THERE is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb:And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep,My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep;But, in the corner of the narrow room,Behold Love’s spirit standeth, with the bloomThat things made deathless by Death’s self may keep.O what a change! for now his looks are deep,And a long patient smile he can assume:While Memory, in some soft low monotone,Is pouring like an oil into mine earThe tale of a most short and hollow bliss,That I once throbbed indeed to call my own,Holding it hardly between joy and fear,—And how that broke, and how it came to this.
THERE is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb:And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep,My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep;But, in the corner of the narrow room,Behold Love’s spirit standeth, with the bloomThat things made deathless by Death’s self may keep.O what a change! for now his looks are deep,And a long patient smile he can assume:While Memory, in some soft low monotone,Is pouring like an oil into mine earThe tale of a most short and hollow bliss,That I once throbbed indeed to call my own,Holding it hardly between joy and fear,—And how that broke, and how it came to this.
THERE is an earthly glimmer in the Tomb:And, healed in their own tears and with long sleep,My eyes unclose and feel no need to weep;But, in the corner of the narrow room,Behold Love’s spirit standeth, with the bloomThat things made deathless by Death’s self may keep.O what a change! for now his looks are deep,And a long patient smile he can assume:While Memory, in some soft low monotone,Is pouring like an oil into mine earThe tale of a most short and hollow bliss,That I once throbbed indeed to call my own,Holding it hardly between joy and fear,—And how that broke, and how it came to this.
IWANDERED dreaming through a mead;And it was sowing-season there;As one who sows and takes no heedI cast my dreams upon the air:And each dream was a golden seedThat in my life some flower should bear.—O sowing-season bright and gay,To have you back I am most fain!O sowing season find some wayTo bring me here each golden grainI cast upon the air that day,That I may sow them all again.For some, that fairest should have been,About the world they have been tostAnd borne no flowers that I have seen;And some have taken wing and crostThe sea, or through the blue sereneGone up to heaven and been lost.O, sowing season, come once more,Bring back each golden seed to me!For one, indeed, grew up and boreNo flower of gladness, good to see—A thing to look upon right sore—A grief that in my life should be.One other truly did begetSome blossom of the June that fellIn May; and one, a violetWhose death upon my heart doth dwell;The last seed hath not blossomed yet:Come back and bring this one as well.—What! the whole sudden summer? Yea;The last one hath come up a rose!O sowing season, you may stay;It is in my Love’s heart it grows;And she hath shown it me to-day:I keep this one and give up those.
IWANDERED dreaming through a mead;And it was sowing-season there;As one who sows and takes no heedI cast my dreams upon the air:And each dream was a golden seedThat in my life some flower should bear.—O sowing-season bright and gay,To have you back I am most fain!O sowing season find some wayTo bring me here each golden grainI cast upon the air that day,That I may sow them all again.For some, that fairest should have been,About the world they have been tostAnd borne no flowers that I have seen;And some have taken wing and crostThe sea, or through the blue sereneGone up to heaven and been lost.O, sowing season, come once more,Bring back each golden seed to me!For one, indeed, grew up and boreNo flower of gladness, good to see—A thing to look upon right sore—A grief that in my life should be.One other truly did begetSome blossom of the June that fellIn May; and one, a violetWhose death upon my heart doth dwell;The last seed hath not blossomed yet:Come back and bring this one as well.—What! the whole sudden summer? Yea;The last one hath come up a rose!O sowing season, you may stay;It is in my Love’s heart it grows;And she hath shown it me to-day:I keep this one and give up those.
IWANDERED dreaming through a mead;And it was sowing-season there;As one who sows and takes no heedI cast my dreams upon the air:And each dream was a golden seedThat in my life some flower should bear.
—O sowing-season bright and gay,To have you back I am most fain!O sowing season find some wayTo bring me here each golden grainI cast upon the air that day,That I may sow them all again.
For some, that fairest should have been,About the world they have been tostAnd borne no flowers that I have seen;And some have taken wing and crostThe sea, or through the blue sereneGone up to heaven and been lost.
O, sowing season, come once more,Bring back each golden seed to me!For one, indeed, grew up and boreNo flower of gladness, good to see—A thing to look upon right sore—A grief that in my life should be.
One other truly did begetSome blossom of the June that fellIn May; and one, a violetWhose death upon my heart doth dwell;The last seed hath not blossomed yet:Come back and bring this one as well.
—What! the whole sudden summer? Yea;The last one hath come up a rose!O sowing season, you may stay;It is in my Love’s heart it grows;And she hath shown it me to-day:I keep this one and give up those.
IT came to pass upon a summer’s day,When from the flowers indeed my soul had caughtFresh bloom, and turned their richness into thought,That—having made my footsteps free to stray—They brought me wandering by some sudden wayBack to the bloomless city, and athwartThe doleful streets and many a closed-up courtThat prisoned here and there a spent noon-ray.O how most bitterly upon me brokeThe sight of all the summerless lost folk!—For verily their music and their gladnessCould only seem to me like so much sadness,Beside the inward rhapsody of artAnd flowers andChopin-echoes at my heart.
IT came to pass upon a summer’s day,When from the flowers indeed my soul had caughtFresh bloom, and turned their richness into thought,That—having made my footsteps free to stray—They brought me wandering by some sudden wayBack to the bloomless city, and athwartThe doleful streets and many a closed-up courtThat prisoned here and there a spent noon-ray.O how most bitterly upon me brokeThe sight of all the summerless lost folk!—For verily their music and their gladnessCould only seem to me like so much sadness,Beside the inward rhapsody of artAnd flowers andChopin-echoes at my heart.
IT came to pass upon a summer’s day,When from the flowers indeed my soul had caughtFresh bloom, and turned their richness into thought,That—having made my footsteps free to stray—They brought me wandering by some sudden wayBack to the bloomless city, and athwartThe doleful streets and many a closed-up courtThat prisoned here and there a spent noon-ray.O how most bitterly upon me brokeThe sight of all the summerless lost folk!—For verily their music and their gladnessCould only seem to me like so much sadness,Beside the inward rhapsody of artAnd flowers andChopin-echoes at my heart.
OANGEL, that in some unmeasured regionKeepest the store of beauteous things unsaid!Once more do thou take even from their legionVerse of the sweetest, verse no man hath read;And go with that—saying thou art from me—Unto my Love wherever she may be;And speak therewith all tender things and fairTouching the beauty of her eyes and hair,Her hands, her feet—all of Her thou may’st see,E’en to the jewels she shall chance to wear.As to her eyes, I think thou shalt have reasonSetting the azure of them far aboveGod’s blue of heaven; yea, who shall know thy treasonBut I who teach it thee and She my love?And therefore, fear thou nowise to express,Touching her hair, how much its every tressDoth shine above all gold that the sun yieldsAnd the fair colour of the harvest fields:But scarce shalt thou be slow to praise, I guess,Soon as thou know’st what spell her beauty wields.And, if so be she cease that she is doing,And give thee welcome for thy verses’ sake,Do thou with some most tender sort of wooingEngage her hand, and cause it to forsakeIts silken task or pastime on the lute;For of its beauty thou shouldst not be mute,But celebrate it soon in such a strainThenceforward it shall be no longer fainTo do its lightest toil: so for thy suitMy Lady’s whole attendance thou shalt gain.Then, howsoe’er thou dost behold that wonder,The rare imperial foot of Her my queen;—Yea, if thou may’st but glimpse it nestled underThe broidered border of her robe, or e’enIf haply, some unguarded hour of rest,Thou hast such bliss as I have never possest,To see that spotless Lady all reclinedAnd through dim tumbled veils with thine eye findHer spirit-slender foot,—then do thy best,And be thou neither faint of heart nor blind!But so with every spell of piteous pleading,And the full magic that was wont of oldTo fill my verse and charm all men to heeding,Frame thou thy praise of that thou dost behold—That her most matchless foot shall even startOut of its languishment and take my part,To bring my Love not otherwhere than here,To me, and to the place where she is dear:Go now and do this, if thou still hast art;And I shall wait the while in love and fear.
OANGEL, that in some unmeasured regionKeepest the store of beauteous things unsaid!Once more do thou take even from their legionVerse of the sweetest, verse no man hath read;And go with that—saying thou art from me—Unto my Love wherever she may be;And speak therewith all tender things and fairTouching the beauty of her eyes and hair,Her hands, her feet—all of Her thou may’st see,E’en to the jewels she shall chance to wear.As to her eyes, I think thou shalt have reasonSetting the azure of them far aboveGod’s blue of heaven; yea, who shall know thy treasonBut I who teach it thee and She my love?And therefore, fear thou nowise to express,Touching her hair, how much its every tressDoth shine above all gold that the sun yieldsAnd the fair colour of the harvest fields:But scarce shalt thou be slow to praise, I guess,Soon as thou know’st what spell her beauty wields.And, if so be she cease that she is doing,And give thee welcome for thy verses’ sake,Do thou with some most tender sort of wooingEngage her hand, and cause it to forsakeIts silken task or pastime on the lute;For of its beauty thou shouldst not be mute,But celebrate it soon in such a strainThenceforward it shall be no longer fainTo do its lightest toil: so for thy suitMy Lady’s whole attendance thou shalt gain.Then, howsoe’er thou dost behold that wonder,The rare imperial foot of Her my queen;—Yea, if thou may’st but glimpse it nestled underThe broidered border of her robe, or e’enIf haply, some unguarded hour of rest,Thou hast such bliss as I have never possest,To see that spotless Lady all reclinedAnd through dim tumbled veils with thine eye findHer spirit-slender foot,—then do thy best,And be thou neither faint of heart nor blind!But so with every spell of piteous pleading,And the full magic that was wont of oldTo fill my verse and charm all men to heeding,Frame thou thy praise of that thou dost behold—That her most matchless foot shall even startOut of its languishment and take my part,To bring my Love not otherwhere than here,To me, and to the place where she is dear:Go now and do this, if thou still hast art;And I shall wait the while in love and fear.
OANGEL, that in some unmeasured regionKeepest the store of beauteous things unsaid!Once more do thou take even from their legionVerse of the sweetest, verse no man hath read;And go with that—saying thou art from me—Unto my Love wherever she may be;And speak therewith all tender things and fairTouching the beauty of her eyes and hair,Her hands, her feet—all of Her thou may’st see,E’en to the jewels she shall chance to wear.
As to her eyes, I think thou shalt have reasonSetting the azure of them far aboveGod’s blue of heaven; yea, who shall know thy treasonBut I who teach it thee and She my love?And therefore, fear thou nowise to express,Touching her hair, how much its every tressDoth shine above all gold that the sun yieldsAnd the fair colour of the harvest fields:But scarce shalt thou be slow to praise, I guess,Soon as thou know’st what spell her beauty wields.
And, if so be she cease that she is doing,And give thee welcome for thy verses’ sake,Do thou with some most tender sort of wooingEngage her hand, and cause it to forsakeIts silken task or pastime on the lute;For of its beauty thou shouldst not be mute,But celebrate it soon in such a strainThenceforward it shall be no longer fainTo do its lightest toil: so for thy suitMy Lady’s whole attendance thou shalt gain.
Then, howsoe’er thou dost behold that wonder,The rare imperial foot of Her my queen;—Yea, if thou may’st but glimpse it nestled underThe broidered border of her robe, or e’enIf haply, some unguarded hour of rest,Thou hast such bliss as I have never possest,To see that spotless Lady all reclinedAnd through dim tumbled veils with thine eye findHer spirit-slender foot,—then do thy best,And be thou neither faint of heart nor blind!
But so with every spell of piteous pleading,And the full magic that was wont of oldTo fill my verse and charm all men to heeding,Frame thou thy praise of that thou dost behold—That her most matchless foot shall even startOut of its languishment and take my part,To bring my Love not otherwhere than here,To me, and to the place where she is dear:Go now and do this, if thou still hast art;And I shall wait the while in love and fear.
“La gloriosa donna della mia mente.”Dante.
“La gloriosa donna della mia mente.”Dante.
“La gloriosa donna della mia mente.”Dante.
ISEE You in the time that’s fled,Long dead;I see you in the years to beAfter me;And for all solace I am given,Night or day,To dream or think of you in heavenFar away.I have the colour of your hairEverywhere;I have your beauty all by heart,Cannot partFrom aught of you—I love you so—Though I try,I know I shall not find you thoughTill I die.When I have darkened all the day,Put awayThe world and the world’s sights and sweets—Mere deceits,The blinding blaze of the false lightsThat ariseBetween my spirit and the heightsAnd the skies—When I have turned from the pale face,Sickly grace,Faint hair and hue of heart, thin smilesThat cover wilesOf looks that fail and lips that chill,—All the drearAnd pallid cheats of love that killThe heart here—Then do I dream—oh far away—Another day;Another light where truer hues,Reds and blues,Live as in living eyes and cheeks;Where love lives,And all my spirit loves and seeksLove gives.Nay, your true heart is not this paleThing to failShort of such promised love as diesIn such eyes:I build up all the world anew,—Nay, above,I make another world—where YouBuild up Love;Behold your eyes are in the steadOf these dead,—Pure seas of looks, with many a shoreOf worlds more;Behold, instead of these poor moulds,These mere castsIn some first clay—no stuff that holdsLove that lasts—Why! life—thatlove; and then its freshRobe of flesh,With—O what chords of sense that thrillWith love’s will,Unchecked by death or weariness,Those dull foesOf every feeling, more or less,The world knows!In place of all the glassy cheats—Your true sweets,—Of all the lives with which Death plays,All the daysLeft dim and void when Hope’s own sunDare not shine—In place of all and every one,You divine!I know the splendour that you were——You shall be;I see that nothing is so fairAs you there;I know that you—the thing I crave—Men shall seeAgain, when I am in the grave,—After me.O, whose shall be the barren years?Whose the tears?God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers—Taketh and maketh heaven, and failethNot at all,Maketh a heaven that prevailethOut of all—Shall God have care for this and this—Flowers that missThe love that gathers and that saves?For these graves,Shall love to be, or love that’s past,Safe above,Be less than perfected at last,Less than Love?O, who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?You, World that gave me a false kiss,Shall have this:But I—I know that Love hath been,And shall beAgain, when I am no more seen,—After me.
ISEE You in the time that’s fled,Long dead;I see you in the years to beAfter me;And for all solace I am given,Night or day,To dream or think of you in heavenFar away.I have the colour of your hairEverywhere;I have your beauty all by heart,Cannot partFrom aught of you—I love you so—Though I try,I know I shall not find you thoughTill I die.When I have darkened all the day,Put awayThe world and the world’s sights and sweets—Mere deceits,The blinding blaze of the false lightsThat ariseBetween my spirit and the heightsAnd the skies—When I have turned from the pale face,Sickly grace,Faint hair and hue of heart, thin smilesThat cover wilesOf looks that fail and lips that chill,—All the drearAnd pallid cheats of love that killThe heart here—Then do I dream—oh far away—Another day;Another light where truer hues,Reds and blues,Live as in living eyes and cheeks;Where love lives,And all my spirit loves and seeksLove gives.Nay, your true heart is not this paleThing to failShort of such promised love as diesIn such eyes:I build up all the world anew,—Nay, above,I make another world—where YouBuild up Love;Behold your eyes are in the steadOf these dead,—Pure seas of looks, with many a shoreOf worlds more;Behold, instead of these poor moulds,These mere castsIn some first clay—no stuff that holdsLove that lasts—Why! life—thatlove; and then its freshRobe of flesh,With—O what chords of sense that thrillWith love’s will,Unchecked by death or weariness,Those dull foesOf every feeling, more or less,The world knows!In place of all the glassy cheats—Your true sweets,—Of all the lives with which Death plays,All the daysLeft dim and void when Hope’s own sunDare not shine—In place of all and every one,You divine!I know the splendour that you were——You shall be;I see that nothing is so fairAs you there;I know that you—the thing I crave—Men shall seeAgain, when I am in the grave,—After me.O, whose shall be the barren years?Whose the tears?God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers—Taketh and maketh heaven, and failethNot at all,Maketh a heaven that prevailethOut of all—Shall God have care for this and this—Flowers that missThe love that gathers and that saves?For these graves,Shall love to be, or love that’s past,Safe above,Be less than perfected at last,Less than Love?O, who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?You, World that gave me a false kiss,Shall have this:But I—I know that Love hath been,And shall beAgain, when I am no more seen,—After me.
ISEE You in the time that’s fled,Long dead;I see you in the years to beAfter me;And for all solace I am given,Night or day,To dream or think of you in heavenFar away.
I have the colour of your hairEverywhere;I have your beauty all by heart,Cannot partFrom aught of you—I love you so—Though I try,I know I shall not find you thoughTill I die.
When I have darkened all the day,Put awayThe world and the world’s sights and sweets—Mere deceits,The blinding blaze of the false lightsThat ariseBetween my spirit and the heightsAnd the skies—
When I have turned from the pale face,Sickly grace,Faint hair and hue of heart, thin smilesThat cover wilesOf looks that fail and lips that chill,—All the drearAnd pallid cheats of love that killThe heart here—
Then do I dream—oh far away—Another day;Another light where truer hues,Reds and blues,Live as in living eyes and cheeks;Where love lives,And all my spirit loves and seeksLove gives.
Nay, your true heart is not this paleThing to failShort of such promised love as diesIn such eyes:I build up all the world anew,—Nay, above,I make another world—where YouBuild up Love;
Behold your eyes are in the steadOf these dead,—Pure seas of looks, with many a shoreOf worlds more;Behold, instead of these poor moulds,These mere castsIn some first clay—no stuff that holdsLove that lasts—
Why! life—thatlove; and then its freshRobe of flesh,With—O what chords of sense that thrillWith love’s will,Unchecked by death or weariness,Those dull foesOf every feeling, more or less,The world knows!
In place of all the glassy cheats—Your true sweets,—Of all the lives with which Death plays,All the daysLeft dim and void when Hope’s own sunDare not shine—In place of all and every one,You divine!
I know the splendour that you were——You shall be;I see that nothing is so fairAs you there;I know that you—the thing I crave—Men shall seeAgain, when I am in the grave,—After me.
O, whose shall be the barren years?Whose the tears?God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers—Taketh and maketh heaven, and failethNot at all,Maketh a heaven that prevailethOut of all—
Shall God have care for this and this—Flowers that missThe love that gathers and that saves?For these graves,Shall love to be, or love that’s past,Safe above,Be less than perfected at last,Less than Love?
O, who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?You, World that gave me a false kiss,Shall have this:But I—I know that Love hath been,And shall beAgain, when I am no more seen,—After me.
ISEE You with the face they paintFor some saintBorn and saved in some sublimeOlden time,Crowned with the gorgeous golden-wavedAureole;Just such a saint as should have savedMy own soul.Yes; for you have the human graceIn your facePainted upon the panel there,And what hair!‘Fra’—who was he? I forget—Who could paintSuch a woman wholly, and yetSuch a saint?From the dim cathedral heightFalls the light;I could think it for a whileChrist’s smileFrom the great window-scene aboveStrangely shedToward you, resting like Christ’s loveOn your head.O the splendid purple nicheDeep and rich,Stained of the colour of your soulStrong and whole,Full of the prevalence of prayersAnd piteous plaintYou made for men and sins all theirs—You a saint!The niche a little narrow: well,As the cellYour world, your body—all things seen—Must have beenAbout the soul that day by dayGroped and feltTo God’s own house and found the wayAs you knelt:In an attitude of prayerO how fair!All the body crouched, constrainedAs if painedWith the spirit’s inward groanTo entreatFor a sin you could not own,O how sweet!Hands God making must have praised;Clasped and raisedHoly mediæval wayUsed to pray;Sky all wrapped about your headBlue and sweet,Earth all golden from the treadOf your feet.God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers,Gathered you in the old sublimeFlower time:If God had left some flowers like you—Who can tell?—He might have had yet one or twoFlowers that fell.O then there were great sins of course;Men were worseSome ways no doubt; at any rateMen were great:We cannot bear their mail, much lessLose or winTheir heavens, through their great holinessOr great sin.There were high things for men to see,Do, or be;Fair struggles after every throne:And to atoneFair crowns and kingdoms for the best;All men strove,And, loss or gain, for each man’s restThere was love.And men and women bore their partHeart to heart,For oh! the women and the menLoved then;And love from love you could not break,Half to save;If one sinned, for the other’s sakeGod forgave.Would thou wert yet, thou great and oldTime of gold!Wert thou with me, or could I fleeBack to thee,God might have had one other flowerNigh to fall,And I known love at least one hour—Once for all.O who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?One with false bosom and cold kissMay have this:But somewhere, unless love forgetHis old way,There shall be something better yet—Ay, some day.
ISEE You with the face they paintFor some saintBorn and saved in some sublimeOlden time,Crowned with the gorgeous golden-wavedAureole;Just such a saint as should have savedMy own soul.Yes; for you have the human graceIn your facePainted upon the panel there,And what hair!‘Fra’—who was he? I forget—Who could paintSuch a woman wholly, and yetSuch a saint?From the dim cathedral heightFalls the light;I could think it for a whileChrist’s smileFrom the great window-scene aboveStrangely shedToward you, resting like Christ’s loveOn your head.O the splendid purple nicheDeep and rich,Stained of the colour of your soulStrong and whole,Full of the prevalence of prayersAnd piteous plaintYou made for men and sins all theirs—You a saint!The niche a little narrow: well,As the cellYour world, your body—all things seen—Must have beenAbout the soul that day by dayGroped and feltTo God’s own house and found the wayAs you knelt:In an attitude of prayerO how fair!All the body crouched, constrainedAs if painedWith the spirit’s inward groanTo entreatFor a sin you could not own,O how sweet!Hands God making must have praised;Clasped and raisedHoly mediæval wayUsed to pray;Sky all wrapped about your headBlue and sweet,Earth all golden from the treadOf your feet.God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers,Gathered you in the old sublimeFlower time:If God had left some flowers like you—Who can tell?—He might have had yet one or twoFlowers that fell.O then there were great sins of course;Men were worseSome ways no doubt; at any rateMen were great:We cannot bear their mail, much lessLose or winTheir heavens, through their great holinessOr great sin.There were high things for men to see,Do, or be;Fair struggles after every throne:And to atoneFair crowns and kingdoms for the best;All men strove,And, loss or gain, for each man’s restThere was love.And men and women bore their partHeart to heart,For oh! the women and the menLoved then;And love from love you could not break,Half to save;If one sinned, for the other’s sakeGod forgave.Would thou wert yet, thou great and oldTime of gold!Wert thou with me, or could I fleeBack to thee,God might have had one other flowerNigh to fall,And I known love at least one hour—Once for all.O who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?One with false bosom and cold kissMay have this:But somewhere, unless love forgetHis old way,There shall be something better yet—Ay, some day.
ISEE You with the face they paintFor some saintBorn and saved in some sublimeOlden time,Crowned with the gorgeous golden-wavedAureole;Just such a saint as should have savedMy own soul.
Yes; for you have the human graceIn your facePainted upon the panel there,And what hair!‘Fra’—who was he? I forget—Who could paintSuch a woman wholly, and yetSuch a saint?
From the dim cathedral heightFalls the light;I could think it for a whileChrist’s smileFrom the great window-scene aboveStrangely shedToward you, resting like Christ’s loveOn your head.
O the splendid purple nicheDeep and rich,Stained of the colour of your soulStrong and whole,Full of the prevalence of prayersAnd piteous plaintYou made for men and sins all theirs—You a saint!
The niche a little narrow: well,As the cellYour world, your body—all things seen—Must have beenAbout the soul that day by dayGroped and feltTo God’s own house and found the wayAs you knelt:
In an attitude of prayerO how fair!All the body crouched, constrainedAs if painedWith the spirit’s inward groanTo entreatFor a sin you could not own,O how sweet!
Hands God making must have praised;Clasped and raisedHoly mediæval wayUsed to pray;Sky all wrapped about your headBlue and sweet,Earth all golden from the treadOf your feet.
God, who of all this world of oursGathers flowers,Gathered you in the old sublimeFlower time:If God had left some flowers like you—Who can tell?—He might have had yet one or twoFlowers that fell.
O then there were great sins of course;Men were worseSome ways no doubt; at any rateMen were great:We cannot bear their mail, much lessLose or winTheir heavens, through their great holinessOr great sin.
There were high things for men to see,Do, or be;Fair struggles after every throne:And to atoneFair crowns and kingdoms for the best;All men strove,And, loss or gain, for each man’s restThere was love.
And men and women bore their partHeart to heart,For oh! the women and the menLoved then;And love from love you could not break,Half to save;If one sinned, for the other’s sakeGod forgave.
Would thou wert yet, thou great and oldTime of gold!Wert thou with me, or could I fleeBack to thee,God might have had one other flowerNigh to fall,And I known love at least one hour—Once for all.
O who shall have the barren years?Who the tears?One with false bosom and cold kissMay have this:But somewhere, unless love forgetHis old way,There shall be something better yet—Ay, some day.
THINK, O Heart, what sweet—had you waitedA moment, on such a day—Had yet been to do or to sayThat shall never be said now or done!Think what beautiful worlds uncreatedThe clouds then bore back to the sun;What blisses were all frustrated;What loves, that were almost begun!Think, O Life,—had your stream but driftedTo this or that holier Past,Or Future that must come at last—Think, O sorrowful Life, and repent—How the sorrowful days had been giftedWith solace and ravishment,And year after year slowly liftedTo heavens of golden content!
THINK, O Heart, what sweet—had you waitedA moment, on such a day—Had yet been to do or to sayThat shall never be said now or done!Think what beautiful worlds uncreatedThe clouds then bore back to the sun;What blisses were all frustrated;What loves, that were almost begun!Think, O Life,—had your stream but driftedTo this or that holier Past,Or Future that must come at last—Think, O sorrowful Life, and repent—How the sorrowful days had been giftedWith solace and ravishment,And year after year slowly liftedTo heavens of golden content!
THINK, O Heart, what sweet—had you waitedA moment, on such a day—Had yet been to do or to sayThat shall never be said now or done!
Think what beautiful worlds uncreatedThe clouds then bore back to the sun;What blisses were all frustrated;What loves, that were almost begun!
Think, O Life,—had your stream but driftedTo this or that holier Past,Or Future that must come at last—Think, O sorrowful Life, and repent—
How the sorrowful days had been giftedWith solace and ravishment,And year after year slowly liftedTo heavens of golden content!
ON the great day of my life—On the memorable day—Just as the long inward strifeOf the echoes died away,Just as on my couch I layThinking thought away;Came a Man into my room,Bringing with him gloom.Midnight stood upon the clock,And the street sound ceased to rise;Suddenly, and with no knock,Came that Man before my eyes:Yet he seemed not anywiseMy heart to surprise,And he sat down to abideAt my fireside.But he stirred within my heartMemories of the ancient days;And strange visions seemed to startVividly before my gaze,Yea, from the most distant hazeOf forgotten ways:And he looked on me the whileWith a most strange smile.But my heart seemed well to knowThat his face the semblance hadOf my own face long agoEre the years had made it sad,When my youthful looks were cladIn a smile half glad;To my heart he seemed in truthAll my vanished youth.Then he named me by a nameLong since unfamiliar grown,But remembered for the sameThat my childhood’s ears had known;And his voice was like my ownIn a sadder toneComing from the happy yearsChoked, alas, with tears.And, as though he nothing knewOf that day’s fair triumphing,Or the Present were not true,Or not worth remembering,All the Past he seemed to bringAs a piteous thingBack upon my heart again,Yea, with a great pain:“Do you still remember the winding streetIn the grey old village?” He seemed to say;“And the long school days that the sun made sweetAnd the thought of the flowers from far away?And the faces of friends whom you used to meetIn that village day by day,—Ay, the face of this one or of that?” he said,And the names he named were names of the deadWho all in the churchyard lay.“Do you still remember your brother’s face,And his soft light hair, and his eyes’ deep blue,And the child’s pet name that in every placeWas once so familiar to him and to you?And the innocent sports and the butterfly chaseThat lasted the bright day through?”—O this time, I thought of the churchyard and sighed,For I thought of the dead lying side by side,And my brother who lay there too.“And do you remember the far green hills;Or the long straight path by the side of the stream;Or the road that led to the farm and the mills,And the fields where you oft used to wander or dreamOr follow each change of your childish willsLike the dance of some gay sunbeam?”—Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain,For indeed all those things I remembered again,—As of yesterday they did seem.And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring,When the sun with a kiss set the wild flowers free;When my heart felt the kiss and the shadowy wingOf some beautiful spirit of things to be,Who breathed in the song that the wild birds singSome deep tender meaning for me,—Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were,Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air,—Made a presence I could not see.O that whisper my heart seemed to understand!O that spell it took hold on right willing feet!To that beautiful spirit I gave my hand,And he led me that day up the village street,And out through the fields and the fragrant land,And on through the pathways sweet;Yea, still on, with a semblance of some new bliss,Through the world he has led me from that day to thisWith a tender and fair deceit.“O for what have you wandered so far—so long?”Said the voice that was e’en as my voice of old:“O for what have you done to the Past such wrong?Was there no fair dream on your own threshold?In your childhood’s home was there no fresh song?—Was your heart then all so cold?Why, at length, are you weary and lone and sad,But for casting away all the good that you hadWith the peace that was yours of old?“Have you wholly forgotten the words you said,When you stood by a certain mound of earth,When you vowed with your heart that that place you madeThe last burial place for your love and your mirth,For the pure past blisses you therein laidWere surely your whole life’s worth?—O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their tearsHave cared for this, morning and evening, for years,But of yours there has been long dearth:“In the pure pale sheen of a hallowed night,When the graves are looking their holiest,You may see it more glistering and more brightAnd holier-looking than all the rest;You may see that the dews and the stars’ strange lightAre loving that grave the best;But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day,After so many years you might scarce find the wayEre you tired indeed of the quest:“For the path that leads to it is almost lost;And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blueHave grown up there and gathered for years, and tostBitter germs all around them to grow up too;For indeed all these years not a man has crostThat pathway—not even You!”—But alas! for these words to my heart he sent,For I knew it was Marguérite’s grave that he meant,And I felt that the words were true.Then the dim sweet faces of them of yoreSeemed to start from the mist where the memory lies;And each one was as sweet and as dear as before;But a piteous look was in all their eyes—Yea, the long smile of sadness; and each one boreA reproach in some tender wise:Till my bosom was troubled and sorely thrilledWith the thought of them all, and my ears were filledWith a sound of the mingling of sighs.And my heart, where the memories of them were castAnd as buried and choked in the dust of the years,Became peopled, it seemed, with the shapes of the Past;And the voice of my brother grew fresh in my ears:So my dried up eyes were softened at lastTo weeping some few sweet tears;But the Man who was sitting at my fireside—He covered his face with his hands and criedAs I did in those earlier years.Then I faltered,—“O Spectre of my lost Youth!All too well at thy pleading the sad thoughts wake,With the bitter regret of the Past, and in truthThe whole love of the fair things that all men forsake;And for this thy reproach I am filléd with ruth—My heart seemeth nigh to break:Ah! right gladly would I now return with theeTo those loves and those lovers, if that might be,And be happy for their sweet sake.“And, O Spectre that wearest my look—my face,And art ever with them as the thought they keepTo remind them of me in the changeless placeIn the changeless Past where the memories sleep,—Do thou tell them I am not all barren of grace,Nor have buried their love so deep,But that now after so long toward them I yearn,And that often the thought of them all may return,And that often it makes me weep.”Then, alas! I was troubled and filled with shame,As I looked on His face and beheld him fair;For his locks were as gold, and his eyes as a flame;And I knew that one winter had blanched my hair,And that surely my looks were no longer the sameAs in earlier days they were:For I feared he should mock me and tell them of this,And that even my tears were but scant beside his.O, this thought was a hard one to bear!But at length I fell dreaming beneath the mightOf each spell of the Past whence I cared not to start;And I saw Him some time by the flickering light,As the one in my dream who was playing my part;Till his semblance grew dim and was gone from my sightAs a dream of the Past will depart.Then the Spirit whose beauty has led me till now,Came and breathed a sweet breath on my feverish brow,And the strain of this verse in my heart.
ON the great day of my life—On the memorable day—Just as the long inward strifeOf the echoes died away,Just as on my couch I layThinking thought away;Came a Man into my room,Bringing with him gloom.Midnight stood upon the clock,And the street sound ceased to rise;Suddenly, and with no knock,Came that Man before my eyes:Yet he seemed not anywiseMy heart to surprise,And he sat down to abideAt my fireside.But he stirred within my heartMemories of the ancient days;And strange visions seemed to startVividly before my gaze,Yea, from the most distant hazeOf forgotten ways:And he looked on me the whileWith a most strange smile.But my heart seemed well to knowThat his face the semblance hadOf my own face long agoEre the years had made it sad,When my youthful looks were cladIn a smile half glad;To my heart he seemed in truthAll my vanished youth.Then he named me by a nameLong since unfamiliar grown,But remembered for the sameThat my childhood’s ears had known;And his voice was like my ownIn a sadder toneComing from the happy yearsChoked, alas, with tears.And, as though he nothing knewOf that day’s fair triumphing,Or the Present were not true,Or not worth remembering,All the Past he seemed to bringAs a piteous thingBack upon my heart again,Yea, with a great pain:“Do you still remember the winding streetIn the grey old village?” He seemed to say;“And the long school days that the sun made sweetAnd the thought of the flowers from far away?And the faces of friends whom you used to meetIn that village day by day,—Ay, the face of this one or of that?” he said,And the names he named were names of the deadWho all in the churchyard lay.“Do you still remember your brother’s face,And his soft light hair, and his eyes’ deep blue,And the child’s pet name that in every placeWas once so familiar to him and to you?And the innocent sports and the butterfly chaseThat lasted the bright day through?”—O this time, I thought of the churchyard and sighed,For I thought of the dead lying side by side,And my brother who lay there too.“And do you remember the far green hills;Or the long straight path by the side of the stream;Or the road that led to the farm and the mills,And the fields where you oft used to wander or dreamOr follow each change of your childish willsLike the dance of some gay sunbeam?”—Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain,For indeed all those things I remembered again,—As of yesterday they did seem.And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring,When the sun with a kiss set the wild flowers free;When my heart felt the kiss and the shadowy wingOf some beautiful spirit of things to be,Who breathed in the song that the wild birds singSome deep tender meaning for me,—Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were,Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air,—Made a presence I could not see.O that whisper my heart seemed to understand!O that spell it took hold on right willing feet!To that beautiful spirit I gave my hand,And he led me that day up the village street,And out through the fields and the fragrant land,And on through the pathways sweet;Yea, still on, with a semblance of some new bliss,Through the world he has led me from that day to thisWith a tender and fair deceit.“O for what have you wandered so far—so long?”Said the voice that was e’en as my voice of old:“O for what have you done to the Past such wrong?Was there no fair dream on your own threshold?In your childhood’s home was there no fresh song?—Was your heart then all so cold?Why, at length, are you weary and lone and sad,But for casting away all the good that you hadWith the peace that was yours of old?“Have you wholly forgotten the words you said,When you stood by a certain mound of earth,When you vowed with your heart that that place you madeThe last burial place for your love and your mirth,For the pure past blisses you therein laidWere surely your whole life’s worth?—O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their tearsHave cared for this, morning and evening, for years,But of yours there has been long dearth:“In the pure pale sheen of a hallowed night,When the graves are looking their holiest,You may see it more glistering and more brightAnd holier-looking than all the rest;You may see that the dews and the stars’ strange lightAre loving that grave the best;But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day,After so many years you might scarce find the wayEre you tired indeed of the quest:“For the path that leads to it is almost lost;And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blueHave grown up there and gathered for years, and tostBitter germs all around them to grow up too;For indeed all these years not a man has crostThat pathway—not even You!”—But alas! for these words to my heart he sent,For I knew it was Marguérite’s grave that he meant,And I felt that the words were true.Then the dim sweet faces of them of yoreSeemed to start from the mist where the memory lies;And each one was as sweet and as dear as before;But a piteous look was in all their eyes—Yea, the long smile of sadness; and each one boreA reproach in some tender wise:Till my bosom was troubled and sorely thrilledWith the thought of them all, and my ears were filledWith a sound of the mingling of sighs.And my heart, where the memories of them were castAnd as buried and choked in the dust of the years,Became peopled, it seemed, with the shapes of the Past;And the voice of my brother grew fresh in my ears:So my dried up eyes were softened at lastTo weeping some few sweet tears;But the Man who was sitting at my fireside—He covered his face with his hands and criedAs I did in those earlier years.Then I faltered,—“O Spectre of my lost Youth!All too well at thy pleading the sad thoughts wake,With the bitter regret of the Past, and in truthThe whole love of the fair things that all men forsake;And for this thy reproach I am filléd with ruth—My heart seemeth nigh to break:Ah! right gladly would I now return with theeTo those loves and those lovers, if that might be,And be happy for their sweet sake.“And, O Spectre that wearest my look—my face,And art ever with them as the thought they keepTo remind them of me in the changeless placeIn the changeless Past where the memories sleep,—Do thou tell them I am not all barren of grace,Nor have buried their love so deep,But that now after so long toward them I yearn,And that often the thought of them all may return,And that often it makes me weep.”Then, alas! I was troubled and filled with shame,As I looked on His face and beheld him fair;For his locks were as gold, and his eyes as a flame;And I knew that one winter had blanched my hair,And that surely my looks were no longer the sameAs in earlier days they were:For I feared he should mock me and tell them of this,And that even my tears were but scant beside his.O, this thought was a hard one to bear!But at length I fell dreaming beneath the mightOf each spell of the Past whence I cared not to start;And I saw Him some time by the flickering light,As the one in my dream who was playing my part;Till his semblance grew dim and was gone from my sightAs a dream of the Past will depart.Then the Spirit whose beauty has led me till now,Came and breathed a sweet breath on my feverish brow,And the strain of this verse in my heart.
ON the great day of my life—On the memorable day—Just as the long inward strifeOf the echoes died away,Just as on my couch I layThinking thought away;Came a Man into my room,Bringing with him gloom.
Midnight stood upon the clock,And the street sound ceased to rise;Suddenly, and with no knock,Came that Man before my eyes:Yet he seemed not anywiseMy heart to surprise,And he sat down to abideAt my fireside.
But he stirred within my heartMemories of the ancient days;And strange visions seemed to startVividly before my gaze,Yea, from the most distant hazeOf forgotten ways:And he looked on me the whileWith a most strange smile.
But my heart seemed well to knowThat his face the semblance hadOf my own face long agoEre the years had made it sad,When my youthful looks were cladIn a smile half glad;To my heart he seemed in truthAll my vanished youth.
Then he named me by a nameLong since unfamiliar grown,But remembered for the sameThat my childhood’s ears had known;And his voice was like my ownIn a sadder toneComing from the happy yearsChoked, alas, with tears.
And, as though he nothing knewOf that day’s fair triumphing,Or the Present were not true,Or not worth remembering,All the Past he seemed to bringAs a piteous thingBack upon my heart again,Yea, with a great pain:
“Do you still remember the winding streetIn the grey old village?” He seemed to say;“And the long school days that the sun made sweetAnd the thought of the flowers from far away?And the faces of friends whom you used to meetIn that village day by day,—Ay, the face of this one or of that?” he said,And the names he named were names of the deadWho all in the churchyard lay.
“Do you still remember your brother’s face,And his soft light hair, and his eyes’ deep blue,And the child’s pet name that in every placeWas once so familiar to him and to you?And the innocent sports and the butterfly chaseThat lasted the bright day through?”—O this time, I thought of the churchyard and sighed,For I thought of the dead lying side by side,And my brother who lay there too.
“And do you remember the far green hills;Or the long straight path by the side of the stream;Or the road that led to the farm and the mills,And the fields where you oft used to wander or dreamOr follow each change of your childish willsLike the dance of some gay sunbeam?”—Then, alas, from right weeping I could not refrain,For indeed all those things I remembered again,—As of yesterday they did seem.
And I thought of a day in a far lost Spring,When the sun with a kiss set the wild flowers free;When my heart felt the kiss and the shadowy wingOf some beautiful spirit of things to be,Who breathed in the song that the wild birds singSome deep tender meaning for me,—Who undid a strange spell in the world as it were,Who set wide sweet whispers abroad in the air,—Made a presence I could not see.
O that whisper my heart seemed to understand!O that spell it took hold on right willing feet!To that beautiful spirit I gave my hand,And he led me that day up the village street,And out through the fields and the fragrant land,And on through the pathways sweet;Yea, still on, with a semblance of some new bliss,Through the world he has led me from that day to thisWith a tender and fair deceit.
“O for what have you wandered so far—so long?”Said the voice that was e’en as my voice of old:“O for what have you done to the Past such wrong?Was there no fair dream on your own threshold?In your childhood’s home was there no fresh song?—Was your heart then all so cold?Why, at length, are you weary and lone and sad,But for casting away all the good that you hadWith the peace that was yours of old?
“Have you wholly forgotten the words you said,When you stood by a certain mound of earth,When you vowed with your heart that that place you madeThe last burial place for your love and your mirth,For the pure past blisses you therein laidWere surely your whole life’s worth?—O, the angels who deck the lone graves with their tearsHave cared for this, morning and evening, for years,But of yours there has been long dearth:
“In the pure pale sheen of a hallowed night,When the graves are looking their holiest,You may see it more glistering and more brightAnd holier-looking than all the rest;You may see that the dews and the stars’ strange lightAre loving that grave the best;But, perhaps, if you went in the clear noon-day,After so many years you might scarce find the wayEre you tired indeed of the quest:
“For the path that leads to it is almost lost;And quite tall grass-flowers of sickly blueHave grown up there and gathered for years, and tostBitter germs all around them to grow up too;For indeed all these years not a man has crostThat pathway—not even You!”—But alas! for these words to my heart he sent,For I knew it was Marguérite’s grave that he meant,And I felt that the words were true.
Then the dim sweet faces of them of yoreSeemed to start from the mist where the memory lies;And each one was as sweet and as dear as before;But a piteous look was in all their eyes—Yea, the long smile of sadness; and each one boreA reproach in some tender wise:Till my bosom was troubled and sorely thrilledWith the thought of them all, and my ears were filledWith a sound of the mingling of sighs.
And my heart, where the memories of them were castAnd as buried and choked in the dust of the years,Became peopled, it seemed, with the shapes of the Past;And the voice of my brother grew fresh in my ears:So my dried up eyes were softened at lastTo weeping some few sweet tears;But the Man who was sitting at my fireside—He covered his face with his hands and criedAs I did in those earlier years.
Then I faltered,—“O Spectre of my lost Youth!All too well at thy pleading the sad thoughts wake,With the bitter regret of the Past, and in truthThe whole love of the fair things that all men forsake;And for this thy reproach I am filléd with ruth—My heart seemeth nigh to break:Ah! right gladly would I now return with theeTo those loves and those lovers, if that might be,And be happy for their sweet sake.
“And, O Spectre that wearest my look—my face,And art ever with them as the thought they keepTo remind them of me in the changeless placeIn the changeless Past where the memories sleep,—Do thou tell them I am not all barren of grace,Nor have buried their love so deep,But that now after so long toward them I yearn,And that often the thought of them all may return,And that often it makes me weep.”
Then, alas! I was troubled and filled with shame,As I looked on His face and beheld him fair;For his locks were as gold, and his eyes as a flame;And I knew that one winter had blanched my hair,And that surely my looks were no longer the sameAs in earlier days they were:For I feared he should mock me and tell them of this,And that even my tears were but scant beside his.O, this thought was a hard one to bear!
But at length I fell dreaming beneath the mightOf each spell of the Past whence I cared not to start;And I saw Him some time by the flickering light,As the one in my dream who was playing my part;Till his semblance grew dim and was gone from my sightAs a dream of the Past will depart.Then the Spirit whose beauty has led me till now,Came and breathed a sweet breath on my feverish brow,And the strain of this verse in my heart.
OUT of a dim and slowly fading placeIn the deep dwelling mem’ries,—as it seems,Mingled of purple mem’ries and of dreams—The perfect marble features of Your faceShine and are seen: each brow is like the spacePearly in heaven after the sun-beams;And all the curving of the mouth still gleamsWhere many a gracious smile hath left a grace;But the eyes are within, or all too far,Or changed now to some element of heavenPurer and subtler than the blue they were;They meet me not. I know not where you are;With God most—wholly in the grave,—or evenIn the remembrance of you that is here.
OUT of a dim and slowly fading placeIn the deep dwelling mem’ries,—as it seems,Mingled of purple mem’ries and of dreams—The perfect marble features of Your faceShine and are seen: each brow is like the spacePearly in heaven after the sun-beams;And all the curving of the mouth still gleamsWhere many a gracious smile hath left a grace;But the eyes are within, or all too far,Or changed now to some element of heavenPurer and subtler than the blue they were;They meet me not. I know not where you are;With God most—wholly in the grave,—or evenIn the remembrance of you that is here.
OUT of a dim and slowly fading placeIn the deep dwelling mem’ries,—as it seems,Mingled of purple mem’ries and of dreams—The perfect marble features of Your faceShine and are seen: each brow is like the spacePearly in heaven after the sun-beams;And all the curving of the mouth still gleamsWhere many a gracious smile hath left a grace;But the eyes are within, or all too far,Or changed now to some element of heavenPurer and subtler than the blue they were;They meet me not. I know not where you are;With God most—wholly in the grave,—or evenIn the remembrance of you that is here.
WHEN the heaven is blue,Or the stars look down,Or the golden crownGlows upon the hills,—When the sky of tearsLets the sunlight through,And the heart a moment thrills,Yea, and utters too,—Who discerns? who hears?Who but I—and perhaps You?When some thin thought-waveFrom the shadow shoreBrings the Voice once moreFrom beyond the grave;When some pain is prestDeep into the breast,And the inward thoughts are swordsKilling one with sadness;Most when love is strong,And the anguish longRolls up in a haste of wordsEnding all in madness—Who is he that soothes or cheers?Who believes? who hears?Ay, when the Heart grieves,Pants, prays—who believes?—Ay, when the Heart cries,When it breaks, when it dies,—(Ah, why was the Heart born!—)Who shall save? who shall mourn?
WHEN the heaven is blue,Or the stars look down,Or the golden crownGlows upon the hills,—When the sky of tearsLets the sunlight through,And the heart a moment thrills,Yea, and utters too,—Who discerns? who hears?Who but I—and perhaps You?When some thin thought-waveFrom the shadow shoreBrings the Voice once moreFrom beyond the grave;When some pain is prestDeep into the breast,And the inward thoughts are swordsKilling one with sadness;Most when love is strong,And the anguish longRolls up in a haste of wordsEnding all in madness—Who is he that soothes or cheers?Who believes? who hears?Ay, when the Heart grieves,Pants, prays—who believes?—Ay, when the Heart cries,When it breaks, when it dies,—(Ah, why was the Heart born!—)Who shall save? who shall mourn?
WHEN the heaven is blue,Or the stars look down,Or the golden crownGlows upon the hills,—
When the sky of tearsLets the sunlight through,And the heart a moment thrills,Yea, and utters too,—
Who discerns? who hears?Who but I—and perhaps You?
When some thin thought-waveFrom the shadow shoreBrings the Voice once moreFrom beyond the grave;
When some pain is prestDeep into the breast,And the inward thoughts are swordsKilling one with sadness;
Most when love is strong,And the anguish longRolls up in a haste of wordsEnding all in madness—
Who is he that soothes or cheers?Who believes? who hears?
Ay, when the Heart grieves,Pants, prays—who believes?—
Ay, when the Heart cries,When it breaks, when it dies,—(Ah, why was the Heart born!—)Who shall save? who shall mourn?
THE stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay,And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away:The wave is very still—the rudder loosens in our hand,The zephyr will not fill our sail and waft us to the land;O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.No sound but sound of rest is on the bosom of the deep,Soft as the breathing of a breast serenely hushed with sleep:Lay by the oar; there is a voice at heart to sing or sigh—O what shall be the choice of barcarolle or lullaby?Say shall we sing of day or night, fair land or mighty ocean,Of any rapturous delight or any dear emotion,Of any joy that is on Earth, or hope that is above—The holy country of our birth, or any song of love?Our heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steersA bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings, bear up this life of ours—Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.Spread sail! for it is Hope to-day that like a wind new-risenDoth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon,That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning,That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.Love is this thing that we pursue to-day, to-night, for ever,We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver:For Love,—our life and all our years are cast upon the waves;Our heart is as the hand that steers;—but who is He that saves?We ply with oars, we strive with every sail upon our mast—We never tire, never fail—and Love is seen at last:A low and purple mirage like a coast where day is breaking—Sink sail!—for such a dream as Love is lost before the waking.
THE stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay,And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away:The wave is very still—the rudder loosens in our hand,The zephyr will not fill our sail and waft us to the land;O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.No sound but sound of rest is on the bosom of the deep,Soft as the breathing of a breast serenely hushed with sleep:Lay by the oar; there is a voice at heart to sing or sigh—O what shall be the choice of barcarolle or lullaby?Say shall we sing of day or night, fair land or mighty ocean,Of any rapturous delight or any dear emotion,Of any joy that is on Earth, or hope that is above—The holy country of our birth, or any song of love?Our heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steersA bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings, bear up this life of ours—Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.Spread sail! for it is Hope to-day that like a wind new-risenDoth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon,That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning,That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.Love is this thing that we pursue to-day, to-night, for ever,We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver:For Love,—our life and all our years are cast upon the waves;Our heart is as the hand that steers;—but who is He that saves?We ply with oars, we strive with every sail upon our mast—We never tire, never fail—and Love is seen at last:A low and purple mirage like a coast where day is breaking—Sink sail!—for such a dream as Love is lost before the waking.
THE stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay,And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away:
The wave is very still—the rudder loosens in our hand,The zephyr will not fill our sail and waft us to the land;O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.
No sound but sound of rest is on the bosom of the deep,Soft as the breathing of a breast serenely hushed with sleep:Lay by the oar; there is a voice at heart to sing or sigh—O what shall be the choice of barcarolle or lullaby?
Say shall we sing of day or night, fair land or mighty ocean,Of any rapturous delight or any dear emotion,Of any joy that is on Earth, or hope that is above—The holy country of our birth, or any song of love?
Our heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steersA bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings, bear up this life of ours—Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.
Spread sail! for it is Hope to-day that like a wind new-risenDoth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon,That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning,That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.
Love is this thing that we pursue to-day, to-night, for ever,We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver:For Love,—our life and all our years are cast upon the waves;Our heart is as the hand that steers;—but who is He that saves?
We ply with oars, we strive with every sail upon our mast—We never tire, never fail—and Love is seen at last:A low and purple mirage like a coast where day is breaking—Sink sail!—for such a dream as Love is lost before the waking.
HO, I sing and I sing!Digging jewels for the King;—Till I tire of the measureI sing and I sing:Here’s a diamond true bright;Here’s a ruby worth a treasure:So I labour, and my sightSurely fails, and I get grayDigging jewels for the King:I have toiled so many a day,I have found so many a treasure,Yet,—ah’s me!—I dare to sayThat I could not earn my wayTo the palace of the King.I was a miner—doomedWith a fate branded at birthTo serve the King entombedIn this dungeon of the Earth:They gave me a thing calledHope,A word written in goldOn a talent—precious I’m told;But, if I am to gropeAll my life long in a mine,What were the use at bestOf a bauble just to shineAnd dangle at my breast?So I sing, so I singHere’s a jewel for the King!—Let me clear it of the rust;Wrap the gold thing in gold dust:’Tis a perfect bauble—see,A truly precious thing,Far fitter for a kingThan a prisoner like me.
HO, I sing and I sing!Digging jewels for the King;—Till I tire of the measureI sing and I sing:Here’s a diamond true bright;Here’s a ruby worth a treasure:So I labour, and my sightSurely fails, and I get grayDigging jewels for the King:I have toiled so many a day,I have found so many a treasure,Yet,—ah’s me!—I dare to sayThat I could not earn my wayTo the palace of the King.I was a miner—doomedWith a fate branded at birthTo serve the King entombedIn this dungeon of the Earth:They gave me a thing calledHope,A word written in goldOn a talent—precious I’m told;But, if I am to gropeAll my life long in a mine,What were the use at bestOf a bauble just to shineAnd dangle at my breast?So I sing, so I singHere’s a jewel for the King!—Let me clear it of the rust;Wrap the gold thing in gold dust:’Tis a perfect bauble—see,A truly precious thing,Far fitter for a kingThan a prisoner like me.
HO, I sing and I sing!Digging jewels for the King;—Till I tire of the measureI sing and I sing:Here’s a diamond true bright;Here’s a ruby worth a treasure:So I labour, and my sightSurely fails, and I get grayDigging jewels for the King:I have toiled so many a day,I have found so many a treasure,Yet,—ah’s me!—I dare to sayThat I could not earn my wayTo the palace of the King.
I was a miner—doomedWith a fate branded at birthTo serve the King entombedIn this dungeon of the Earth:They gave me a thing calledHope,A word written in goldOn a talent—precious I’m told;But, if I am to gropeAll my life long in a mine,What were the use at bestOf a bauble just to shineAnd dangle at my breast?
So I sing, so I singHere’s a jewel for the King!—Let me clear it of the rust;Wrap the gold thing in gold dust:’Tis a perfect bauble—see,A truly precious thing,Far fitter for a kingThan a prisoner like me.
ALAS, for a sound is heardOf a bitterly broken song;Grievous is every word;And the burden is weary and longLike the waves between ebb and flow;And it comes when the winds are low,Or whenever the night is nigh,And the world hath space for a sigh.It was in the time of fruit;When the peach began to pout,And the purple grape to shine,And the leaves were a threadbare suitFor the blushing blood of the vine,And the spoilers were aboutAnd the viper glode at the root:—She came, and with her hand,With her mouth, yea, and her eyesShe hath ravaged all the land;Its beauty shall no more rise:She hath drawn the wine to her lip.For a mere wanton sip:Lo, where the vine-branch lies;Lo, where the drained grapes drip.Her feet left many a stain;And her lips left many a sting;She will never come again,And the fruit of everythingIs a canker or a pain:And a memory doth crouchLike an asp,—yea, in each partWhere she hath left her touch,—Lying in wait for the heart.
ALAS, for a sound is heardOf a bitterly broken song;Grievous is every word;And the burden is weary and longLike the waves between ebb and flow;And it comes when the winds are low,Or whenever the night is nigh,And the world hath space for a sigh.It was in the time of fruit;When the peach began to pout,And the purple grape to shine,And the leaves were a threadbare suitFor the blushing blood of the vine,And the spoilers were aboutAnd the viper glode at the root:—She came, and with her hand,With her mouth, yea, and her eyesShe hath ravaged all the land;Its beauty shall no more rise:She hath drawn the wine to her lip.For a mere wanton sip:Lo, where the vine-branch lies;Lo, where the drained grapes drip.Her feet left many a stain;And her lips left many a sting;She will never come again,And the fruit of everythingIs a canker or a pain:And a memory doth crouchLike an asp,—yea, in each partWhere she hath left her touch,—Lying in wait for the heart.
ALAS, for a sound is heardOf a bitterly broken song;Grievous is every word;And the burden is weary and longLike the waves between ebb and flow;And it comes when the winds are low,Or whenever the night is nigh,And the world hath space for a sigh.
It was in the time of fruit;When the peach began to pout,And the purple grape to shine,And the leaves were a threadbare suitFor the blushing blood of the vine,And the spoilers were aboutAnd the viper glode at the root:
—She came, and with her hand,With her mouth, yea, and her eyesShe hath ravaged all the land;Its beauty shall no more rise:She hath drawn the wine to her lip.For a mere wanton sip:Lo, where the vine-branch lies;Lo, where the drained grapes drip.
Her feet left many a stain;And her lips left many a sting;She will never come again,And the fruit of everythingIs a canker or a pain:And a memory doth crouchLike an asp,—yea, in each partWhere she hath left her touch,—Lying in wait for the heart.