Chapter 29

THE GROWTHOF LOVE1Theythat in play can do the thing they would,Having an instinct throned in reason’s place,—And every perfect action hath the graceOf indolence or thoughtless hardihood—These are the best: yet be there workmen goodWho lose in earnestness control of face,Or reckon means, and rapt in effort baseReach to their end by steps well understood.Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the painsOf one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,—Even as a painter breathlessly who strainsHis scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve—Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.2For thou art mine: and now I am ashamedTo have usèd means to win so pure acquist,And of my trembling fear that might have misstThro’ very care the gold at which I aim’d;And am as happy but to hear thee named,As are those gentle souls by angels kisstIn pictures seen leaving their marble cistTo go before the throne of grace unblamed.Nor surer am I water hath the skillTo quench my thirst, or that my strength is freedIn delicate ordination as I will,Than that to be myself is all I needFor thee to be most mine: so I stand still,And save to taste my joy no more take heed.3The whole world now is but the ministerOf thee to me: I see no other schemeBut universal love, from timeless dreamWaking to thee his joy’s interpreter.I walk around and in the fields conferOf love at large with tree and flower and stream,And list the lark descant upon my theme,Heaven’s musical accepted worshipper.Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud’Twixt things and me is quash’d in our new truce;And nature now dearly with thee enduedNo more in shame ponders her old excuse,But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,So kindly hath she grown to her new use.4The very names of things belov’d are dear,And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,As many a face thro’ love’s long residenceGroweth to fair instead of plain and sere:But when I say thy name it hath no peer,And I suppose fortune determined thenceHer dower, that such beauty’s excellenceShould have a perfect title for the ear.Thus may I think the adopting Muses choseTheir sons by name, knowing none would be heardOr writ so oft in all the world as those,—Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for thirdThe classic Milton, and to us aroseShelley with liquid music in the word.5The poets were good teachers, for they taughtEarth had this joy; but that ’twould ever beThat fortune should be perfected in me,My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.So I stood low, and now but to be caughtBy any self-styled lords of the age with theeVexes my modesty, lest they should seeI hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought.And when we sit alone, and as I pleaseI taste thy love’s full smile, and can enstateThe pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,My thought swims like a ship, that with the weightOf her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seasBecalm’d, and cannot stir her golden freight.6While yet we wait for spring, and from the dryAnd blackening east that so embitters March,Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d skyThe sun is warm and beckons to the larch,And where the covert hazels interarchTheir tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hidA million buds but stay their blossoming;And trustful birds have built their nests amidThe shuddering boughs, and only wait to singTill one soft shower from the south shall bid,And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.7In thee my spring of life hath bid the whileA rose unfold beyond the summer’s best,The mystery of joy made manifestIn love’s self-answering and awakening smile;Whereby the lips in wonder reconcilePassion with peace, and show desire at rest,—A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,That bloom’d to immortalize the Tuscan style:When first the angel-song that faith had ken’dFancy pourtray’d, above recorded oathOf Israel’s God, or light of poem pen’d;The very countenance of plighted troth’Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blendThe hope of one and happiness of both.8For beauty being the best of all we knowSums up the unsearchable and secret aimsOf nature, and on joys whose earthly namesWere never told can form and sense bestow;And man hath sped his instinct to outgoThe step of science; and against her shamesImagination stakes out heavenly claims,Building a tower above the head of woe.Nor is there fairer work for beauty foundThan that she win in nature her releaseFrom all the woes that in the world abound:Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,If from man’s greater need beauty redound,And claim his tears for homage of his peace.9Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,That late dismay’d her faithless faith forbore;And wins again her love lost in the loreOf schools and script of many a learned book:For thou what ruthless death untimely tookShalt now in better brotherhood restore,And save my batter’d ship that far from shoreHigh on the dismal deep in tempest shook.So in despite of sorrow lately learn’dI still hold true to truth since thou art true,Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn’d:Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blueTo my life’s need more splendid and unearn’dThan hath thy gift outmatch’d desire and due.10Winter was not unkind because uncouth;His prison’d time made me a closer guest,And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,Biting all else with keen and angry tooth:And bravelier the triumphant blood of youthMantling thy cheek its happy home possest,And sterner sport by day put strength to test,And custom’s feast at night gave tongue to truth.Or say hath flaunting summer a deviceTo match our midnight revelry, that rangWith steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?Or when we hark’t to nightingales that sangOn dewy eves in spring, did they enticeTo gentler love than winter’s icy fang?11There’s many a would-be poet at this hour,Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo’d,And o’er his lamplit desk in solitudeDeems that he sitteth in the Muses’ bower:And some the flames of earthly love devour,Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew’dIn the world’s wilderness with heavenly foodThe sickly body of their perishing power.So none of all our company, I boast,But now would mock my penning, could they seeHow down the right it maps a jagged coast;Seeing they hold the manlier praise to beStrong hand and will, and the heart best when most’Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.12How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,And beauty that my fancy fed upon?Now not my life’s contrition for my faultCan blot that day, nor work me recompence,Tho’ I might worthily thy worth exalt,Making thee long amends for short offence.For surely nowhere, love, if not in theeAre grace and truth and beauty to be found;And all my praise of these can only beA praise of thee, howe’er by thee disown’d:While still thou must be mine tho’ far removed,And I for one offence no more beloved.13Now since to me altho’ by thee refusedThe world is left, I shall find pleasure still;The art that most I have loved but little usedWill yield a world of fancies at my will:And tho’ where’er thou goest it is from me,I where I go thee in my heart must bear;And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair.Farewell, yet think not such farewell a changeFrom tenderness, tho’ once to meet or partBut on short absence so could sense derangeThat tears have graced the greeting of my heart;They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,Not on thy pity for my pain to call.14When sometimes in an ancient house where stateFrom noble ancestry is handed on,We see but desolation thro’ the gate,And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,Bred of disease or melancholy fate,Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphereTo wander nameless save to pity or hate:What is the wreck of all he hath in fief,When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fineUnto the sick, nor doth it burden griefThat the house perish when the soul doth pine.Thus I my state despise, slain by a stingSo slight ’twould not have hurt a meaner thing.15Who builds a ship must first lay down the keelOf health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bedFor decks of purity, her floor and ceil.Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,To fortune’s wind the sails of purpose spread:And at the prow make figured maidenheadO’erride the seas and answer to the wheel.And let him deep in memory’s hold have stor’dWater of Helicon: and let him fitThe needle that doth true with heaven accord:Then bid her crew, love, diligence and witWith justice, courage, temperance come aboard,And at her helm the master reason sit.16This world is unto God a work of art,Of which the unaccomplish’d heavenly planIs hid in life within the creature’s heart,And for perfection looketh unto man.Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slowPains and persistence were his idols made,Destroy’d and made, ere ever he could knowThe mighty mother must be so obey’d.For lack of knowledge and thro’ little skillHis childish mimicry outwent his aim;His effort shaped the genius of his will;Till thro’ distinction and revolt he came,True to his simple terms of good and ill,Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.17Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt facesIn negligent and travel-stain’d array,That in the city of Dante come to-day,Haughtily visiting her holy places?O these be noble men that hide their graces,True England’s blood, her ancient glory’s stay,By tales of fame diverted on their wayHome from the rule of oriental races.Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyesAnd motion delicate, but swift to fireFor honour, passionate where duty lies,Most loved and loving: and they quickly tireOf Florence, that she one day more deniesThe embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.18Where San Miniato’s convent from the sunAt forenoon overlooks the city of flowersI sat, and gazing on her domes and towersCall’d up her famous children one by one:And three who all the rest had far outdone,Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,I saw, and god-like Buonarroti’s powers,And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong’d son.Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?Are these heroic triumphs things of old,And do I dead upon the living gaze?Or rather doth the mind, that can beholdThe wondrous beauty of the works and days,Create the image that her thoughts enfold?19Rejoice, ye dead, where’er your spirits dwell,Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;And that your names, remember’d day and night,Live on the lips of those that love you well.’Tis ye that conquer’d have the powers of hell,Each with the special grace of your delight:Ye are the world’s creators, and thro’ mightOf everlasting love ye did excel.Now ye are starry names, above the stormAnd war of Time and nature’s endless wrongYe flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,Wing’d with bright music and melodious song,—The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-danceIn dear Imagination’s rich pleasance.20The world still goeth about to shew and hide,Befool’d of all opinion, fond of fame:But he that can do well taketh no pride,And see’th his error, undisturb’d by shame:So poor’s the best that longest life can do,The most so little, diligently done;So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,So vast the joy that love from love hath won.God’s love to win is easy, for He lovethDesire’s fair attitude, nor strictly weighsThe broken thing, but all alike approvethWhich love hath aim’d at Him: that is heaven’s praise:And if we look for any praise on earth,’Tis in man’s love: all else is nothing worth.21O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic painAnd clownish merriment; whose sense could wakeSermons in stones, and count death but an ache,All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strainReveal’d anew; but thou for man didst makeNature twice natural, only to shakeHer kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is lothTo yield to art her fair supremacy;In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.What shall I say? for God—whose wise decreeConfirmeth all He did by all He doth—Doubled His whole creation making thee.22I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,And carry purpose up to the ends of the air:In calm and storm my sails I feather, and whereBy freezing cliffs the unransom’d wreckage lies:Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surpriseThe silence: over plains in the moonlight bareI chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dareIn treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir’dBy the only joy of knowing that ye fly;Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum’d in a word,The alphabet of a god’s idea, and IWho master it, I am the only bird.23O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,Hailing in each the citadel divineThe which ye thought to have enter’d long ago;Until at length your feeble steps and slowFalter upon the threshold of the shrine,And your hearts overburden’d doubt in fineWhether it be Jerusalem or no:Dishearten’d pilgrims, I am one of you;For, having worshipp’d many a barren face,I scarce now greet the goal I journey’d to:I stand a pagan in the holy place;Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,And question with the God that I embrace.24Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;Her melting air, at every breath we draw,Floods heart with love to praise God’s gracious law:But suddenly—so short is pleasure’s lease—The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,And nature’s conquer’d face is full of awe;As now the traitrous north with icy flawFreezes the dew upon the sick lamb’s fleece,And ’neath the mock sun searching everywhereRattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:So that the birds are silent with despairWithin the thickets; nor their armour thinWill gaudy flies adventure in the air,Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.25Nothing is joy without thee: I can findNo rapture in the first relays of spring,In songs of birds, in young buds opening,Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;For lack of thee, who once wert throned behindAll beauty, like a strength where graces cling,—The jewel and heart of light, which everythingWrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.Ah! since thou’rt fled, and I in each fair sightThe sweet occasion of my joy deplore,Where shall I seek thee best, or whom inviteWithin thy sacred temples and adore?Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,And lead my soul in life as heretofore?26The work is done, and from the fingers fallThe bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro’:The tasking eye that overrunneth allRests, and affirms there is no more to do.Now the third joy of making, the sweet flowerOf blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hourThe shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,True only should the swift life stand at stay:Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.27The fabled seasnake, old Leviathan,Or else what grisly beast of scaly chineThat champ’d the oceanwrack and swash’d the brine,Before the new and milder days of man,Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fanLike his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,Late-born of golden seed to breed a lineOf offspring swifter and more huge of plan.Straight is her going, for upon the sunWhen once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;With tireless speed she smiteth one by oneThe shuddering seas and foams along the main;And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.28A thousand times hath in my heart’s behoofMy tongue been set his passion to impart;A thousand times hath my too coward heartMy mouth reclosed and fix’d it to the roof;Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,A thousand times kept silence with such artThat words could do no more: yet on thy partHath silence given a thousand times reproof.I should be bolder, seeing I commendLove, that my dilatory purpose primes,But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:Nay I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,Renew my sorrows rather than offend,A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.29I travel to thee with the sun’s first rays,That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.I wait upon thy coming, but always—Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite—Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,And in my solitude dost mock my praise.Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:I see no fame in Khufu’s pyramid,No history where loveless Nile doth roll.—This is eternal life, which doth forbidMortal detraction to the exalted soul,And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.30My lady pleases me and I please her;This know we both, and I besides know wellWherefore I love her, and I love to tellMy love, as all my loving songs aver.But what on her part could the passion stir,Tho’ ’tis more difficult for love to spell,Yet can I dare divine how this befel,Nor will her lips deny it if I err.She loves me first because I love her, thenLoves me for knowing why she should be loved,And that I love to praise her, loves again.So from her beauty both our loves are moved,And by her beauty are sustain’d; nor whenThe earth falls from the sun is this disproved.31In all things beautiful, I cannot seeHer sit or stand, but love is stir’d anew:’Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,And all that comes is past expectancy.If she be silent, silence let it be;He who would bid her speak might sit and sueThe deep-brow’d Phidian Jove to be untrueTo his two thousand years’ solemnity.Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings.Wins on the hearing like a shapen prowBorne by the mastery of its urgent wings:Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth showShe hath the intelligence of heavenly things,Unsullied by man’s mortal overthrow.32Thus to be humbled: ’tis that ranging prideNo refuge hath; that in his castle strongBrave reason sits beleaguer’d, who so longKept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;That industry, who once the foe defied,Lies slaughter’d in the trenches; that the throngOf idle fancies pipe their foolish song,Where late the puissant captains fought and died.Thus to be humbled: ’tis to be undone;A forest fell’d; a city razed to ground;A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspunTill not a thread remains that can be wound.And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin’d one,Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown’d.33I care not if I live, tho’ life and breathHave never been to me so dear and sweet.I care not if I die, for I could meet—Being so happy—happily my death.I care not if I love; to-day she saithShe loveth, and love’s history is complete.Nor care I if she love me; at her feetMy spirit bows entranced and worshippeth.I have no care for what was most my care,But all around me see fresh beauty born,And common sights grown lovelier than they were:I dream of love, and in the light of mornTremble, beholding all things very fairAnd strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.34O my goddess divinesometimes I say:—Now let this word for ever and all suffice;Thou art insatiable, and yet not twiceCan even thy lover give his soul away:And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;For never any other, by deviceOf wisdom, love or beauty, could enticeMy homage to the measure of this day.I have no more to give thee: lo, I have soldMy life, have emptied out my heart, and spentWhate’er I had; till like a beggar, boldWith nought to lose, I laugh and am content.A beggar kisses thee; nay love, behold,I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.35All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,That few there be are wean’d from earthly love.Joy’s ladder it is, reaching from home to home,The best of all the work that all was good;Whereof ’twas writ the angels aye upclomb,Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood.But I my time abuse, my eyes by dayCenter’d on thee, by night my heart on fire—Letting my number’d moments run away—Nor e’en ’twixt night and day to heaven aspire:So true it is that what the eye seeth notBut slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.36O my life’s mischief, once my love’s delight,That drew’st a mortgage on my heart’s estate,Whose baneful clause is never out of date,Nor can avenging time restore my right:Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night:Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,My very grasp of life is old and slack,And even my passion falters in my rhyme.37At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dustI race by field or highway, and my horseSpare not, but urge direct in headlong courseUnto some fair far hill that gain I must:But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,Rein in, and stand as one who sees the sourceOf strong illusion, shaming thought to forceFrom off his mind the soil of passion’s gust.My brow I bare then, and with slacken’d speedCan view the country pleasant on all sides,And to kind salutation give good heed:I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,And seek what cheer the village inn provides.38An idle June day on the sunny Thames,Floating or rowing as our fancy led,Now in the high beams basking as we sped,Now in green shade gliding by mirror’d stems;By lock and weir and isle, and many a spotOf memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not illThe heavenly Muse, tho’ she requite them not:I would have life—thou saidst—all as this day,Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,With not a grief to cloud, and not a rayOf passion overhot my peace to oppress;With no ambition to reproach delay,Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.39A man that sees by chance his picture, madeAs once a child he was, handling some toy,Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray’d:He cannot think the simple thought which play’dUpon those features then so frank and coy;’Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o’er the joyHis fatherly pity bends in tears dismay’d.Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:—Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,Which seeing, he fears to sayThis child was I.40

THE GROWTHOF LOVE

Theythat in play can do the thing they would,Having an instinct throned in reason’s place,—And every perfect action hath the graceOf indolence or thoughtless hardihood—These are the best: yet be there workmen goodWho lose in earnestness control of face,Or reckon means, and rapt in effort baseReach to their end by steps well understood.Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the painsOf one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,—Even as a painter breathlessly who strainsHis scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve—Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

Theythat in play can do the thing they would,

Having an instinct throned in reason’s place,

—And every perfect action hath the grace

Of indolence or thoughtless hardihood—

These are the best: yet be there workmen good

Who lose in earnestness control of face,

Or reckon means, and rapt in effort base

Reach to their end by steps well understood.

Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the painsOf one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,—Even as a painter breathlessly who strainsHis scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve—Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the pains

Of one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,

—Even as a painter breathlessly who strains

His scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve—

Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,

Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

For thou art mine: and now I am ashamedTo have usèd means to win so pure acquist,And of my trembling fear that might have misstThro’ very care the gold at which I aim’d;And am as happy but to hear thee named,As are those gentle souls by angels kisstIn pictures seen leaving their marble cistTo go before the throne of grace unblamed.Nor surer am I water hath the skillTo quench my thirst, or that my strength is freedIn delicate ordination as I will,Than that to be myself is all I needFor thee to be most mine: so I stand still,And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

For thou art mine: and now I am ashamed

To have usèd means to win so pure acquist,

And of my trembling fear that might have misst

Thro’ very care the gold at which I aim’d;

And am as happy but to hear thee named,

As are those gentle souls by angels kisst

In pictures seen leaving their marble cist

To go before the throne of grace unblamed.

Nor surer am I water hath the skillTo quench my thirst, or that my strength is freedIn delicate ordination as I will,Than that to be myself is all I needFor thee to be most mine: so I stand still,And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

Nor surer am I water hath the skill

To quench my thirst, or that my strength is freed

In delicate ordination as I will,

Than that to be myself is all I need

For thee to be most mine: so I stand still,

And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

The whole world now is but the ministerOf thee to me: I see no other schemeBut universal love, from timeless dreamWaking to thee his joy’s interpreter.I walk around and in the fields conferOf love at large with tree and flower and stream,And list the lark descant upon my theme,Heaven’s musical accepted worshipper.Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud’Twixt things and me is quash’d in our new truce;And nature now dearly with thee enduedNo more in shame ponders her old excuse,But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

The whole world now is but the minister

Of thee to me: I see no other scheme

But universal love, from timeless dream

Waking to thee his joy’s interpreter.

I walk around and in the fields confer

Of love at large with tree and flower and stream,

And list the lark descant upon my theme,

Heaven’s musical accepted worshipper.

Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud’Twixt things and me is quash’d in our new truce;And nature now dearly with thee enduedNo more in shame ponders her old excuse,But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud

’Twixt things and me is quash’d in our new truce;

And nature now dearly with thee endued

No more in shame ponders her old excuse,

But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,

So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

The very names of things belov’d are dear,And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,As many a face thro’ love’s long residenceGroweth to fair instead of plain and sere:But when I say thy name it hath no peer,And I suppose fortune determined thenceHer dower, that such beauty’s excellenceShould have a perfect title for the ear.Thus may I think the adopting Muses choseTheir sons by name, knowing none would be heardOr writ so oft in all the world as those,—Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for thirdThe classic Milton, and to us aroseShelley with liquid music in the word.

The very names of things belov’d are dear,

And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,

As many a face thro’ love’s long residence

Groweth to fair instead of plain and sere:

But when I say thy name it hath no peer,

And I suppose fortune determined thence

Her dower, that such beauty’s excellence

Should have a perfect title for the ear.

Thus may I think the adopting Muses choseTheir sons by name, knowing none would be heardOr writ so oft in all the world as those,—Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for thirdThe classic Milton, and to us aroseShelley with liquid music in the word.

Thus may I think the adopting Muses chose

Their sons by name, knowing none would be heard

Or writ so oft in all the world as those,—

Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for third

The classic Milton, and to us arose

Shelley with liquid music in the word.

The poets were good teachers, for they taughtEarth had this joy; but that ’twould ever beThat fortune should be perfected in me,My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.So I stood low, and now but to be caughtBy any self-styled lords of the age with theeVexes my modesty, lest they should seeI hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought.And when we sit alone, and as I pleaseI taste thy love’s full smile, and can enstateThe pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,My thought swims like a ship, that with the weightOf her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seasBecalm’d, and cannot stir her golden freight.

The poets were good teachers, for they taught

Earth had this joy; but that ’twould ever be

That fortune should be perfected in me,

My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.

So I stood low, and now but to be caught

By any self-styled lords of the age with thee

Vexes my modesty, lest they should see

I hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought.

And when we sit alone, and as I pleaseI taste thy love’s full smile, and can enstateThe pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,My thought swims like a ship, that with the weightOf her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seasBecalm’d, and cannot stir her golden freight.

And when we sit alone, and as I please

I taste thy love’s full smile, and can enstate

The pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,

My thought swims like a ship, that with the weight

Of her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seas

Becalm’d, and cannot stir her golden freight.

While yet we wait for spring, and from the dryAnd blackening east that so embitters March,Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d skyThe sun is warm and beckons to the larch,And where the covert hazels interarchTheir tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hidA million buds but stay their blossoming;And trustful birds have built their nests amidThe shuddering boughs, and only wait to singTill one soft shower from the south shall bid,And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry

And blackening east that so embitters March,

Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,

And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;

Already in glimpses of the tarnish’d sky

The sun is warm and beckons to the larch,

And where the covert hazels interarch

Their tassell’d twigs, fair beds of primrose lie.

Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hidA million buds but stay their blossoming;And trustful birds have built their nests amidThe shuddering boughs, and only wait to singTill one soft shower from the south shall bid,And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid

A million buds but stay their blossoming;

And trustful birds have built their nests amid

The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing

Till one soft shower from the south shall bid,

And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

In thee my spring of life hath bid the whileA rose unfold beyond the summer’s best,The mystery of joy made manifestIn love’s self-answering and awakening smile;Whereby the lips in wonder reconcilePassion with peace, and show desire at rest,—A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,That bloom’d to immortalize the Tuscan style:When first the angel-song that faith had ken’dFancy pourtray’d, above recorded oathOf Israel’s God, or light of poem pen’d;The very countenance of plighted troth’Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blendThe hope of one and happiness of both.

In thee my spring of life hath bid the while

A rose unfold beyond the summer’s best,

The mystery of joy made manifest

In love’s self-answering and awakening smile;

Whereby the lips in wonder reconcile

Passion with peace, and show desire at rest,—

A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,

That bloom’d to immortalize the Tuscan style:

When first the angel-song that faith had ken’dFancy pourtray’d, above recorded oathOf Israel’s God, or light of poem pen’d;The very countenance of plighted troth’Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blendThe hope of one and happiness of both.

When first the angel-song that faith had ken’d

Fancy pourtray’d, above recorded oath

Of Israel’s God, or light of poem pen’d;

The very countenance of plighted troth

’Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blend

The hope of one and happiness of both.

For beauty being the best of all we knowSums up the unsearchable and secret aimsOf nature, and on joys whose earthly namesWere never told can form and sense bestow;And man hath sped his instinct to outgoThe step of science; and against her shamesImagination stakes out heavenly claims,Building a tower above the head of woe.Nor is there fairer work for beauty foundThan that she win in nature her releaseFrom all the woes that in the world abound:Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,If from man’s greater need beauty redound,And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

For beauty being the best of all we know

Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims

Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names

Were never told can form and sense bestow;

And man hath sped his instinct to outgo

The step of science; and against her shames

Imagination stakes out heavenly claims,

Building a tower above the head of woe.

Nor is there fairer work for beauty foundThan that she win in nature her releaseFrom all the woes that in the world abound:Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,If from man’s greater need beauty redound,And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

Nor is there fairer work for beauty found

Than that she win in nature her release

From all the woes that in the world abound:

Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,

If from man’s greater need beauty redound,

And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,That late dismay’d her faithless faith forbore;And wins again her love lost in the loreOf schools and script of many a learned book:For thou what ruthless death untimely tookShalt now in better brotherhood restore,And save my batter’d ship that far from shoreHigh on the dismal deep in tempest shook.So in despite of sorrow lately learn’dI still hold true to truth since thou art true,Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn’d:Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blueTo my life’s need more splendid and unearn’dThan hath thy gift outmatch’d desire and due.

Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,

That late dismay’d her faithless faith forbore;

And wins again her love lost in the lore

Of schools and script of many a learned book:

For thou what ruthless death untimely took

Shalt now in better brotherhood restore,

And save my batter’d ship that far from shore

High on the dismal deep in tempest shook.

So in despite of sorrow lately learn’dI still hold true to truth since thou art true,Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn’d:Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blueTo my life’s need more splendid and unearn’dThan hath thy gift outmatch’d desire and due.

So in despite of sorrow lately learn’d

I still hold true to truth since thou art true,

Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn’d:

Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue

To my life’s need more splendid and unearn’d

Than hath thy gift outmatch’d desire and due.

Winter was not unkind because uncouth;His prison’d time made me a closer guest,And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,Biting all else with keen and angry tooth:And bravelier the triumphant blood of youthMantling thy cheek its happy home possest,And sterner sport by day put strength to test,And custom’s feast at night gave tongue to truth.Or say hath flaunting summer a deviceTo match our midnight revelry, that rangWith steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?Or when we hark’t to nightingales that sangOn dewy eves in spring, did they enticeTo gentler love than winter’s icy fang?

Winter was not unkind because uncouth;

His prison’d time made me a closer guest,

And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,

Biting all else with keen and angry tooth:

And bravelier the triumphant blood of youth

Mantling thy cheek its happy home possest,

And sterner sport by day put strength to test,

And custom’s feast at night gave tongue to truth.

Or say hath flaunting summer a deviceTo match our midnight revelry, that rangWith steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?Or when we hark’t to nightingales that sangOn dewy eves in spring, did they enticeTo gentler love than winter’s icy fang?

Or say hath flaunting summer a device

To match our midnight revelry, that rang

With steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?

Or when we hark’t to nightingales that sang

On dewy eves in spring, did they entice

To gentler love than winter’s icy fang?

There’s many a would-be poet at this hour,Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo’d,And o’er his lamplit desk in solitudeDeems that he sitteth in the Muses’ bower:And some the flames of earthly love devour,Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew’dIn the world’s wilderness with heavenly foodThe sickly body of their perishing power.So none of all our company, I boast,But now would mock my penning, could they seeHow down the right it maps a jagged coast;Seeing they hold the manlier praise to beStrong hand and will, and the heart best when most’Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

There’s many a would-be poet at this hour,

Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo’d,

And o’er his lamplit desk in solitude

Deems that he sitteth in the Muses’ bower:

And some the flames of earthly love devour,

Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew’d

In the world’s wilderness with heavenly food

The sickly body of their perishing power.

So none of all our company, I boast,But now would mock my penning, could they seeHow down the right it maps a jagged coast;Seeing they hold the manlier praise to beStrong hand and will, and the heart best when most’Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

So none of all our company, I boast,

But now would mock my penning, could they see

How down the right it maps a jagged coast;

Seeing they hold the manlier praise to be

Strong hand and will, and the heart best when most

’Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,And beauty that my fancy fed upon?Now not my life’s contrition for my faultCan blot that day, nor work me recompence,Tho’ I might worthily thy worth exalt,Making thee long amends for short offence.For surely nowhere, love, if not in theeAre grace and truth and beauty to be found;And all my praise of these can only beA praise of thee, howe’er by thee disown’d:While still thou must be mine tho’ far removed,And I for one offence no more beloved.

How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,

Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;

Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,

And beauty that my fancy fed upon?

Now not my life’s contrition for my fault

Can blot that day, nor work me recompence,

Tho’ I might worthily thy worth exalt,

Making thee long amends for short offence.

For surely nowhere, love, if not in theeAre grace and truth and beauty to be found;And all my praise of these can only beA praise of thee, howe’er by thee disown’d:While still thou must be mine tho’ far removed,And I for one offence no more beloved.

For surely nowhere, love, if not in thee

Are grace and truth and beauty to be found;

And all my praise of these can only be

A praise of thee, howe’er by thee disown’d:

While still thou must be mine tho’ far removed,

And I for one offence no more beloved.

Now since to me altho’ by thee refusedThe world is left, I shall find pleasure still;The art that most I have loved but little usedWill yield a world of fancies at my will:And tho’ where’er thou goest it is from me,I where I go thee in my heart must bear;And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair.Farewell, yet think not such farewell a changeFrom tenderness, tho’ once to meet or partBut on short absence so could sense derangeThat tears have graced the greeting of my heart;They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

Now since to me altho’ by thee refused

The world is left, I shall find pleasure still;

The art that most I have loved but little used

Will yield a world of fancies at my will:

And tho’ where’er thou goest it is from me,

I where I go thee in my heart must bear;

And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,

My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair.

Farewell, yet think not such farewell a changeFrom tenderness, tho’ once to meet or partBut on short absence so could sense derangeThat tears have graced the greeting of my heart;They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

Farewell, yet think not such farewell a change

From tenderness, tho’ once to meet or part

But on short absence so could sense derange

That tears have graced the greeting of my heart;

They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,

Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

When sometimes in an ancient house where stateFrom noble ancestry is handed on,We see but desolation thro’ the gate,And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,Bred of disease or melancholy fate,Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphereTo wander nameless save to pity or hate:What is the wreck of all he hath in fief,When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fineUnto the sick, nor doth it burden griefThat the house perish when the soul doth pine.Thus I my state despise, slain by a stingSo slight ’twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

When sometimes in an ancient house where state

From noble ancestry is handed on,

We see but desolation thro’ the gate,

And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;

Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,

Bred of disease or melancholy fate,

Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphere

To wander nameless save to pity or hate:

What is the wreck of all he hath in fief,When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fineUnto the sick, nor doth it burden griefThat the house perish when the soul doth pine.Thus I my state despise, slain by a stingSo slight ’twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

What is the wreck of all he hath in fief,

When he that hath is wrecking? nought is fine

Unto the sick, nor doth it burden grief

That the house perish when the soul doth pine.

Thus I my state despise, slain by a sting

So slight ’twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

Who builds a ship must first lay down the keelOf health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bedFor decks of purity, her floor and ceil.Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,To fortune’s wind the sails of purpose spread:And at the prow make figured maidenheadO’erride the seas and answer to the wheel.And let him deep in memory’s hold have stor’dWater of Helicon: and let him fitThe needle that doth true with heaven accord:Then bid her crew, love, diligence and witWith justice, courage, temperance come aboard,And at her helm the master reason sit.

Who builds a ship must first lay down the keel

Of health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:

And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bed

For decks of purity, her floor and ceil.

Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,

To fortune’s wind the sails of purpose spread:

And at the prow make figured maidenhead

O’erride the seas and answer to the wheel.

And let him deep in memory’s hold have stor’dWater of Helicon: and let him fitThe needle that doth true with heaven accord:Then bid her crew, love, diligence and witWith justice, courage, temperance come aboard,And at her helm the master reason sit.

And let him deep in memory’s hold have stor’d

Water of Helicon: and let him fit

The needle that doth true with heaven accord:

Then bid her crew, love, diligence and wit

With justice, courage, temperance come aboard,

And at her helm the master reason sit.

This world is unto God a work of art,Of which the unaccomplish’d heavenly planIs hid in life within the creature’s heart,And for perfection looketh unto man.Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slowPains and persistence were his idols made,Destroy’d and made, ere ever he could knowThe mighty mother must be so obey’d.For lack of knowledge and thro’ little skillHis childish mimicry outwent his aim;His effort shaped the genius of his will;Till thro’ distinction and revolt he came,True to his simple terms of good and ill,Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

This world is unto God a work of art,

Of which the unaccomplish’d heavenly plan

Is hid in life within the creature’s heart,

And for perfection looketh unto man.

Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slow

Pains and persistence were his idols made,

Destroy’d and made, ere ever he could know

The mighty mother must be so obey’d.

For lack of knowledge and thro’ little skillHis childish mimicry outwent his aim;His effort shaped the genius of his will;Till thro’ distinction and revolt he came,True to his simple terms of good and ill,Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

For lack of knowledge and thro’ little skill

His childish mimicry outwent his aim;

His effort shaped the genius of his will;

Till thro’ distinction and revolt he came,

True to his simple terms of good and ill,

Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt facesIn negligent and travel-stain’d array,That in the city of Dante come to-day,Haughtily visiting her holy places?O these be noble men that hide their graces,True England’s blood, her ancient glory’s stay,By tales of fame diverted on their wayHome from the rule of oriental races.Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyesAnd motion delicate, but swift to fireFor honour, passionate where duty lies,Most loved and loving: and they quickly tireOf Florence, that she one day more deniesThe embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt faces

In negligent and travel-stain’d array,

That in the city of Dante come to-day,

Haughtily visiting her holy places?

O these be noble men that hide their graces,

True England’s blood, her ancient glory’s stay,

By tales of fame diverted on their way

Home from the rule of oriental races.

Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyesAnd motion delicate, but swift to fireFor honour, passionate where duty lies,Most loved and loving: and they quickly tireOf Florence, that she one day more deniesThe embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyes

And motion delicate, but swift to fire

For honour, passionate where duty lies,

Most loved and loving: and they quickly tire

Of Florence, that she one day more denies

The embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

Where San Miniato’s convent from the sunAt forenoon overlooks the city of flowersI sat, and gazing on her domes and towersCall’d up her famous children one by one:And three who all the rest had far outdone,Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,I saw, and god-like Buonarroti’s powers,And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong’d son.Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?Are these heroic triumphs things of old,And do I dead upon the living gaze?Or rather doth the mind, that can beholdThe wondrous beauty of the works and days,Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

Where San Miniato’s convent from the sun

At forenoon overlooks the city of flowers

I sat, and gazing on her domes and towers

Call’d up her famous children one by one:

And three who all the rest had far outdone,

Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,

I saw, and god-like Buonarroti’s powers,

And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong’d son.

Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?Are these heroic triumphs things of old,And do I dead upon the living gaze?Or rather doth the mind, that can beholdThe wondrous beauty of the works and days,Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

Is all this glory, I said, another’s praise?

Are these heroic triumphs things of old,

And do I dead upon the living gaze?

Or rather doth the mind, that can behold

The wondrous beauty of the works and days,

Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

Rejoice, ye dead, where’er your spirits dwell,Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;And that your names, remember’d day and night,Live on the lips of those that love you well.’Tis ye that conquer’d have the powers of hell,Each with the special grace of your delight:Ye are the world’s creators, and thro’ mightOf everlasting love ye did excel.Now ye are starry names, above the stormAnd war of Time and nature’s endless wrongYe flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,Wing’d with bright music and melodious song,—The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-danceIn dear Imagination’s rich pleasance.

Rejoice, ye dead, where’er your spirits dwell,

Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;

And that your names, remember’d day and night,

Live on the lips of those that love you well.

’Tis ye that conquer’d have the powers of hell,

Each with the special grace of your delight:

Ye are the world’s creators, and thro’ might

Of everlasting love ye did excel.

Now ye are starry names, above the stormAnd war of Time and nature’s endless wrongYe flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,Wing’d with bright music and melodious song,—The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-danceIn dear Imagination’s rich pleasance.

Now ye are starry names, above the storm

And war of Time and nature’s endless wrong

Ye flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,

Wing’d with bright music and melodious song,—

The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-dance

In dear Imagination’s rich pleasance.

The world still goeth about to shew and hide,Befool’d of all opinion, fond of fame:But he that can do well taketh no pride,And see’th his error, undisturb’d by shame:So poor’s the best that longest life can do,The most so little, diligently done;So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,So vast the joy that love from love hath won.God’s love to win is easy, for He lovethDesire’s fair attitude, nor strictly weighsThe broken thing, but all alike approvethWhich love hath aim’d at Him: that is heaven’s praise:And if we look for any praise on earth,’Tis in man’s love: all else is nothing worth.

The world still goeth about to shew and hide,

Befool’d of all opinion, fond of fame:

But he that can do well taketh no pride,

And see’th his error, undisturb’d by shame:

So poor’s the best that longest life can do,

The most so little, diligently done;

So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,

So vast the joy that love from love hath won.

God’s love to win is easy, for He lovethDesire’s fair attitude, nor strictly weighsThe broken thing, but all alike approvethWhich love hath aim’d at Him: that is heaven’s praise:And if we look for any praise on earth,’Tis in man’s love: all else is nothing worth.

God’s love to win is easy, for He loveth

Desire’s fair attitude, nor strictly weighs

The broken thing, but all alike approveth

Which love hath aim’d at Him: that is heaven’s praise:

And if we look for any praise on earth,

’Tis in man’s love: all else is nothing worth.

O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic painAnd clownish merriment; whose sense could wakeSermons in stones, and count death but an ache,All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strainReveal’d anew; but thou for man didst makeNature twice natural, only to shakeHer kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is lothTo yield to art her fair supremacy;In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.What shall I say? for God—whose wise decreeConfirmeth all He did by all He doth—Doubled His whole creation making thee.

O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic pain

And clownish merriment; whose sense could wake

Sermons in stones, and count death but an ache,

All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:

The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strain

Reveal’d anew; but thou for man didst make

Nature twice natural, only to shake

Her kingdom with the creatures of thy brain.

Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is lothTo yield to art her fair supremacy;In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.What shall I say? for God—whose wise decreeConfirmeth all He did by all He doth—Doubled His whole creation making thee.

Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is loth

To yield to art her fair supremacy;

In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.

What shall I say? for God—whose wise decree

Confirmeth all He did by all He doth—

Doubled His whole creation making thee.

I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,And carry purpose up to the ends of the air:In calm and storm my sails I feather, and whereBy freezing cliffs the unransom’d wreckage lies:Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surpriseThe silence: over plains in the moonlight bareI chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dareIn treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir’dBy the only joy of knowing that ye fly;Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum’d in a word,The alphabet of a god’s idea, and IWho master it, I am the only bird.

I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,

And carry purpose up to the ends of the air:

In calm and storm my sails I feather, and where

By freezing cliffs the unransom’d wreckage lies:

Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surprise

The silence: over plains in the moonlight bare

I chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dare

In treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies.

Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir’dBy the only joy of knowing that ye fly;Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum’d in a word,The alphabet of a god’s idea, and IWho master it, I am the only bird.

Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,

Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir’d

By the only joy of knowing that ye fly;

Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum’d in a word,

The alphabet of a god’s idea, and I

Who master it, I am the only bird.

O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,Hailing in each the citadel divineThe which ye thought to have enter’d long ago;Until at length your feeble steps and slowFalter upon the threshold of the shrine,And your hearts overburden’d doubt in fineWhether it be Jerusalem or no:Dishearten’d pilgrims, I am one of you;For, having worshipp’d many a barren face,I scarce now greet the goal I journey’d to:I stand a pagan in the holy place;Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,And question with the God that I embrace.

O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,

That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,

Hailing in each the citadel divine

The which ye thought to have enter’d long ago;

Until at length your feeble steps and slow

Falter upon the threshold of the shrine,

And your hearts overburden’d doubt in fine

Whether it be Jerusalem or no:

Dishearten’d pilgrims, I am one of you;For, having worshipp’d many a barren face,I scarce now greet the goal I journey’d to:I stand a pagan in the holy place;Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,And question with the God that I embrace.

Dishearten’d pilgrims, I am one of you;

For, having worshipp’d many a barren face,

I scarce now greet the goal I journey’d to:

I stand a pagan in the holy place;

Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,

And question with the God that I embrace.

Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;Her melting air, at every breath we draw,Floods heart with love to praise God’s gracious law:But suddenly—so short is pleasure’s lease—The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,And nature’s conquer’d face is full of awe;As now the traitrous north with icy flawFreezes the dew upon the sick lamb’s fleece,And ’neath the mock sun searching everywhereRattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:So that the birds are silent with despairWithin the thickets; nor their armour thinWill gaudy flies adventure in the air,Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;

Her melting air, at every breath we draw,

Floods heart with love to praise God’s gracious law:

But suddenly—so short is pleasure’s lease—

The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,

And nature’s conquer’d face is full of awe;

As now the traitrous north with icy flaw

Freezes the dew upon the sick lamb’s fleece,

And ’neath the mock sun searching everywhereRattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:So that the birds are silent with despairWithin the thickets; nor their armour thinWill gaudy flies adventure in the air,Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

And ’neath the mock sun searching everywhere

Rattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:

So that the birds are silent with despair

Within the thickets; nor their armour thin

Will gaudy flies adventure in the air,

Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

Nothing is joy without thee: I can findNo rapture in the first relays of spring,In songs of birds, in young buds opening,Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;For lack of thee, who once wert throned behindAll beauty, like a strength where graces cling,—The jewel and heart of light, which everythingWrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.Ah! since thou’rt fled, and I in each fair sightThe sweet occasion of my joy deplore,Where shall I seek thee best, or whom inviteWithin thy sacred temples and adore?Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

Nothing is joy without thee: I can find

No rapture in the first relays of spring,

In songs of birds, in young buds opening,

Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;

For lack of thee, who once wert throned behind

All beauty, like a strength where graces cling,—

The jewel and heart of light, which everything

Wrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined.

Ah! since thou’rt fled, and I in each fair sightThe sweet occasion of my joy deplore,Where shall I seek thee best, or whom inviteWithin thy sacred temples and adore?Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

Ah! since thou’rt fled, and I in each fair sight

The sweet occasion of my joy deplore,

Where shall I seek thee best, or whom invite

Within thy sacred temples and adore?

Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,

And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

The work is done, and from the fingers fallThe bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro’:The tasking eye that overrunneth allRests, and affirms there is no more to do.Now the third joy of making, the sweet flowerOf blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hourThe shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,True only should the swift life stand at stay:Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

The work is done, and from the fingers fall

The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro’:

The tasking eye that overrunneth all

Rests, and affirms there is no more to do.

Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower

Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;

Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour

The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit.

And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,True only should the swift life stand at stay:Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

And thou, my perfect work, thou’rt of to-day;

To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,

True only should the swift life stand at stay:

Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.

Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee;

Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

The fabled seasnake, old Leviathan,Or else what grisly beast of scaly chineThat champ’d the oceanwrack and swash’d the brine,Before the new and milder days of man,Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fanLike his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,Late-born of golden seed to breed a lineOf offspring swifter and more huge of plan.Straight is her going, for upon the sunWhen once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;With tireless speed she smiteth one by oneThe shuddering seas and foams along the main;And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.

The fabled seasnake, old Leviathan,

Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine

That champ’d the oceanwrack and swash’d the brine,

Before the new and milder days of man,

Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan

Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,

Late-born of golden seed to breed a line

Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan.

Straight is her going, for upon the sunWhen once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;With tireless speed she smiteth one by oneThe shuddering seas and foams along the main;And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.

Straight is her going, for upon the sun

When once she hath look’d, her path and place are plain;

With tireless speed she smiteth one by one

The shuddering seas and foams along the main;

And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,

Roars thro’ her nostrils like a hurricane.

A thousand times hath in my heart’s behoofMy tongue been set his passion to impart;A thousand times hath my too coward heartMy mouth reclosed and fix’d it to the roof;Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,A thousand times kept silence with such artThat words could do no more: yet on thy partHath silence given a thousand times reproof.I should be bolder, seeing I commendLove, that my dilatory purpose primes,But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:Nay I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,Renew my sorrows rather than offend,A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

A thousand times hath in my heart’s behoof

My tongue been set his passion to impart;

A thousand times hath my too coward heart

My mouth reclosed and fix’d it to the roof;

Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,

A thousand times kept silence with such art

That words could do no more: yet on thy part

Hath silence given a thousand times reproof.

I should be bolder, seeing I commendLove, that my dilatory purpose primes,But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:Nay I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,Renew my sorrows rather than offend,A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

I should be bolder, seeing I commend

Love, that my dilatory purpose primes,

But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:

Nay I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,

Renew my sorrows rather than offend,

A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

I travel to thee with the sun’s first rays,That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.I wait upon thy coming, but always—Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite—Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,And in my solitude dost mock my praise.Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:I see no fame in Khufu’s pyramid,No history where loveless Nile doth roll.—This is eternal life, which doth forbidMortal detraction to the exalted soul,And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

I travel to thee with the sun’s first rays,

That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;

I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,

And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.

I wait upon thy coming, but always—

Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite—

Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,

And in my solitude dost mock my praise.

Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:I see no fame in Khufu’s pyramid,No history where loveless Nile doth roll.—This is eternal life, which doth forbidMortal detraction to the exalted soul,And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:

I see no fame in Khufu’s pyramid,

No history where loveless Nile doth roll.

—This is eternal life, which doth forbid

Mortal detraction to the exalted soul,

And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

My lady pleases me and I please her;This know we both, and I besides know wellWherefore I love her, and I love to tellMy love, as all my loving songs aver.But what on her part could the passion stir,Tho’ ’tis more difficult for love to spell,Yet can I dare divine how this befel,Nor will her lips deny it if I err.She loves me first because I love her, thenLoves me for knowing why she should be loved,And that I love to praise her, loves again.So from her beauty both our loves are moved,And by her beauty are sustain’d; nor whenThe earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

My lady pleases me and I please her;

This know we both, and I besides know well

Wherefore I love her, and I love to tell

My love, as all my loving songs aver.

But what on her part could the passion stir,

Tho’ ’tis more difficult for love to spell,

Yet can I dare divine how this befel,

Nor will her lips deny it if I err.

She loves me first because I love her, thenLoves me for knowing why she should be loved,And that I love to praise her, loves again.So from her beauty both our loves are moved,And by her beauty are sustain’d; nor whenThe earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

She loves me first because I love her, then

Loves me for knowing why she should be loved,

And that I love to praise her, loves again.

So from her beauty both our loves are moved,

And by her beauty are sustain’d; nor when

The earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

In all things beautiful, I cannot seeHer sit or stand, but love is stir’d anew:’Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,And all that comes is past expectancy.If she be silent, silence let it be;He who would bid her speak might sit and sueThe deep-brow’d Phidian Jove to be untrueTo his two thousand years’ solemnity.Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings.Wins on the hearing like a shapen prowBorne by the mastery of its urgent wings:Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth showShe hath the intelligence of heavenly things,Unsullied by man’s mortal overthrow.

In all things beautiful, I cannot see

Her sit or stand, but love is stir’d anew:

’Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,

And all that comes is past expectancy.

If she be silent, silence let it be;

He who would bid her speak might sit and sue

The deep-brow’d Phidian Jove to be untrue

To his two thousand years’ solemnity.

Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings.Wins on the hearing like a shapen prowBorne by the mastery of its urgent wings:Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth showShe hath the intelligence of heavenly things,Unsullied by man’s mortal overthrow.

Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings.

Wins on the hearing like a shapen prow

Borne by the mastery of its urgent wings:

Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth show

She hath the intelligence of heavenly things,

Unsullied by man’s mortal overthrow.

Thus to be humbled: ’tis that ranging prideNo refuge hath; that in his castle strongBrave reason sits beleaguer’d, who so longKept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;That industry, who once the foe defied,Lies slaughter’d in the trenches; that the throngOf idle fancies pipe their foolish song,Where late the puissant captains fought and died.Thus to be humbled: ’tis to be undone;A forest fell’d; a city razed to ground;A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspunTill not a thread remains that can be wound.And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin’d one,Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown’d.

Thus to be humbled: ’tis that ranging pride

No refuge hath; that in his castle strong

Brave reason sits beleaguer’d, who so long

Kept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;

That industry, who once the foe defied,

Lies slaughter’d in the trenches; that the throng

Of idle fancies pipe their foolish song,

Where late the puissant captains fought and died.

Thus to be humbled: ’tis to be undone;A forest fell’d; a city razed to ground;A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspunTill not a thread remains that can be wound.And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin’d one,Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown’d.

Thus to be humbled: ’tis to be undone;

A forest fell’d; a city razed to ground;

A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspun

Till not a thread remains that can be wound.

And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin’d one,

Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown’d.

I care not if I live, tho’ life and breathHave never been to me so dear and sweet.I care not if I die, for I could meet—Being so happy—happily my death.I care not if I love; to-day she saithShe loveth, and love’s history is complete.Nor care I if she love me; at her feetMy spirit bows entranced and worshippeth.I have no care for what was most my care,But all around me see fresh beauty born,And common sights grown lovelier than they were:I dream of love, and in the light of mornTremble, beholding all things very fairAnd strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

I care not if I live, tho’ life and breath

Have never been to me so dear and sweet.

I care not if I die, for I could meet—

Being so happy—happily my death.

I care not if I love; to-day she saith

She loveth, and love’s history is complete.

Nor care I if she love me; at her feet

My spirit bows entranced and worshippeth.

I have no care for what was most my care,But all around me see fresh beauty born,And common sights grown lovelier than they were:I dream of love, and in the light of mornTremble, beholding all things very fairAnd strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

I have no care for what was most my care,

But all around me see fresh beauty born,

And common sights grown lovelier than they were:

I dream of love, and in the light of morn

Tremble, beholding all things very fair

And strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

O my goddess divinesometimes I say:—Now let this word for ever and all suffice;Thou art insatiable, and yet not twiceCan even thy lover give his soul away:And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;For never any other, by deviceOf wisdom, love or beauty, could enticeMy homage to the measure of this day.I have no more to give thee: lo, I have soldMy life, have emptied out my heart, and spentWhate’er I had; till like a beggar, boldWith nought to lose, I laugh and am content.A beggar kisses thee; nay love, behold,I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

O my goddess divinesometimes I say:—

Now let this word for ever and all suffice;

Thou art insatiable, and yet not twice

Can even thy lover give his soul away:

And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;

For never any other, by device

Of wisdom, love or beauty, could entice

My homage to the measure of this day.

I have no more to give thee: lo, I have soldMy life, have emptied out my heart, and spentWhate’er I had; till like a beggar, boldWith nought to lose, I laugh and am content.A beggar kisses thee; nay love, behold,I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

I have no more to give thee: lo, I have sold

My life, have emptied out my heart, and spent

Whate’er I had; till like a beggar, bold

With nought to lose, I laugh and am content.

A beggar kisses thee; nay love, behold,

I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,That few there be are wean’d from earthly love.Joy’s ladder it is, reaching from home to home,The best of all the work that all was good;Whereof ’twas writ the angels aye upclomb,Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood.But I my time abuse, my eyes by dayCenter’d on thee, by night my heart on fire—Letting my number’d moments run away—Nor e’en ’twixt night and day to heaven aspire:So true it is that what the eye seeth notBut slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,

To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:

Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,

That few there be are wean’d from earthly love.

Joy’s ladder it is, reaching from home to home,

The best of all the work that all was good;

Whereof ’twas writ the angels aye upclomb,

Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood.

But I my time abuse, my eyes by dayCenter’d on thee, by night my heart on fire—Letting my number’d moments run away—Nor e’en ’twixt night and day to heaven aspire:So true it is that what the eye seeth notBut slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

But I my time abuse, my eyes by day

Center’d on thee, by night my heart on fire—

Letting my number’d moments run away—

Nor e’en ’twixt night and day to heaven aspire:

So true it is that what the eye seeth not

But slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

O my life’s mischief, once my love’s delight,That drew’st a mortgage on my heart’s estate,Whose baneful clause is never out of date,Nor can avenging time restore my right:Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night:Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,My very grasp of life is old and slack,And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

O my life’s mischief, once my love’s delight,

That drew’st a mortgage on my heart’s estate,

Whose baneful clause is never out of date,

Nor can avenging time restore my right:

Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,

Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:

That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,

The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night:

Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,My very grasp of life is old and slack,And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,

It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,

Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;

Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,

My very grasp of life is old and slack,

And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dustI race by field or highway, and my horseSpare not, but urge direct in headlong courseUnto some fair far hill that gain I must:But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,Rein in, and stand as one who sees the sourceOf strong illusion, shaming thought to forceFrom off his mind the soil of passion’s gust.My brow I bare then, and with slacken’d speedCan view the country pleasant on all sides,And to kind salutation give good heed:I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dust

I race by field or highway, and my horse

Spare not, but urge direct in headlong course

Unto some fair far hill that gain I must:

But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,

Rein in, and stand as one who sees the source

Of strong illusion, shaming thought to force

From off his mind the soil of passion’s gust.

My brow I bare then, and with slacken’d speedCan view the country pleasant on all sides,And to kind salutation give good heed:I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

My brow I bare then, and with slacken’d speed

Can view the country pleasant on all sides,

And to kind salutation give good heed:

I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,

And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,

And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

An idle June day on the sunny Thames,Floating or rowing as our fancy led,Now in the high beams basking as we sped,Now in green shade gliding by mirror’d stems;By lock and weir and isle, and many a spotOf memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not illThe heavenly Muse, tho’ she requite them not:I would have life—thou saidst—all as this day,Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,With not a grief to cloud, and not a rayOf passion overhot my peace to oppress;With no ambition to reproach delay,Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

An idle June day on the sunny Thames,

Floating or rowing as our fancy led,

Now in the high beams basking as we sped,

Now in green shade gliding by mirror’d stems;

By lock and weir and isle, and many a spot

Of memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,

Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not ill

The heavenly Muse, tho’ she requite them not:

I would have life—thou saidst—all as this day,Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,With not a grief to cloud, and not a rayOf passion overhot my peace to oppress;With no ambition to reproach delay,Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

I would have life—thou saidst—all as this day,

Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,

With not a grief to cloud, and not a ray

Of passion overhot my peace to oppress;

With no ambition to reproach delay,

Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

A man that sees by chance his picture, madeAs once a child he was, handling some toy,Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray’d:He cannot think the simple thought which play’dUpon those features then so frank and coy;’Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o’er the joyHis fatherly pity bends in tears dismay’d.Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:—Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,Which seeing, he fears to sayThis child was I.

A man that sees by chance his picture, made

As once a child he was, handling some toy,

Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,

Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray’d:

He cannot think the simple thought which play’d

Upon those features then so frank and coy;

’Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o’er the joy

His fatherly pity bends in tears dismay’d.

Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:—Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,Which seeing, he fears to sayThis child was I.

Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,

And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,

In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:—

Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,

The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,

Which seeing, he fears to sayThis child was I.

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