Live all thy sweet life throughSweet Rose, dew-sprent,Drop down thine evening dewTo gather it anewWhen day is bright:I fancy thou wast meantChiefly to give delight.Sing in the silent sky,Glad soaring bird;Sing out thy notes on highTo sunbeam straying byOr passing cloud;Heedless if thou art heardSing thy full song aloud.O that it were with meAs with the flower;Blooming on its own treeFor butterfly and beeIts summer morns:That I might bloom mine hourA rose in spite of thorns.O that my work were doneAs birds' that soarRejoicing in the sun:That when my time is runAnd daylight too,I so might rest once moreCool with refreshing dew.
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree,And wore them all that evening in my hair:Then in due season when I went to seeI found no apples there.With dangling basket all along the grassAs I had come I went the selfsame track:My neighbors mocked me while they saw me passSo empty-handed back.Lilian and Lilias smiled in trudging by,Their heaped-up basket teased me like a jeer;Sweet-voiced they sang beneath the sunset sky,Their mother's home was near.Plump Gertrude passed me with her basket full,A stronger hand than hers helped it along;A voice talked with her through the shadows coolMore sweet to me than song.Ah, Willie, Willie, was my love less worthThan apples with their green leaves piled above?I counted rosiest apples on the earthOf far less worth than love.So once it was with me you stooped to talkLaughing and listening in this very lane:To think that by this way we used to walkWe shall not walk again!I let my neighbors pass me, ones and twosAnd groups; the latest said the night grew chill,And hastened: but I loitered, while the dewsFell fast I loitered still.
Two doves upon the selfsame branch,Two lilies on a single stem,Two butterflies upon one flower:--O happy they who look on them.Who look upon them hand in handFlushed in the rosy summer light;Who look upon them hand in handAnd never give a thought to night.
Out of the church she followed themWith a lofty step and mien:His bride was like a village maid,Maude Clare was like a queen."Son Thomas," his lady mother said,With smiles, almost with tears:"May Nell and you but live as trueAs we have done for years;"Your father thirty years agoHad just your tale to tell;But he was not so pale as you,Nor I so pale as Nell."My lord was pale with inward strife,And Nell was pale with pride;My lord gazed long on pale Maude ClareOr ever he kissed the bride."Lo, I have brought my gift, my lord,Have brought my gift," she said:"To bless the hearth, to bless the board,To bless the marriage-bed."Here's my half of the golden chainYou wore about your neck,That day we waded ankle-deepFor lilies in the beck:"Here's my half of the faded leavesWe plucked from budding bough,With feet amongst the lily-leaves,--The lilies are budding now."He strove to match her scorn with scorn,He faltered in his place:"Lady," he said,--"Maude Clare," he said,--"Maude Clare":--and hid his face.She turned to Nell: "My Lady Nell,I have a gift for you;Though, were it fruit, the bloom were gone,Or, were it flowers, the dew."Take my share of a fickle heart,Mine of a paltry love:Take it or leave it as you will,I wash my hands thereof.""And what you leave," said Nell, "I'll take,And what you spurn, I'll wear;For he's my lord for better and worse,And him I love, Maude Clare.
"Yea, though you're taller by the head,More wise, and much more fair;I'll love him till he loves me best,Me best of all, Maude Clare."
Come to me in the silence of the night;Come in the speaking silence of a dream;Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as brightAs sunlight on a stream;Come back in tears,O memory, hope, love of finished years.O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,Where souls brimful of love abide and meet;Where thirsting longing eyesWatch the slow doorThat opening, letting in, lets out no more.Yet come to me in dreams, that I may liveMy very life again though cold in death:Come back to me in dreams, that I may givePulse for pulse, breath for breath:Speak low, lean low,As long ago, my love, how long ago!
I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:Perhaps some day, who knows?But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows,And you're too curious: fie!You want to hear it? well:Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.Or, after all, perhaps there's none:Suppose there is no secret after all,But only just my fun.To-day's a nipping day, a biting day;In which one wants a shawl,A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:I cannot ope to every one who taps,And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;Come bounding and surrounding me,Come buffeting, astounding me,Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.I wear my mask for warmth: who ever showsHis nose to Russian snowsTo be pecked at by every wind that blows?You would not peck? I thank you for good-will,Believe, but leave that truth untested still.Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trustMarch with its peck of dust,Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,Nor even May, whose flowersOne frost may wither through the sunless hours.Perhaps some languid summer day,When drowsy birds sing less and less,And golden fruit is ripening to excess,If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud,And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,Perhaps my secret I may say,Or you may guess.
If I might see another SpringI'd not plant summer flowers and wait:I'd have my crocuses at once,My leafless pink mezereons,My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yetMy white or azure violet,Leaf-nested primrose; anythingTo blow at once not late.If I might see another SpringI'd listen to the daylight birdsThat build their nests and pair and sing,Nor wait for mateless nightingale;I'd listen to the lusty herds,The ewes with lambs as white as snow,I'd find out music in the hailAnd all the winds that blow.If I might see another Spring--O stinging comment on my pastThat all my past results in "if"--If I might see another SpringI'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief;I would not wait for anything:I'd use to-day that cannot last,Be glad to-day and sing.
Strike the bells wantonly,Tinkle tinkle well;Bring me wine, bring me flowers,Ring the silver bell.All my lamps burn scented oil,Hung on laden orange-trees,Whose shadowed foliage is the foilTo golden lamps and oranges.Heap my golden plates with fruit,Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe;Strike the bells and breathe the pipe;Shut out showers from summer hours;Silence that complaining lute;Shut out thinking, shut out pain,From hours that cannot come again.Strike the bells solemnly,Ding dong deep:My friend is passing to his bed,Fast asleep;There's plaited linen round his head,While foremost go his feet,--His feet that cannot carry him.My feast's a show, my lights are dim;Be still, your music is not sweet,--There is no music more for him:His lights are out, his feast is done;His bowl that sparkled to the brimIs drained, is broken, cannot hold;My blood is chill, his blood is cold;His death is full, and mine begun.
A blue-eyed phantom far beforeIs laughing, leaping toward the sun;Like lead I chase it evermore,I pant and run.It breaks the sunlight bound on bound;Goes singing as it leaps alongTo sheep-bells with a dreamy soundA dreamy song.I laugh, it is so brisk and gay;It is so far before, I weep:I hope I shall lie down some day,Lie down and sleep.
I never said I loved you, John:Why will you tease me, day by day,And wax a weariness to think uponWith always "do" and "pray"?You know I never loved you, John;No fault of mine made me your toast:Why will you haunt me with a face as wanAs shows an hour-old ghost?I dare say Meg or Moll would takePity upon you, if you'd ask:And pray don't remain single for my sakeWho can't perform that task.I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not;But then you're mad to take offenceThat I don't give you what I have not got:Use your own common sense.Let bygones be bygones:Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:I'd rather answer "No" to fifty JohnsThan answer "Yes" to you.Let's mar our pleasant days no more,Song-birds of passage, days of youth:Catch at to-day, forget the days before:I'll wink at your untruth.Let us strike hands as hearty friends;No more, no less: and friendship's good:Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,And points not understoodIn open treaty. Rise aboveQuibbles and shuffling off and on:Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,--No, thank you, John.
I cannot tell you how it was;But this I know: it came to passUpon a bright and breezy dayWhen May was young; ah, pleasant May!As yet the poppies were not bornBetween the blades of tender corn;The last eggs had not hatched as yet,Nor any bird foregone its mate.
I cannot tell you what it was;But this I know: it did but pass.It passed away with sunny May,With all sweet things it passed away,And left me old, and cold, and gray.
I looked for that which is not, nor can be,And hope deferred made my heart sick in truthBut years must pass before a hope of youthIs resigned utterly.I watched and waited with a steadfast will:And though the object seemed to flee awayThat I so longed for, ever day by dayI watched and waited still.Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more;My expectation wearies and shall cease;I will resign it now and be at peace:Yet never gave it o'er.Sometimes I said: It is an empty nameI long for; to a name why should I giveThe peace of all the days I have to live?--Yet gave it all the same.Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfitFor healthy joy and salutary pain:Thou knowest the chase useless, and againTurnest to follow it.
O pleasant eventide!Clouds on the western sideGrow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun:The bees and birds, their happy labors done,Seek their close nests and bide.Screened in the leafy woodThe stock-doves sit and brood:The very squirrel leaps from bough to boughBut lazily; pauses; and settles nowWhere once he stored his food.One by one the flowers close,Lily and dewy roseShutting their tender petals from the moon:The grasshoppers are still; but not so soonAre still the noisy crows.The dormouse squats and eatsChoice little dainty bitsBeneath the spreading roots of a broad lime;Nibbling his fill he stops from time to timeAnd listens where he sits.From far the lowings comeOf cattle driven home:From farther still the wind brings fitfullyThe vast continual murmur of the sea,Now loud, now almost dumb.The gnats whirl in the air,The evening gnats; and thereThe owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sailFor prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snailComes forth, clammy and bare.Hark! that's the nightingale,Telling the self-same taleHer song told when this ancient earth was young:So echoes answered when her song was sungIn the first wooded vale.We call it love and painThe passion of her strain;And yet we little understand or know:Why should it not be rather joy that soThrobs in each throbbing vein?In separate herds the deerLie; here the bucks, and hereThe does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn:Through all the hours of night until the dawnThey sleep, forgetting fear.The hare sleeps where it lies,With wary half-closed eyes;The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck:Only the fox is out, some heedless duckOr chicken to surprise.Remote, each single starComes out, till there they areAll shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!While close at hand the glow-worm lights her lampOr twinkles from afar.But evening now is doneAs much as if the sunDay-giving had arisen in the east:For night has come; and the great calm has ceased,The quiet sands have run.
Pardon the faults in me,For the love of years ago:Good by.I must drift across the sea,I must sink into the snow,I must die.You can bask in this sun,You can drink wine, and eat:Good by.I must gird myself and run,Though with unready feet:I must die.Blank sea to sail upon,Cold bed to sleep in:Good by.While you clasp, I must be goneFor all your weeping:I must die.A kiss for one friend,And a word for two,--Good by:--A lock that you must send,A kindness you must do:I must die.Not a word for you,Not a lock or kiss,Good by.We, one, must part in two:Verily death is this:I must die.
"A cup for hope!" she said,In springtime ere the bloom was old:The crimson wine was poor and coldBy her mouth's richer red."A cup for love!" how low,How soft the words; and all the whileHer blush was rippling with a smileLike summer after snow."A cup for memory!"Cold cup that one must drain alone:While autumn winds are up and moanAcross the barren sea.Hope, memory, love:Hope for fair morn, and love for day,And memory for the evening grayAnd solitary dove.
The hope I dreamed of was a dream,Was but a dream; and now I wakeExceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,For a dream's sake.I hang my harp upon a tree,A weeping willow in a lake;I hang my silenced harp there, wrung and snaptFor a dream's sake.Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart;My silent heart, lie still and break:Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changedFor a dream's sake.
The door was shut. I looked betweenIts iron bars; and saw it lie,My garden, mine, beneath the sky,Pied with all flowers bedewed and green:From bough to bough the song-birds crossed,From flower to flower the moths and bees;With all its nests and stately treesIt had been mine, and it was lost.A shadowless spirit kept the gate,Blank and unchanging like the grave.I peering through said: "Let me haveSome buds to cheer my outcast state."He answered not. "Or give me, then,But one small twig from shrub or tree;And bid my home remember meUntil I come to it again."The spirit was silent; but he tookMortar and stone to build a wall;He left no loophole great or smallThrough which my straining eyes might look:So now I sit here quite aloneBlinded with tears; nor grieve for that,For naught is left worth looking atSince my delightful land is gone.A violet bed is budding near,Wherein a lark has made her nest:And good they are, but not the best;And dear they are, but not so dear.
Some are laughing, some are weeping;She is sleeping, only sleeping.Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;There the wind is heaping, heapingSweetest sweets of Summer's keeping,By the cornfields ripe for reaping.There are lilies, and there blushesThe deep rose, and there the thrushesSing till latest sunlight flushesIn the west; a fresh wind brushesThrough the leaves while evening hushes.There by day the lark is singingAnd the grass and weeds are springing:There by night the bat is winging;There forever winds are bringingFar-off chimes of church-bells ringing.Night and morning, noon and even,Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:The long strife at length is striven:Till her grave-bands shall be rivenSuch is the good portion givenTo her soul at rest and shriven.
She sat and sang alwayBy the green margin of a stream,Watching the fishes leap and playBeneath the glad sunbeam.I sat and wept alwayBeneath the moon's most shadowy beam,Watching the blossoms of the MayWeep leaves into the stream.I wept for memory;She sang for hope that is so fair:My tears were swallowed by the sea;Her songs died on the air.
When I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress-tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember,And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain:And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold!With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;Thiswas the promise of the days of old!Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:We hoped for better things as years would rise,But it is over as a tale once told.All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,All lost the present and the future time,All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:So lost till death shut-to the opened door,So lost from chime to everlasting chime,So cold and lost forever evermore.
Summer is gone with all its roses,Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers,Its warm air and refreshing showers:And even Autumn closes.Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going,And winter comes which is yet colder;Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolderAnd the last buds cease blowing.
Who calleth?--Thy Father calleth,Run, O Daughter, to wait on Him:He Who chasteneth but for a seasonTrims thy lamp that it burn not dim.Who calleth?--Thy Master calleth,Sit, Disciple, and learn of Him:He Who teacheth wisdom of AngelsMakes thee wise as the Cherubim,Who calleth?--Thy Monarch calleth,Rise, O Subject, and follow Him:He is stronger than Death or Devil,Fear not thou if the foe be grim.Who calleth?--Thy Lord God calleth.Fall, O Creature, adoring Him:He is jealous, thy God Almighty,Count not dear to thee life or limb.Who calleth?--Thy Bridegroom calleth,Soar, O Bride, with the Seraphim:He Who loves thee as no man loveth,Bids thee give up thy heart to Him.
O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hushed in and curtained with a blessed dearthOf all that irked her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sunAnd crocus fires are kindling one by one:Sing, robin, sing!I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.I wonder if the spring-tide of this yearWill bring another Spring both lost and dear;If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,Or if the world alone will bud and sing:Sing, hope, to me!Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.The sap will surely quicken soon or late,The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;So Spring must dawn again with warmth and bloom,Or in this world, or in the world to come:Sing, voice of Spring!Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.
There's blood between us, love, my love,There's father's blood, there's brother's blood;And blood's a bar I cannot pass:I choose the stairs that mount above,Stair after golden skyward stair,To city and to sea of glass.My lily feet are soiled with mud,With scarlet mud which tells a taleOf hope that was, of guilt that was,Of love that shall not yet avail;Alas, my heart, if I could bareMy heart, this self-same stain is there:I seek the sea of glass and fireTo wash the spot, to burn the snare;Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher:Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.Your eyes look earthward, mine look up.I see the far-off city grand,Beyond the hills a watered land,Beyond the gulf a gleaming strandOf mansions where the righteous sup;Who sleep at ease among their trees,Or wake to sing a cadenced hymnWith Cherubim and Seraphim;They bore the Cross, they drained the cup,Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb,They the offscouring of the world:The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,The sun before their face is dim.You looking earthward, what see you?Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,Up and down leaping, to and fro,Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,Their golden windy hair afloat,Love-music warbling in their throat,Young men and women come and go.You linger, yet the time is short:Flee for your life, gird up your strengthTo flee: the shadows stretched at lengthShow that day wanes, that night draws nigh;Flee to the mountain, tarry not.Is this a time for smile and sigh,For songs among the secret treesWhere sudden bluebirds nest and sport?The time is short and yet you stay:To-day, while it is called to-day,Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;To-day is short, to-morrow nigh:Why will you die? why will you die?You sinned with me a pleasant sin:Repent with me, for I repent.Woe's me the lore I must unlearn!Woe's me that easy way we went,So rugged when I would return!How long until my sleep begin,How long shall stretch these nights and days?Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays;She laves her soul with tedious tears:How long must stretch these years and years?I turn from you my cheeks and eyes,My hair which you shall see no more,--Alas for joy that went before,For joy that dies, for love that dies.Only my lips still turn to you,My livid lips that cry, Repent!O weary life, O weary Lent,O weary time whose stars are few!How should I rest in Paradise,Or sit on steps of Heaven alone?If Saints and Angels spoke of loveShould I not answer from my throne?Have pity upon me, ye my friends,For I have heard the sound thereof:Should I not turn with yearning eyes,Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang?O save me from a pang in Heaven!By all the gifts we took and gave,Repent, repent, and be forgiven:This life is long, but yet it ends;Repent and purge your soul and save:No gladder song the morning starsUpon their birthday morning sangThan Angels sing when one repents.I tell you what I dreamed last night:A spirit with transfigured faceFire-footed clomb an infinite space.I heard his hundred pinions clang,Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang,Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents,Worlds spun upon their rushing cars:He mounted shrieking: "Give me light!"Still light was poured on him, more light;Angels, Archangels he outstripped,Exultant in exceeding might,And trod the skirts of Cherubim.Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dippedHis thirsty face, and drank a sea,Athirst with thirst it could not slake.I saw him, drunk with knowledge, takeFrom aching brows the aureole crown,--His locks writhed like a cloven snake,--He left his throne to grovel downAnd lick the dust of Seraphs' feet:For what is knowledge duly weighed?Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet;Yea, all the progress he had madeWas but to learn that all is smallSave love, for love is all in all.I tell you what I dreamed last night:It was not dark, it was not light,Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hairThrough clay; you came to seek me there.And "Do you dream of me?" you said.My heart was dust that used to leapTo you; I answered half asleep:"My pillow is damp, my sheets are red,There's a leaden tester to my bed:Find you a warmer playfellow,A warmer pillow for your head,A kinder love to love than mine."You wrung your hands; while I like leadCrushed downwards through the sodden earth:You smote your hands but not in mirth,And reeled but were not drunk with wine.For all night long I dreamed of you:I woke and prayed against my will,Then slept to dream of you again.At length I rose and knelt and prayed:I cannot write the words I said,My words were slow, my tears were few;But through the dark my silence spokeLike thunder. When this morning broke,My face was pinched, my hair was gray,And frozen blood was on the sillWhere stifling in my struggle I lay.If now you saw me you would say:Where is the face I used to love?And I would answer: Gone before;It tarries veiled in Paradise.When once the morning star shall rise,When earth with shadow flees awayAnd we stand safe within the door,Then you shall lift the veil thereof.Look up, rise up: for far aboveOur palms are grown, our place is set;There we shall meet as once we met,And love with old familiar love.
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day's journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you standing at that door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labor you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
I bore with thee long weary days and nights,Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,For three and thirty years.Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:Give thou Me love for love.For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:Much sweeter thou than honey to My mouth:Why wilt thou still be lost?I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced:Men only marked upon My shoulders borneThe branding cross; and shouted hungry-voiced,Or wagged their heads in scorn.Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy nameDid thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.A thief upon My right hand and My left;Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:At length in death one smote My heart and cleftA hiding-place for thee.Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of downMore dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:So did I win a kingdom,--share My crown;A harvest,--come and reap.
I will accept thy will to do and be,Thy hatred and intolerance of sin,Thy will at least to love, that burns withinAnd thirsteth after Me:So will I render fruitful, blessing stillThe germs and small beginnings in thy heart,Because thy will cleaves to the better part.--Alas, I cannot will.Dost not thou will, poor soul? Yet I receiveThe inner unseen longings of the soul;I guide them turning towards Me; I controlAnd charm hearts till they grieve:If thou desire, it yet shall come to pass,Though thou but wish indeed to choose My love;For I have power in earth and heaven above.--I cannot wish, alas!What, neither choose nor wish to choose? and yetI still must strive to win thee and constrain:For thee I hung upon the cross in pain,How then can I forget?If thou as yet dost neither love, nor hate,Nor choose, nor wish,--resign thyself, be stillTill I infuse love, hatred, longing, will.--I do not deprecate.
I have no wit, no words, no tears;My heart within me like a stoneIs numbed too much for hopes or fears;Look right, look left, I dwell alone;I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with griefNo everlasting hills I see;My life is in the falling leaf:O Jesus, quicken me!My life is like a faded leaf,My harvest dwindled to a husk;Truly my life is void and briefAnd tedious in the barren dusk;My life is like a frozen thing,No bud nor greenness can I see:Yet rise it shall,--the sap of Spring;O Jesus, rise in me!My life is like a broken bowl,A broken bowl that cannot holdOne drop of water for my soulOr cordial in the searching cold;Cast in the fire the perished thing,Melt and remould it, till it beA royal cup for Him my King:O Jesus, drink of me!
This Advent moon shines cold and clear,These Advent nights are long;Our lamps have burned year after year,And still their flame is strong."Watchman, what of the night?" we cry,Heart-sick with hope deferred:"No speaking signs are in the sky,"Is still the watchman's word.The Porter watches at the gate,The servants watch within;The watch is long betimes and late,The prize is slow to win."Watchman, what of the night?" but stillHis answer sounds the same:"No daybreak tops the utmost hill,Nor pale our lamps of flame."One to another hear them speak,The patient virgins wise:"Surely He is not far to seek,"--"All night we watch and rise.""The days are evil looking back,The coming days are dim;Yet count we not His promise slack,But watch and wait for Him."One with another, soul with soul,They kindle fire from fire:"Friends watch us who have touched the goal.""They urge us, come up higher.""With them shall rest our waysore feet,With them is built our home,With Christ." "They sweet, but He most sweet,Sweeter than honeycomb."There no more parting, no more pain,The distant ones brought near,The lost so long are found again,Long lost but longer dear:Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,Nor heart conceived that rest,With them our good things long deferred,With Jesus Christ our Best.We weep because the night is long,We laugh, for day shall rise,We sing a slow contented songAnd knock at Paradise.Weeping we hold Him fast Who weptFor us,--we hold Him fast;And will not let Him go exceptHe bless us first or last.Weeping we hold Him fast to-night;We will not let Him goTill daybreak smite our wearied sight,And summer smite the snow:Then figs shall bud, and dove with doveShall coo the livelong day;Then He shall say, "Arise, My love,My fair one, come away."