AND these—are these indeed the end,This grinning skull, this heavy loam?Do all green ways whereby we wendLead but to yon ignoble home?Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;Thy lips are hives of summer still.I ask not other worlds while thisProffers me all the sweets I will.William Watson.
AND these—are these indeed the end,This grinning skull, this heavy loam?Do all green ways whereby we wendLead but to yon ignoble home?Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;Thy lips are hives of summer still.I ask not other worlds while thisProffers me all the sweets I will.William Watson.
AND these—are these indeed the end,This grinning skull, this heavy loam?Do all green ways whereby we wendLead but to yon ignoble home?
Ah, well! Thine eyes invite to bliss;Thy lips are hives of summer still.I ask not other worlds while thisProffers me all the sweets I will.William Watson.
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful howLove dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;I heard wild wordless melodies of love,Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.Theodore Watts.
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful howLove dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;I heard wild wordless melodies of love,Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.Theodore Watts.
BENEATH the loveliest dream there coils a fear:Last night came she whose eyes are memories now,Her far-off gaze seemed all-forgetful howLove dimmed them once, so calm they shone, and clear.“Sorrow (I said) hath made me old, my dear;’Tis I, indeed, but grief doth change the brow;A love like mine a seraph’s neck might bow,Vigils like mine would blanch an angel’s hair.”
Ah! then I saw, I saw the sweet lips move!I saw the love-mists thickening in her eyes;I heard wild wordless melodies of love,Like murmur of dreaming brooks in Paradise;And when upon my neck she fell, my dove,I knew her hair, though heavy of amaranth-spice.Theodore Watts.
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,And miles of furze shine golden down the West?I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breastHer bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:I think she kissed these lips, for now they seemScarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine?Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers?Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!I seem to know them, though this body of minePass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.Theodore Watts.
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,And miles of furze shine golden down the West?I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breastHer bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:I think she kissed these lips, for now they seemScarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine?Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers?Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!I seem to know them, though this body of minePass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.Theodore Watts.
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,Is heav’n a dream? Is she I claspt a dream?Or stood she here even now where dewdrops gleam,And miles of furze shine golden down the West?I seem to clasp her still,—still on my breastHer bosom beats; I see the blue eyes beam:I think she kissed these lips, for now they seemScarce mine, so hallow’d of the lips they press’d!
Yon thicket’s breath—can that be eglantine?Those birds—can they be morning’s choristers?Can this be earth? Can these be banks of furze?Like burning bushes fired of God they shine!I seem to know them, though this body of minePass’d into spirit at the touch of hers.Theodore Watts.
ALITTLE love, of Heaven a little share,And then we go—what matters it, since where,Or when, or how, none may aforetime know,Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow,Send on ahead his herald of Despair.On this gray life Love lights with golden glowRefracted from The Source, his bright wings throwIts glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer,A little love!A little; ’tis as much as we can bear,For Love is compassed with such magic airWho breathes it fully dies; and knowing so,The Gods all wisely but a taste bestowFor little lives; a little while they spareA little love.Gleeson White.
ALITTLE love, of Heaven a little share,And then we go—what matters it, since where,Or when, or how, none may aforetime know,Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow,Send on ahead his herald of Despair.On this gray life Love lights with golden glowRefracted from The Source, his bright wings throwIts glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer,A little love!A little; ’tis as much as we can bear,For Love is compassed with such magic airWho breathes it fully dies; and knowing so,The Gods all wisely but a taste bestowFor little lives; a little while they spareA little love.Gleeson White.
ALITTLE love, of Heaven a little share,And then we go—what matters it, since where,Or when, or how, none may aforetime know,Nor if Death cometh soon, or lingering slow,Send on ahead his herald of Despair.
On this gray life Love lights with golden glowRefracted from The Source, his bright wings throwIts glory on us, if Fate grant our prayer,A little love!
A little; ’tis as much as we can bear,For Love is compassed with such magic airWho breathes it fully dies; and knowing so,The Gods all wisely but a taste bestowFor little lives; a little while they spareA little love.Gleeson White.
GOD’s love and peace be with thee, whereSoe’er this soft autumnal airLifts the dark tresses of thy hair!Whether through city casements comesIts kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,Or, out among the woodland blooms,It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face,Imparting, in its glad embrace,Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!Fair Nature’s book together read,—The old wood-paths that knew our tread,The maple shadows overhead,The hills we climbed, the river seenBy gleams along its deep ravine,—All keep thy memory fresh and green.Where’er I look, where’er I stray,Thy thought goes with me on my way,And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;O’er lapse of time and change of scene,—The weary waste which lies betweenThyself and me, my heart I lean.Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, norThe half-unconscious power to drawAll hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.With these good gifts of God is castThy lot, and many a charm thou hastTo hold the blessed angels fast.If, then, a fervent wish for theeThe gracious heavens will heed from me,What should, dear heart, its burden be?The sighing of a shaken reed,—What can I more than meekly pleadThe greatness of our common need?God’s love,—unchanging, pure, and true,—The Paraclete white-shining throughHis peace,—the fall of Hermon’s dew!With such a prayer, on this sweet day,As thou mayst hear and I may say,I greet thee, dearest, far away!John Greenleaf Whittier.
GOD’s love and peace be with thee, whereSoe’er this soft autumnal airLifts the dark tresses of thy hair!Whether through city casements comesIts kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,Or, out among the woodland blooms,It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face,Imparting, in its glad embrace,Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!Fair Nature’s book together read,—The old wood-paths that knew our tread,The maple shadows overhead,The hills we climbed, the river seenBy gleams along its deep ravine,—All keep thy memory fresh and green.Where’er I look, where’er I stray,Thy thought goes with me on my way,And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;O’er lapse of time and change of scene,—The weary waste which lies betweenThyself and me, my heart I lean.Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, norThe half-unconscious power to drawAll hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.With these good gifts of God is castThy lot, and many a charm thou hastTo hold the blessed angels fast.If, then, a fervent wish for theeThe gracious heavens will heed from me,What should, dear heart, its burden be?The sighing of a shaken reed,—What can I more than meekly pleadThe greatness of our common need?God’s love,—unchanging, pure, and true,—The Paraclete white-shining throughHis peace,—the fall of Hermon’s dew!With such a prayer, on this sweet day,As thou mayst hear and I may say,I greet thee, dearest, far away!John Greenleaf Whittier.
GOD’s love and peace be with thee, whereSoe’er this soft autumnal airLifts the dark tresses of thy hair!
Whether through city casements comesIts kiss to thee, in crowded rooms,Or, out among the woodland blooms,
It freshens o’er thy thoughtful face,Imparting, in its glad embrace,Beauty to beauty, grace to grace!
Fair Nature’s book together read,—The old wood-paths that knew our tread,The maple shadows overhead,
The hills we climbed, the river seenBy gleams along its deep ravine,—All keep thy memory fresh and green.
Where’er I look, where’er I stray,Thy thought goes with me on my way,And hence the prayer I breathe to-day;
O’er lapse of time and change of scene,—The weary waste which lies betweenThyself and me, my heart I lean.
Thou lack’st not Friendship’s spell-word, norThe half-unconscious power to drawAll hearts to thine by Love’s sweet law.
With these good gifts of God is castThy lot, and many a charm thou hastTo hold the blessed angels fast.
If, then, a fervent wish for theeThe gracious heavens will heed from me,What should, dear heart, its burden be?
The sighing of a shaken reed,—What can I more than meekly pleadThe greatness of our common need?
God’s love,—unchanging, pure, and true,—The Paraclete white-shining throughHis peace,—the fall of Hermon’s dew!
With such a prayer, on this sweet day,As thou mayst hear and I may say,I greet thee, dearest, far away!John Greenleaf Whittier.
WHEN violets blue begin to blowAmong the mosses fresh and green,That grow the woodbine roots between,I take my Violet out, and, oh!Those cunning violets seem to knowA sweeter than themselves is nigh;They greet her with a beaming eye,And brighten where her footsteps go.When summer glories light the gladeWith gloss of green and gleam of gold,And sunny sheens in wood and wold,She loves to linger in the shade;And such sweet light surrounds the maid,That, somehow, it is fairer farWhere she and those dim shadows are,Than where the sunbeams are displayed.When every tree relinquishethIts garb of green for sombre brown,And all the leaves are falling down,While breezes blow with angry breath,With gentle pitying voice she saith,“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”And at the sound they peaceful lie,And wear a pleasant calm in death.When winter frosts hold land and sea,And barren want and bleaker windLeave every thought of good behind,I look upon my love, and sheFrom thrall of winter sets me free;And with a sense of perfect restI lay my head upon her breast,And twenty summers shine for me.J. T. Burton Wollaston.
WHEN violets blue begin to blowAmong the mosses fresh and green,That grow the woodbine roots between,I take my Violet out, and, oh!Those cunning violets seem to knowA sweeter than themselves is nigh;They greet her with a beaming eye,And brighten where her footsteps go.When summer glories light the gladeWith gloss of green and gleam of gold,And sunny sheens in wood and wold,She loves to linger in the shade;And such sweet light surrounds the maid,That, somehow, it is fairer farWhere she and those dim shadows are,Than where the sunbeams are displayed.When every tree relinquishethIts garb of green for sombre brown,And all the leaves are falling down,While breezes blow with angry breath,With gentle pitying voice she saith,“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”And at the sound they peaceful lie,And wear a pleasant calm in death.When winter frosts hold land and sea,And barren want and bleaker windLeave every thought of good behind,I look upon my love, and sheFrom thrall of winter sets me free;And with a sense of perfect restI lay my head upon her breast,And twenty summers shine for me.J. T. Burton Wollaston.
WHEN violets blue begin to blowAmong the mosses fresh and green,That grow the woodbine roots between,I take my Violet out, and, oh!Those cunning violets seem to knowA sweeter than themselves is nigh;They greet her with a beaming eye,And brighten where her footsteps go.
When summer glories light the gladeWith gloss of green and gleam of gold,And sunny sheens in wood and wold,She loves to linger in the shade;And such sweet light surrounds the maid,That, somehow, it is fairer farWhere she and those dim shadows are,Than where the sunbeams are displayed.
When every tree relinquishethIts garb of green for sombre brown,And all the leaves are falling down,While breezes blow with angry breath,With gentle pitying voice she saith,“Poor leaves! I wish you would not die;”And at the sound they peaceful lie,And wear a pleasant calm in death.
When winter frosts hold land and sea,And barren want and bleaker windLeave every thought of good behind,I look upon my love, and sheFrom thrall of winter sets me free;And with a sense of perfect restI lay my head upon her breast,And twenty summers shine for me.J. T. Burton Wollaston.
LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and foundIts beauty perfect in the breaking day.Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;Alas! though with the entering sun that crownedWith light the beauty that mine arms enwound,Came too the morning music of the bay.I wept that Love had been and was no more,That never shower nor sunlight should restoreThe love that gave her life and heart to me;While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and foundIts beauty perfect in the breaking day.Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;Alas! though with the entering sun that crownedWith light the beauty that mine arms enwound,Came too the morning music of the bay.I wept that Love had been and was no more,That never shower nor sunlight should restoreThe love that gave her life and heart to me;While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
LIDS closed and pale, with parted lips she lay;Black on white pillows spread her hair unbound.Awake, I watched her sleeping face, and foundIts beauty perfect in the breaking day.
Ah, then I knew that Love had passed away;Alas! though with the entering sun that crownedWith light the beauty that mine arms enwound,Came too the morning music of the bay.
I wept that Love had been and was no more,That never shower nor sunlight should restoreThe love that gave her life and heart to me;
While radiant in the outburst of the dawn,Fresh as the wind that swept the mountain lawn,Green April wantoned on the noisy sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
THE broad green rollers lift and glideBeneath our hearts as, side by side,We breast them blithely, blithely swimToward the far horizon’s rim.The murmur of the land recedes,The land of grief that aches and needs;We only as we fall and riseDrink deep the splendour of the skies.O far blue heaven above our head,O near green sea about us spread,What joy so full, since time began,Could earth, our mother, give to man?Your bright face through the water peersAnd laughs. “What need have men for tears?”We say. The land is far and dim,The world is summer’s, and we swim.Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweetSame joy fulfils us, hands and feet:The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours:We feel the same enraptured hours.Out yonder! where our distant homeBeckons us from the crests of foam!Out yonder through the roller’s mirth!What part was ever ours with earth?Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam:Love seems life’s best and holiest dream;Nought comes between us here, and ICould wish not otherwise to die.With sea beneath us, heaven above,Life holds but laughter, joy, and love;No trammels bind us now, and weAre freer than the birds are free.Your face seems sweeter here; your hair,Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair;Your limbs that move and gleam and shine,Hellenic, pagan, half divine.If I should catch you now, make fastYour hands with mine, about you castMy limbs, and through the untroubled wavesDraw you down to the sea’s deep graves!Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough,God’s gift of freedom, life, and love—Though but for this brief hour are weAlone upon the eternal sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
THE broad green rollers lift and glideBeneath our hearts as, side by side,We breast them blithely, blithely swimToward the far horizon’s rim.The murmur of the land recedes,The land of grief that aches and needs;We only as we fall and riseDrink deep the splendour of the skies.O far blue heaven above our head,O near green sea about us spread,What joy so full, since time began,Could earth, our mother, give to man?Your bright face through the water peersAnd laughs. “What need have men for tears?”We say. The land is far and dim,The world is summer’s, and we swim.Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweetSame joy fulfils us, hands and feet:The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours:We feel the same enraptured hours.Out yonder! where our distant homeBeckons us from the crests of foam!Out yonder through the roller’s mirth!What part was ever ours with earth?Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam:Love seems life’s best and holiest dream;Nought comes between us here, and ICould wish not otherwise to die.With sea beneath us, heaven above,Life holds but laughter, joy, and love;No trammels bind us now, and weAre freer than the birds are free.Your face seems sweeter here; your hair,Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair;Your limbs that move and gleam and shine,Hellenic, pagan, half divine.If I should catch you now, make fastYour hands with mine, about you castMy limbs, and through the untroubled wavesDraw you down to the sea’s deep graves!Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough,God’s gift of freedom, life, and love—Though but for this brief hour are weAlone upon the eternal sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
THE broad green rollers lift and glideBeneath our hearts as, side by side,We breast them blithely, blithely swimToward the far horizon’s rim.
The murmur of the land recedes,The land of grief that aches and needs;We only as we fall and riseDrink deep the splendour of the skies.
O far blue heaven above our head,O near green sea about us spread,What joy so full, since time began,Could earth, our mother, give to man?
Your bright face through the water peersAnd laughs. “What need have men for tears?”We say. The land is far and dim,The world is summer’s, and we swim.
Your bright face peers and laughs. The sweetSame joy fulfils us, hands and feet:The same sea’s salt wet lips kiss ours:We feel the same enraptured hours.
Out yonder! where our distant homeBeckons us from the crests of foam!Out yonder through the roller’s mirth!What part was ever ours with earth?
Your white limbs flash, your red lips gleam:Love seems life’s best and holiest dream;Nought comes between us here, and ICould wish not otherwise to die.
With sea beneath us, heaven above,Life holds but laughter, joy, and love;No trammels bind us now, and weAre freer than the birds are free.
Your face seems sweeter here; your hair,Wet from the sea’s salt lips, more fair;Your limbs that move and gleam and shine,Hellenic, pagan, half divine.
If I should catch you now, make fastYour hands with mine, about you castMy limbs, and through the untroubled wavesDraw you down to the sea’s deep graves!
Ah, sweet! God’s gift is good enough,God’s gift of freedom, life, and love—Though but for this brief hour are weAlone upon the eternal sea.Theodore Wratislaw.
IF Michael, leader of God’s host,When Heaven and Hell are met,Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,He would his deeds forget.Brooding no more upon God’s warsIn his Divine homestead,He would go weave out of the starsA chaplet for your head;And all folk seeing him bow down,And white stars tell your praise,Would come at last to God’s great town,Led on by gentle ways;And God would bid his warfare cease,Saying all things were well,And softly make a rosy peace,A peace of Heaven and Hell.W. B. Yeats.
IF Michael, leader of God’s host,When Heaven and Hell are met,Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,He would his deeds forget.Brooding no more upon God’s warsIn his Divine homestead,He would go weave out of the starsA chaplet for your head;And all folk seeing him bow down,And white stars tell your praise,Would come at last to God’s great town,Led on by gentle ways;And God would bid his warfare cease,Saying all things were well,And softly make a rosy peace,A peace of Heaven and Hell.W. B. Yeats.
IF Michael, leader of God’s host,When Heaven and Hell are met,Looked down on you from Heaven’s door-post,He would his deeds forget.
Brooding no more upon God’s warsIn his Divine homestead,He would go weave out of the starsA chaplet for your head;
And all folk seeing him bow down,And white stars tell your praise,Would come at last to God’s great town,Led on by gentle ways;
And God would bid his warfare cease,Saying all things were well,And softly make a rosy peace,A peace of Heaven and Hell.W. B. Yeats.
THOUGH the roving bee as lightlySip the sweets of thyme and clover,Though the moon of May as whitelySilver all the greensward over,Yet, beneath the trysting tree,That hath been which shall not be!
THOUGH the roving bee as lightlySip the sweets of thyme and clover,Though the moon of May as whitelySilver all the greensward over,Yet, beneath the trysting tree,That hath been which shall not be!
THOUGH the roving bee as lightlySip the sweets of thyme and clover,Though the moon of May as whitelySilver all the greensward over,Yet, beneath the trysting tree,That hath been which shall not be!
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetlyWith the honey-dew of pleasure,Trip the dancers ne’er so featlyThrough the old remembered measure,Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,What is lost shall not be found!William Young.
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetlyWith the honey-dew of pleasure,Trip the dancers ne’er so featlyThrough the old remembered measure,Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,What is lost shall not be found!William Young.
Drip the vials ne’er so sweetlyWith the honey-dew of pleasure,Trip the dancers ne’er so featlyThrough the old remembered measure,Yet, the lighted lanthorn round,What is lost shall not be found!William Young.
BECAUSE thou wast cold and proud,And as one alone in the crowd,And because of thy wilful and wayward look,I thought, as I saw thee above my book,“I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone;”And in seeking thine, I have found my own.
BECAUSE thou wast cold and proud,And as one alone in the crowd,And because of thy wilful and wayward look,I thought, as I saw thee above my book,“I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone;”And in seeking thine, I have found my own.
BECAUSE thou wast cold and proud,And as one alone in the crowd,And because of thy wilful and wayward look,I thought, as I saw thee above my book,“I will prove if her heart be flesh or stone;”And in seeking thine, I have found my own.
Because thou wast proud and cold,And because of the story toldThat never had woman a smile from thee,I thought as I glanc’d, “If he frown on me,Why, be it so! but his peace shall atone;”And in troubling thine, I have lost my own.William Young.
Because thou wast proud and cold,And because of the story toldThat never had woman a smile from thee,I thought as I glanc’d, “If he frown on me,Why, be it so! but his peace shall atone;”And in troubling thine, I have lost my own.William Young.
Because thou wast proud and cold,And because of the story toldThat never had woman a smile from thee,I thought as I glanc’d, “If he frown on me,Why, be it so! but his peace shall atone;”And in troubling thine, I have lost my own.William Young.
WAVES the soft grass at my feet;Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet?Though the earth upon thy faceHolds thee close from my embrace,Yet my spirit thine can reach,Needs betwixt us twain no speech,For the same soul lives in each.Now I meet no tender eyesSeeking mine in soft surmiseAt some broken utterance faint,Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent;Yet in some sweet hours gone by,No responding eye to eyeNeeded we for sympathy.Love, I seem to see thee standSilent in a shadowy land,With a look upon thy faceAs if even in that dull placeDistant voices smote thine ears,Memories of vanished years,Or faint echoes of those tears.Yet I would not have it thus;Then would be most piteousOur divided lives, if thouAn imperfect bliss should know;Sweet my suffering, if to theeDeath has brought the facultyOf entire felicity.Rather would I weep in vain,That thou canst not share my pain,Deem that Lethean waters rollSoftly o’er thy separate soul,Know that a divided blissMakes thee careless of my kiss,Than that thou shouldst feel distress.Hush! I hear a low, sweet soundAs of music stealing round;Forms thy hand the thrilling chordsInto more than spoken words?Ah! ’tis but the gathering breezeWhispering to the budding trees,Or the song of early bees.Love! where art thou? Canst thou notHear me, or is all forgot?Seest thou not these burning tears?Can my words not reach thine ears?Or betwixt my soul and thineHas some mystery divineSealed a separating line?Is it thus, then, after deathOld things none remembereth?Is the spirit henceforth clearOf the life it gathered here?Will our noblest longings seemLike some disremembered dreamIn the after world’s full beam?Hark! the rainy wind blows loud,Scuds above the hurrying cloud;Hushed is all the song of bees;Angry murmurs of the treesHerald tempests. Silent yetSleepest thou—nor fear nor fretTroubles thee. Can I forget?
WAVES the soft grass at my feet;Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet?Though the earth upon thy faceHolds thee close from my embrace,Yet my spirit thine can reach,Needs betwixt us twain no speech,For the same soul lives in each.Now I meet no tender eyesSeeking mine in soft surmiseAt some broken utterance faint,Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent;Yet in some sweet hours gone by,No responding eye to eyeNeeded we for sympathy.Love, I seem to see thee standSilent in a shadowy land,With a look upon thy faceAs if even in that dull placeDistant voices smote thine ears,Memories of vanished years,Or faint echoes of those tears.Yet I would not have it thus;Then would be most piteousOur divided lives, if thouAn imperfect bliss should know;Sweet my suffering, if to theeDeath has brought the facultyOf entire felicity.Rather would I weep in vain,That thou canst not share my pain,Deem that Lethean waters rollSoftly o’er thy separate soul,Know that a divided blissMakes thee careless of my kiss,Than that thou shouldst feel distress.Hush! I hear a low, sweet soundAs of music stealing round;Forms thy hand the thrilling chordsInto more than spoken words?Ah! ’tis but the gathering breezeWhispering to the budding trees,Or the song of early bees.Love! where art thou? Canst thou notHear me, or is all forgot?Seest thou not these burning tears?Can my words not reach thine ears?Or betwixt my soul and thineHas some mystery divineSealed a separating line?Is it thus, then, after deathOld things none remembereth?Is the spirit henceforth clearOf the life it gathered here?Will our noblest longings seemLike some disremembered dreamIn the after world’s full beam?Hark! the rainy wind blows loud,Scuds above the hurrying cloud;Hushed is all the song of bees;Angry murmurs of the treesHerald tempests. Silent yetSleepest thou—nor fear nor fretTroubles thee. Can I forget?
WAVES the soft grass at my feet;Dost thou feel me near thee, sweet?Though the earth upon thy faceHolds thee close from my embrace,Yet my spirit thine can reach,Needs betwixt us twain no speech,For the same soul lives in each.
Now I meet no tender eyesSeeking mine in soft surmiseAt some broken utterance faint,Smile quick brightening, sigh half spent;Yet in some sweet hours gone by,No responding eye to eyeNeeded we for sympathy.
Love, I seem to see thee standSilent in a shadowy land,With a look upon thy faceAs if even in that dull placeDistant voices smote thine ears,Memories of vanished years,Or faint echoes of those tears.
Yet I would not have it thus;Then would be most piteousOur divided lives, if thouAn imperfect bliss should know;Sweet my suffering, if to theeDeath has brought the facultyOf entire felicity.
Rather would I weep in vain,That thou canst not share my pain,Deem that Lethean waters rollSoftly o’er thy separate soul,Know that a divided blissMakes thee careless of my kiss,Than that thou shouldst feel distress.
Hush! I hear a low, sweet soundAs of music stealing round;Forms thy hand the thrilling chordsInto more than spoken words?Ah! ’tis but the gathering breezeWhispering to the budding trees,Or the song of early bees.
Love! where art thou? Canst thou notHear me, or is all forgot?Seest thou not these burning tears?Can my words not reach thine ears?Or betwixt my soul and thineHas some mystery divineSealed a separating line?
Is it thus, then, after deathOld things none remembereth?Is the spirit henceforth clearOf the life it gathered here?Will our noblest longings seemLike some disremembered dreamIn the after world’s full beam?
Hark! the rainy wind blows loud,Scuds above the hurrying cloud;Hushed is all the song of bees;Angry murmurs of the treesHerald tempests. Silent yetSleepest thou—nor fear nor fretTroubles thee. Can I forget?
LO! in a dream Love came to me and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;The golden fields are ripe for harvest-tide,And the grape-gatherers climb the mountain-side;The harvest joy is come; I wait for thee.Arise, come down, and follow, follow me.”And I arose, went down, and followed him.The reaper’s song went ringing through the air;Below, the morning mists grew pale and dim,And on the mountain ridge the sun’s bright rimRose swiftly, and the glorious dawn was there.I followed, followed Love, I knew not where.Through orange groves and orchard ways we went;The cool fresh dew lay deep on grass and tree,Above our heads the laden boughs were bentWith weight of ripening fruit; the faint sweet scentOf fragrant myrtles drifted up to me:Blindly, O Love, blindly I followed thee!O Love, the morning shadows passed awayFrom off the broad fair fields of waving wheat;I followed thee, till in the full noondayThe weary women in the vineyards lay;The tall field flowers drooped fading in the heat:I followed thee with bruised and bleeding feet.Upon the long white road the fierce sun shone,And on the distant town and wide waste plain,O Love, I blindly, blindly followed on,Nor knew how sharp the way my feet had gone;Nor knew I aught of shame or loss or pain,Nor knew I all my labour was in vain.The sun sank down in silence o’er the land,The heavy shadows gathered deep and black;Across the lonely waste of reeds and sandI followed Love: I could not touch his hand,Nor see his hidden face, nor turn me back,Nor find again the far-off mountain-track.Blindly, O Love! blindly I followed thee:The summer night lay on the silent plain,And on the sleeping city and the sea;The sound of rippling waves came up to me.O Love! the dawn drew near; far off againThe gray light gathered where the night had lain.On through the quiet street Love passed, and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;Sweet is the summer and the harvest-tide;Awake, arise, Love waits for thee, his Bride.”And she arose and followed, followed thee,O traitor Love! who hast forsaken me.Fraser’s Magazine.
LO! in a dream Love came to me and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;The golden fields are ripe for harvest-tide,And the grape-gatherers climb the mountain-side;The harvest joy is come; I wait for thee.Arise, come down, and follow, follow me.”And I arose, went down, and followed him.The reaper’s song went ringing through the air;Below, the morning mists grew pale and dim,And on the mountain ridge the sun’s bright rimRose swiftly, and the glorious dawn was there.I followed, followed Love, I knew not where.Through orange groves and orchard ways we went;The cool fresh dew lay deep on grass and tree,Above our heads the laden boughs were bentWith weight of ripening fruit; the faint sweet scentOf fragrant myrtles drifted up to me:Blindly, O Love, blindly I followed thee!O Love, the morning shadows passed awayFrom off the broad fair fields of waving wheat;I followed thee, till in the full noondayThe weary women in the vineyards lay;The tall field flowers drooped fading in the heat:I followed thee with bruised and bleeding feet.Upon the long white road the fierce sun shone,And on the distant town and wide waste plain,O Love, I blindly, blindly followed on,Nor knew how sharp the way my feet had gone;Nor knew I aught of shame or loss or pain,Nor knew I all my labour was in vain.The sun sank down in silence o’er the land,The heavy shadows gathered deep and black;Across the lonely waste of reeds and sandI followed Love: I could not touch his hand,Nor see his hidden face, nor turn me back,Nor find again the far-off mountain-track.Blindly, O Love! blindly I followed thee:The summer night lay on the silent plain,And on the sleeping city and the sea;The sound of rippling waves came up to me.O Love! the dawn drew near; far off againThe gray light gathered where the night had lain.On through the quiet street Love passed, and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;Sweet is the summer and the harvest-tide;Awake, arise, Love waits for thee, his Bride.”And she arose and followed, followed thee,O traitor Love! who hast forsaken me.Fraser’s Magazine.
LO! in a dream Love came to me and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;The golden fields are ripe for harvest-tide,And the grape-gatherers climb the mountain-side;The harvest joy is come; I wait for thee.Arise, come down, and follow, follow me.”
And I arose, went down, and followed him.The reaper’s song went ringing through the air;Below, the morning mists grew pale and dim,And on the mountain ridge the sun’s bright rimRose swiftly, and the glorious dawn was there.I followed, followed Love, I knew not where.
Through orange groves and orchard ways we went;The cool fresh dew lay deep on grass and tree,Above our heads the laden boughs were bentWith weight of ripening fruit; the faint sweet scentOf fragrant myrtles drifted up to me:Blindly, O Love, blindly I followed thee!
O Love, the morning shadows passed awayFrom off the broad fair fields of waving wheat;I followed thee, till in the full noondayThe weary women in the vineyards lay;The tall field flowers drooped fading in the heat:I followed thee with bruised and bleeding feet.
Upon the long white road the fierce sun shone,And on the distant town and wide waste plain,O Love, I blindly, blindly followed on,Nor knew how sharp the way my feet had gone;Nor knew I aught of shame or loss or pain,Nor knew I all my labour was in vain.
The sun sank down in silence o’er the land,The heavy shadows gathered deep and black;Across the lonely waste of reeds and sandI followed Love: I could not touch his hand,Nor see his hidden face, nor turn me back,Nor find again the far-off mountain-track.
Blindly, O Love! blindly I followed thee:The summer night lay on the silent plain,And on the sleeping city and the sea;The sound of rippling waves came up to me.O Love! the dawn drew near; far off againThe gray light gathered where the night had lain.
On through the quiet street Love passed, and cried:“The summer dawn creeps over land and sea;Sweet is the summer and the harvest-tide;Awake, arise, Love waits for thee, his Bride.”And she arose and followed, followed thee,O traitor Love! who hast forsaken me.Fraser’s Magazine.
Warbleth the bird of Love his golden song,And many hearken to his magic strain;In joyous major now he carols strong,In minors low he croons his soft refrain.So fair his lay of Love’s fond empery,One scarce may mark the quaver of his sigh;Or note amid his seeming ecstasyThe dream that fades, the hopes that shatter’d lie.But most he sings for Youth’s enraptured ear,When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeoning,—“Time flies,” he trills, “clasp close the fleeting yearEre winter cometh, and sweet Love take wing!”
Warbleth the bird of Love his golden song,And many hearken to his magic strain;In joyous major now he carols strong,In minors low he croons his soft refrain.So fair his lay of Love’s fond empery,One scarce may mark the quaver of his sigh;Or note amid his seeming ecstasyThe dream that fades, the hopes that shatter’d lie.But most he sings for Youth’s enraptured ear,When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeoning,—“Time flies,” he trills, “clasp close the fleeting yearEre winter cometh, and sweet Love take wing!”
Warbleth the bird of Love his golden song,And many hearken to his magic strain;In joyous major now he carols strong,In minors low he croons his soft refrain.
So fair his lay of Love’s fond empery,One scarce may mark the quaver of his sigh;Or note amid his seeming ecstasyThe dream that fades, the hopes that shatter’d lie.
But most he sings for Youth’s enraptured ear,When hope beats fast and buds are bourgeoning,—“Time flies,” he trills, “clasp close the fleeting yearEre winter cometh, and sweet Love take wing!”
A,B,C,D,F,G,H,I,K,L,M,N,O,P,S,T,U,V,W,Y.