last nightIn the streets (an hour) to see you pass:Yet I do not think that I love you—quite;What’s felt so finely ’twere coarse to class.
And yet—and yet—I scarce can tell why(As I said, we are riddles and hard to read),If the world went ill with you, and ICould help with a hidden hand your need;
But, ere I could reach you where you lay,Must strength and substance and honour spend;Journey long journeys by night and day—Somehow, I think I should come, my friend!
THE sad rain falls from Heaven,A sad bird pipes and sings;I am sitting here at my windowAnd watching the spires of “King’s.”O fairest of all fair places,Sweetest of all sweet towns!With the birds, and the greyness and greenness,And the men in caps and gowns.All they that dwell within thee,To leave are ever loth,For one man gets friends, and anotherGets honour, and one gets both.The sad rain falls from Heaven;My heart is great with woe—I have neither a friend nor honour,Yet I am sorry to go.
THE sad rain falls from Heaven,A sad bird pipes and sings;I am sitting here at my windowAnd watching the spires of “King’s.”O fairest of all fair places,Sweetest of all sweet towns!With the birds, and the greyness and greenness,And the men in caps and gowns.All they that dwell within thee,To leave are ever loth,For one man gets friends, and anotherGets honour, and one gets both.The sad rain falls from Heaven;My heart is great with woe—I have neither a friend nor honour,Yet I am sorry to go.
THE sad rain falls from Heaven,A sad bird pipes and sings;I am sitting here at my windowAnd watching the spires of “King’s.”
O fairest of all fair places,Sweetest of all sweet towns!With the birds, and the greyness and greenness,And the men in caps and gowns.
All they that dwell within thee,To leave are ever loth,For one man gets friends, and anotherGets honour, and one gets both.
The sad rain falls from Heaven;My heart is great with woe—I have neither a friend nor honour,Yet I am sorry to go.
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“Am Kreuzweg wird begrabenWer selber brachte sich um.”
“Am Kreuzweg wird begrabenWer selber brachte sich um.”
“Am Kreuzweg wird begrabenWer selber brachte sich um.”
WHEN first the world grew dark to meI call’d on God, yet came not he.Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot,On Love I call’d, but Love came not.When a worse evil did befall,Death, on thee only did I call.
WHEN first the world grew dark to meI call’d on God, yet came not he.Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot,On Love I call’d, but Love came not.When a worse evil did befall,Death, on thee only did I call.
WHEN first the world grew dark to meI call’d on God, yet came not he.Whereon, as wearier wax’d my lot,On Love I call’d, but Love came not.When a worse evil did befall,Death, on thee only did I call.
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THIS is the end of him, here he lies:The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;This is the end of him, this is best.He will never lie on his couch awake,Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.Never again will he smile and smileWhen his heart is breaking all the while.He will never stretch out his hands in vainGroping and groping—never again.Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,Never pretend that the stone is bread.Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true,Weighing and noting the long hours through.Never ache and ache with the chok’d-up sighs;This is the end of him, here he lies.
THIS is the end of him, here he lies:The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;This is the end of him, this is best.He will never lie on his couch awake,Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.Never again will he smile and smileWhen his heart is breaking all the while.He will never stretch out his hands in vainGroping and groping—never again.Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,Never pretend that the stone is bread.Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true,Weighing and noting the long hours through.Never ache and ache with the chok’d-up sighs;This is the end of him, here he lies.
THIS is the end of him, here he lies:The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes,The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast;This is the end of him, this is best.He will never lie on his couch awake,Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.Never again will he smile and smileWhen his heart is breaking all the while.He will never stretch out his hands in vainGroping and groping—never again.Never ask for bread, get a stone instead,Never pretend that the stone is bread.Never sway and sway ’twixt the false and true,Weighing and noting the long hours through.Never ache and ache with the chok’d-up sighs;This is the end of him, here he lies.
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MOST wonderful and strange it seems, that IWho but a little time ago was tostHigh on the waves of passion and of pain,With aching heart and wildly throbbing brain,Who peered into the darkness, deeming vainAll things there found if but One thing were lost,Thus calm and still and silent here should lie,Watching and waiting,—waiting passively.The dark has faded, and before mine eyesHave long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare;And through the changing guises all things wearInevitable Law I recognise:Yet in my heart a hint of feeling liesWhich half a hope and half is a despair.
MOST wonderful and strange it seems, that IWho but a little time ago was tostHigh on the waves of passion and of pain,With aching heart and wildly throbbing brain,Who peered into the darkness, deeming vainAll things there found if but One thing were lost,Thus calm and still and silent here should lie,Watching and waiting,—waiting passively.The dark has faded, and before mine eyesHave long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare;And through the changing guises all things wearInevitable Law I recognise:Yet in my heart a hint of feeling liesWhich half a hope and half is a despair.
MOST wonderful and strange it seems, that IWho but a little time ago was tostHigh on the waves of passion and of pain,With aching heart and wildly throbbing brain,Who peered into the darkness, deeming vainAll things there found if but One thing were lost,Thus calm and still and silent here should lie,Watching and waiting,—waiting passively.
The dark has faded, and before mine eyesHave long, grey flats expanded, dim and bare;And through the changing guises all things wearInevitable Law I recognise:Yet in my heart a hint of feeling liesWhich half a hope and half is a despair.
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OSAY, thou wild, thou oft-deceived heart,What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast?After thy long, unutterable woeWouldst thou not rest?Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies,And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seemThis earth as fair to thee as Paradise,Was all a dream.The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me;Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow,All that I have are yearnings, wild desires,And wrath and woe.They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, “Drink!”“Drink, for the draught is sweet,” I heard them say,“Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.”I answered: “Nay.”What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat,Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest:With every breath I draw I know that loveReigns in my breast.Let me go forth,—and thou, my heart, bleed on:A lonely spot I seek by night and day,That love and sorrow I may there breathe forthIn a last lay.
OSAY, thou wild, thou oft-deceived heart,What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast?After thy long, unutterable woeWouldst thou not rest?Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies,And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seemThis earth as fair to thee as Paradise,Was all a dream.The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me;Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow,All that I have are yearnings, wild desires,And wrath and woe.They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, “Drink!”“Drink, for the draught is sweet,” I heard them say,“Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.”I answered: “Nay.”What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat,Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest:With every breath I draw I know that loveReigns in my breast.Let me go forth,—and thou, my heart, bleed on:A lonely spot I seek by night and day,That love and sorrow I may there breathe forthIn a last lay.
OSAY, thou wild, thou oft-deceived heart,What mean these noisy throbbings in my breast?After thy long, unutterable woeWouldst thou not rest?
Fall’n from Life’s tree the sweet rose-blossom lies,And fragrant youth has fled. What made to seemThis earth as fair to thee as Paradise,Was all a dream.
The blossom fell, the thorn was left to me;Deep from the wound the blood-drops ever flow,All that I have are yearnings, wild desires,And wrath and woe.
They brought me Lethe’s water, saying, “Drink!”“Drink, for the draught is sweet,” I heard them say,“Shalt learn how soft a thing forgetting is.”I answered: “Nay.”
What tho’ indeed it were an idle cheat,Nathless to me ’twas very fair and blest:With every breath I draw I know that loveReigns in my breast.
Let me go forth,—and thou, my heart, bleed on:A lonely spot I seek by night and day,That love and sorrow I may there breathe forthIn a last lay.
The Gresham Press,UNWIN BROTHERS,CHILWORTH AND LONDON.