Chapter 30

Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care,Comforting tears that fell uncomforted,Tears o’er the new-born, tears beside the dead,Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer,Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe’erOf tenderness or kindness had she shedWho here is pictured, ere upon her headThe fine gold might be turn’d to silver there.The smile that charm’d the father hath given placeUnto the furrow’d care wrought by the son;But virtue hath transform’d all change to grace:So that I praise the artist, who hath doneA portrait, for my worship, of the faceWon by the heart my father’s heart that won.41If I could but forget and not recallSo well my time of pleasure and of play,When ancient nature was all new and gay,Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,—Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,Nor dream’d what fearful searchings underlayThe flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall:Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,Press’d in the melée of accursed things,Having such help in love and such reward:But that ’tis I who once—’tis this that stings—Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,Where yet I’d be had I but heavenly wings.42When I see childhood on the threshold seizeThe prize of life from age and likelihood,I mourn time’s change that will not be withstood,Thinking how Christ saidBe like one of these.For in the forest among many treesScarce one in all is found that hath made goodThe virgin pattern of its slender wood,That courtesied in joy to every breeze;But scath’d, but knotted trunks that raise on highTheir arms in stiff contortion, strain’d and bare;Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.So, little children, ye—nay nay, ye ne’erFrom me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.43When parch’d with thirst, astray on sultry sandsThe traveller faints, upon his closing earSteals a fantastic music: he may hearThe babbling fountain of his native land.Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,And not refuse the help of lover’s hand.O cruel jest—he cries, as some one flingsThe sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire—O shameless, O contempt of holy things.But never of their wanton play they tire,As not athirst they sit beside the springs,While he must quench in death his lost desire.44The image of thy love, rising on darkAnd desperate days over my sullen sea,Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.Whate’er my sorrow be, I then may harkA loving voice: whate’er my terror be,This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark.Prodigal nature makes us but to tasteOne perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;And lest her precious gift should run to waste,Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:So to the memory of the gift that gracedHer hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.45In this neglected, ruin’d edificeOf works unperfected and broken schemes,Where is the promise of my early dreams,The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?No charm is left now that could once enticeWind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,Trailing the banner of his old device.Within the house a frore and numbing airHas chill’d endeavour: sickly memories reignIn every room, and ghosts are on the stair:And hope behind the dusty window-paneWatches the days go by, and bow’d with careForecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.46Once I would say, before thy vision came,My joy, my life, my love, and with some kindOf knowledge speak, and think I knew my mindOf heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.Whate’er their sounds be, now all mean the same,Denoting each the fair that none can find;Or if I say them, ’tis as one long blindForgets the sights that he was used to name.Now if men speak of love, ’tis not my love;Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their lifeOf praise the life that I think honour of:Nay tho’ they turn from house and child and wifeAnd self, and in the thought of heaven aboveHold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.47Since then ’tis only pity looking back,Fear looking forward, and the busy mindWill in one woeful moment more upwindThan lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;What is man’s privilege, his hoarding knackOf memory with foreboding so combined,Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kindThe perpetuity which all things lack?Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to haveBeing a continuance of what, alas,We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave;Or something so unknown that it o’erpassThe thought of comfort, and the sense that gaveCannot consider it thro’ any glass.48Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and takeNot now the child into thine arms, from frightComposed by drowsy tune and shaded light,Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;Nor now the boy, who scorn’d thee for the sakeOf growing knowledge or mysterious night,Tho’ with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake;No, nor the man severe, who from his bestFailing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth,For all my wakeful prayer sent without restTo thee, O shew and shadow of my death.49The spirit’s eager sense for sad or gayFilleth with what he will our vessel full:Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy’s day,But like a child at any toy will pull:If sorrow, he will weep for fancy’s sake,And spoil heaven’s plenty with forbidden care.What fortune most denies we slave to take;Nor can fate load us more than we can bear.Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,While he keep hope: as he who alway fearethA grief that never comes hath yet the smart;And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.50The world comes not to an end: her city-hivesSwarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;Invention with invention overlaid:But still or tool or toy or book or bladeShaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives.The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,With little better’d means; for works dependOn works and overlap, and thought on thought:And thro’ all change the smiles of hope amendThe weariest face, the same love changed in nought:In this thing too the world comes not to an end.51O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,That in my secret book with so much careI write you, this one here and that one there,Marking the time and order of your birth?How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,Look ye for any welcome anywhereFrom any shelf or heart-home on the earth?Should others ask you this, say then I yearn’dTo write you such as once, when I was young,Finding I should have loved and thereto turn’d.’Twere something yet to live again amongThe gentle youth beloved, and where I learn’dMy art, be there remember’d for my song.52Who takes the census of the living dead,Ere the day come when memory shall o’ercrowdThe kingdom of their fame, and for that proudAnd airy people find no room nor stead?Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth backThe fairest treasures of his ancient store,Better with best confound, so he may packHis greedy gatherings closer, more and more?Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,And purge her story of the men of hate,That they go dirgeless down to Satan’s rageWith all else foul, deform’d and miscreate:She hath full toil to keep the names of loveHonour’d on earth, as they are bright above.53I heard great Hector sounding war’s alarms,Where thro’ the listless ghosts chiding he strode,As tho’ the Greeks besieged his last abode,And he his Troy’s hope still, her king-at-arms.But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charmsWith weary oblivion, his passion glow’dLike the cold night-worm’s candle, and only show’dSuch mimic flame as neither heats nor harms.’Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,How rude catastrophe had dim’d his day,And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:To arms! to arms!what more the voice would sayWas swallow’d in the valleys, and grew faintUpon the thin air, as he pass’d away.54Since not the enamour’d sun with glance more fondKisses the foliage of his sacred tree,Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;Nay since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bondIs writ my promise of eternity;Since to such high hope thou’st encouraged me,That if thou look but from me I despond;Since thou’rt my all in all, O think of this:Think of the dedication of my youth:Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,My sheer annihilation if I miss:Think—if thou shouldst be false—think of thy truth.55These meagre rhymes, which a returning moodSometimes o’errateth, I as oft despise;And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,See them as others with contemptuous eyes.Nay, and I wonder less at God’s respectFor man, a minim jot in time and space,Than at the soaring faith of His elect,That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace.O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,Most infinitely tender, so to touchThe work that we can meanly reckon of:Surely—I say—we are favour’d overmuch.But of this wonder, what doth most amazeIs that we know our love is held for praise.56Beauty sat with, me all the summer day,Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;Nor mark’d I till we parted, how, hard by,Love in her train stood ready for his prey.She, as too proud to join herself the fray,Trusting too much to her divine ally,When she saw victory tarry, chid him—‘WhyDost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?’Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,Told of our ancient truce: so from the fightWe straight withdrew our forces, all the three.Baffled but not dishearten’d she took flightScheming new tactics: Love came home with me,And prompts my measured verses as I write.57In autumn moonlight, when the white air wanIs fragrant in the wake of summer hence,’Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereonIn melancholy and godlike indolence:When the proud spirit, lull’d by mortal primeTo fond pretence of immortality,Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,All things whate’er have been or yet shall be.And like the garden, where the year is spent,The ruin of old life is full of yearning,Mingling poetic rapture of lamentWith flowers and sunshine of spring’s sure returning;Only in visions of the white air wanBy godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.58When first I saw thee, dearest, if I sayThe spells that conjure back the hour and place,And evermore I look upon thy face,As in the spring of years long passed away;No fading of thy beauty’s rich array,No detriment of age on thee I trace,But time’s defeat written in spoils of grace,From rivals robb’d, whom thou didst pity and slay.So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,To life’s desire the same, and nothing new:But as thou wert in dream and prescienceAt love’s arising, now thou standst to viewIn the broad noon of his magnificence.59’Twas on the very day winter took leaveOf those fair fields I love, when to the skiesThe fragrant Earth was smiling in surpriseAt that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,I wander’d forth my sorrow to relieve;Yet walk’d amid sweet pleasure in such wiseAs Adam went alone in Paradise,Before God of His pity fashion’d Eve.And out of tune with all the joy aroundI laid me down beneath a flowering tree,And o’er my senses crept a sleep profound;In which it seem’d that thou wert given to me,Rending my body, where with hurried soundI feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.60Love that I know, love I am wise in, love,My strength, my pride, my grace, my skill untaught,My faith here upon earth, my hope above,My contemplation and perpetual thought:The pleasure of my fancy, my heart’s fire,My joy, my peace, my praise, my happy theme,The aim of all my doing, my desireOf being, my life by day, by night my dream:Love, my sweet melancholy, my distress,My pain, my doubt, my trouble, my despair,My only folly and unhappiness,And in my careless moments still my care:O love, sweet love, earthly love, love divine,Sayst thou to-day, O love, that thou art mine?61The dark and serious angel, who so longVex’d his immortal strength in charge of me,Hath smiled for joy and fled in libertyTo take his pastime with the peerless throng.Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,Wounding his heart to wonder what might beGod’s purpose in a soul of such degree;And there he had left me but for mandate strong.But seeing thee with me now, his task at closeHe knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,And work confusion of so many foes:The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goesUnto what great reward I cannot say.62I will be what God made me, nor protestAgainst the bent of genius in my time,That science of my friends robs all the best,While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.Be they our mighty men, and let me dwellIn shadow among the mighty shades of old,With love’s forsaken palace for my cell;Whence I look forth and all the world behold,And say, These better days, in best things worse,This bastardy of time’s magnificence,Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,To crown new love with higher excellence.Curs’d tho’ I be to live my life alone,My toil is for man’s joy, his joy my own.63I live on hope and that I think do allWho come into this world, and since I seeMyself in swim with such good company,I take my comfort whatsoe’er befall.I abide and abide, as if more stout and tallMy spirit would grow by waiting like a tree;And, clear of others’ toil, it pleaseth meIn dreams their quick ambition to forestall.And if thro’ careless eagerness I slideTo some accomplishment, I give my voiceStill to desire, and in desire abide.I have no stake abroad; if I rejoiceIn what is done or doing, I confideNeither to friend nor foe my secret choice.64Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoyThe purchase of those tears, the world’s disdain,Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?Have ye no springtide, and no burst of MayIn flowers and leafy trees, when solemn nightPants with love-music, and the holy dayBreaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thoughtOf us, or in new excellence divineIs old forgot? or do ye count for noughtWhat the Greek did and what the Florentine?We keep your memories well: O in your storeLive not our best joys treasured evermore?65Ah heavenly joy! But who hath ever heard,Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever findJoy’s language? There is neither speech nor word;Nought but itself to teach it to mankind.Scarce in our twenty thousand painful daysWe may touch something: but there lives—beyondThe best of art, or nature’s kindest phase—The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:The cause of beauty given to man’s desires,Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,The aim of all the good that here we prize;Which but to love, pursue and pray for wellMaketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.66My wearied heart, whenever, after all,Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,And from all dear illusions disenthrall:However then thou shalt appear to callMy fearful heart, since down at others’ feetIt bade me kneel so oft, I’ll not retreatFrom thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall.And I shall say, ‘Receive this loving heartWhich err’d in sorrow only; and in sinTook no delight; but being forced apartFrom thee, without thee hoping thee to win,Most prized what most thou madest as thou artOn earth, till heaven were open to enter in.’67Dreary was winter, wet with changeful stingOf clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,That dallied with her promise till ’twas lost.A sunless and half-hearted summer drown’dThe flowers in needful and unwelcom’d rain;And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown’dFrom fruitless orchards and unripen’d grain.But could the skies of this most desolate yearIn its last month learn with our love to glow,Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphereAbove the sunsets of five years ago:Of my great praise too part should be its own,Now reckon’d peerless for thy love alone.68Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free:Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done:Tho’ to win thee I left all else unwon,Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me.My first desire, thou too foregone must be,Thou too, O much lamented now, tho’ noneWill turn to pity thy forsaken son,Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee.None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse,To thy Sicilian fields: I once have beenOn thy loved hills, and where thou first didst useThy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen,Have pluck’d and wreath’d thy flowers; but do thou chooseSome happier brow to wear thy garlands green.69Eternal Father, who didst all create,In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,Till its loud praises sound at heaven’s high gate.Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,That here on earth Thou mayst as well approveOur service, as Thou ownest theirs above,Whose joy we echo and in pain await.Grant body and soul each day their daily bread:And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,Even as our anger soon is past and deadBe Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,And in the vale of terror comforted.

Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care,

Comforting tears that fell uncomforted,

Tears o’er the new-born, tears beside the dead,

Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer,

Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe’er

Of tenderness or kindness had she shed

Who here is pictured, ere upon her head

The fine gold might be turn’d to silver there.

The smile that charm’d the father hath given placeUnto the furrow’d care wrought by the son;But virtue hath transform’d all change to grace:So that I praise the artist, who hath doneA portrait, for my worship, of the faceWon by the heart my father’s heart that won.

The smile that charm’d the father hath given place

Unto the furrow’d care wrought by the son;

But virtue hath transform’d all change to grace:

So that I praise the artist, who hath done

A portrait, for my worship, of the face

Won by the heart my father’s heart that won.

If I could but forget and not recallSo well my time of pleasure and of play,When ancient nature was all new and gay,Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,—Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,Nor dream’d what fearful searchings underlayThe flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall:Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,Press’d in the melée of accursed things,Having such help in love and such reward:But that ’tis I who once—’tis this that stings—Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,Where yet I’d be had I but heavenly wings.

If I could but forget and not recall

So well my time of pleasure and of play,

When ancient nature was all new and gay,

Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,—

Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,

Nor dream’d what fearful searchings underlay

The flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,

The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall:

Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,Press’d in the melée of accursed things,Having such help in love and such reward:But that ’tis I who once—’tis this that stings—Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,Where yet I’d be had I but heavenly wings.

Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,

Press’d in the melée of accursed things,

Having such help in love and such reward:

But that ’tis I who once—’tis this that stings—

Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,

Where yet I’d be had I but heavenly wings.

When I see childhood on the threshold seizeThe prize of life from age and likelihood,I mourn time’s change that will not be withstood,Thinking how Christ saidBe like one of these.For in the forest among many treesScarce one in all is found that hath made goodThe virgin pattern of its slender wood,That courtesied in joy to every breeze;But scath’d, but knotted trunks that raise on highTheir arms in stiff contortion, strain’d and bare;Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.So, little children, ye—nay nay, ye ne’erFrom me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

When I see childhood on the threshold seize

The prize of life from age and likelihood,

I mourn time’s change that will not be withstood,

Thinking how Christ saidBe like one of these.

For in the forest among many trees

Scarce one in all is found that hath made good

The virgin pattern of its slender wood,

That courtesied in joy to every breeze;

But scath’d, but knotted trunks that raise on highTheir arms in stiff contortion, strain’d and bare;Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.So, little children, ye—nay nay, ye ne’erFrom me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

But scath’d, but knotted trunks that raise on high

Their arms in stiff contortion, strain’d and bare;

Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.

So, little children, ye—nay nay, ye ne’er

From me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,

When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

When parch’d with thirst, astray on sultry sandsThe traveller faints, upon his closing earSteals a fantastic music: he may hearThe babbling fountain of his native land.Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,And not refuse the help of lover’s hand.O cruel jest—he cries, as some one flingsThe sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire—O shameless, O contempt of holy things.But never of their wanton play they tire,As not athirst they sit beside the springs,While he must quench in death his lost desire.

When parch’d with thirst, astray on sultry sands

The traveller faints, upon his closing ear

Steals a fantastic music: he may hear

The babbling fountain of his native land.

Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,

Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,

Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,

And not refuse the help of lover’s hand.

O cruel jest—he cries, as some one flingsThe sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire—O shameless, O contempt of holy things.But never of their wanton play they tire,As not athirst they sit beside the springs,While he must quench in death his lost desire.

O cruel jest—he cries, as some one flings

The sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire—

O shameless, O contempt of holy things.

But never of their wanton play they tire,

As not athirst they sit beside the springs,

While he must quench in death his lost desire.

The image of thy love, rising on darkAnd desperate days over my sullen sea,Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.Whate’er my sorrow be, I then may harkA loving voice: whate’er my terror be,This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark.Prodigal nature makes us but to tasteOne perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;And lest her precious gift should run to waste,Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:So to the memory of the gift that gracedHer hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

The image of thy love, rising on dark

And desperate days over my sullen sea,

Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,

Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.

Whate’er my sorrow be, I then may hark

A loving voice: whate’er my terror be,

This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,

To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark.

Prodigal nature makes us but to tasteOne perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;And lest her precious gift should run to waste,Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:So to the memory of the gift that gracedHer hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

Prodigal nature makes us but to taste

One perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;

And lest her precious gift should run to waste,

Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:

So to the memory of the gift that graced

Her hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

In this neglected, ruin’d edificeOf works unperfected and broken schemes,Where is the promise of my early dreams,The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?No charm is left now that could once enticeWind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,Trailing the banner of his old device.Within the house a frore and numbing airHas chill’d endeavour: sickly memories reignIn every room, and ghosts are on the stair:And hope behind the dusty window-paneWatches the days go by, and bow’d with careForecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

In this neglected, ruin’d edifice

Of works unperfected and broken schemes,

Where is the promise of my early dreams,

The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?

No charm is left now that could once entice

Wind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,

And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,

Trailing the banner of his old device.

Within the house a frore and numbing airHas chill’d endeavour: sickly memories reignIn every room, and ghosts are on the stair:And hope behind the dusty window-paneWatches the days go by, and bow’d with careForecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

Within the house a frore and numbing air

Has chill’d endeavour: sickly memories reign

In every room, and ghosts are on the stair:

And hope behind the dusty window-pane

Watches the days go by, and bow’d with care

Forecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

Once I would say, before thy vision came,My joy, my life, my love, and with some kindOf knowledge speak, and think I knew my mindOf heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.Whate’er their sounds be, now all mean the same,Denoting each the fair that none can find;Or if I say them, ’tis as one long blindForgets the sights that he was used to name.Now if men speak of love, ’tis not my love;Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their lifeOf praise the life that I think honour of:Nay tho’ they turn from house and child and wifeAnd self, and in the thought of heaven aboveHold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

Once I would say, before thy vision came,

My joy, my life, my love, and with some kind

Of knowledge speak, and think I knew my mind

Of heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.

Whate’er their sounds be, now all mean the same,

Denoting each the fair that none can find;

Or if I say them, ’tis as one long blind

Forgets the sights that he was used to name.

Now if men speak of love, ’tis not my love;Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their lifeOf praise the life that I think honour of:Nay tho’ they turn from house and child and wifeAnd self, and in the thought of heaven aboveHold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

Now if men speak of love, ’tis not my love;

Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their life

Of praise the life that I think honour of:

Nay tho’ they turn from house and child and wife

And self, and in the thought of heaven above

Hold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

Since then ’tis only pity looking back,Fear looking forward, and the busy mindWill in one woeful moment more upwindThan lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;What is man’s privilege, his hoarding knackOf memory with foreboding so combined,Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kindThe perpetuity which all things lack?Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to haveBeing a continuance of what, alas,We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave;Or something so unknown that it o’erpassThe thought of comfort, and the sense that gaveCannot consider it thro’ any glass.

Since then ’tis only pity looking back,

Fear looking forward, and the busy mind

Will in one woeful moment more upwind

Than lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;

What is man’s privilege, his hoarding knack

Of memory with foreboding so combined,

Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kind

The perpetuity which all things lack?

Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to haveBeing a continuance of what, alas,We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave;Or something so unknown that it o’erpassThe thought of comfort, and the sense that gaveCannot consider it thro’ any glass.

Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to have

Being a continuance of what, alas,

We mourn, and scarcely bear with to the grave;

Or something so unknown that it o’erpass

The thought of comfort, and the sense that gave

Cannot consider it thro’ any glass.

Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and takeNot now the child into thine arms, from frightComposed by drowsy tune and shaded light,Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;Nor now the boy, who scorn’d thee for the sakeOf growing knowledge or mysterious night,Tho’ with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake;No, nor the man severe, who from his bestFailing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth,For all my wakeful prayer sent without restTo thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and take

Not now the child into thine arms, from fright

Composed by drowsy tune and shaded light,

Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;

Nor now the boy, who scorn’d thee for the sake

Of growing knowledge or mysterious night,

Tho’ with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,

And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake;

No, nor the man severe, who from his bestFailing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth,For all my wakeful prayer sent without restTo thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

No, nor the man severe, who from his best

Failing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,

Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;

But me, from whom thy comfort tarrieth,

For all my wakeful prayer sent without rest

To thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

The spirit’s eager sense for sad or gayFilleth with what he will our vessel full:Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy’s day,But like a child at any toy will pull:If sorrow, he will weep for fancy’s sake,And spoil heaven’s plenty with forbidden care.What fortune most denies we slave to take;Nor can fate load us more than we can bear.Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,While he keep hope: as he who alway fearethA grief that never comes hath yet the smart;And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

The spirit’s eager sense for sad or gay

Filleth with what he will our vessel full:

Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy’s day,

But like a child at any toy will pull:

If sorrow, he will weep for fancy’s sake,

And spoil heaven’s plenty with forbidden care.

What fortune most denies we slave to take;

Nor can fate load us more than we can bear.

Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,While he keep hope: as he who alway fearethA grief that never comes hath yet the smart;And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,

He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,

While he keep hope: as he who alway feareth

A grief that never comes hath yet the smart;

And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,

For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

The world comes not to an end: her city-hivesSwarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;Invention with invention overlaid:But still or tool or toy or book or bladeShaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives.The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,With little better’d means; for works dependOn works and overlap, and thought on thought:And thro’ all change the smiles of hope amendThe weariest face, the same love changed in nought:In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

The world comes not to an end: her city-hives

Swarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,

With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,

Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.

New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;

Invention with invention overlaid:

But still or tool or toy or book or blade

Shaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives.

The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,With little better’d means; for works dependOn works and overlap, and thought on thought:And thro’ all change the smiles of hope amendThe weariest face, the same love changed in nought:In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,

With little better’d means; for works depend

On works and overlap, and thought on thought:

And thro’ all change the smiles of hope amend

The weariest face, the same love changed in nought:

In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,That in my secret book with so much careI write you, this one here and that one there,Marking the time and order of your birth?How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,Look ye for any welcome anywhereFrom any shelf or heart-home on the earth?Should others ask you this, say then I yearn’dTo write you such as once, when I was young,Finding I should have loved and thereto turn’d.’Twere something yet to live again amongThe gentle youth beloved, and where I learn’dMy art, be there remember’d for my song.

O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,

That in my secret book with so much care

I write you, this one here and that one there,

Marking the time and order of your birth?

How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,

A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,

Look ye for any welcome anywhere

From any shelf or heart-home on the earth?

Should others ask you this, say then I yearn’dTo write you such as once, when I was young,Finding I should have loved and thereto turn’d.’Twere something yet to live again amongThe gentle youth beloved, and where I learn’dMy art, be there remember’d for my song.

Should others ask you this, say then I yearn’d

To write you such as once, when I was young,

Finding I should have loved and thereto turn’d.

’Twere something yet to live again among

The gentle youth beloved, and where I learn’d

My art, be there remember’d for my song.

Who takes the census of the living dead,Ere the day come when memory shall o’ercrowdThe kingdom of their fame, and for that proudAnd airy people find no room nor stead?Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth backThe fairest treasures of his ancient store,Better with best confound, so he may packHis greedy gatherings closer, more and more?Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,And purge her story of the men of hate,That they go dirgeless down to Satan’s rageWith all else foul, deform’d and miscreate:She hath full toil to keep the names of loveHonour’d on earth, as they are bright above.

Who takes the census of the living dead,

Ere the day come when memory shall o’ercrowd

The kingdom of their fame, and for that proud

And airy people find no room nor stead?

Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth back

The fairest treasures of his ancient store,

Better with best confound, so he may pack

His greedy gatherings closer, more and more?

Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,And purge her story of the men of hate,That they go dirgeless down to Satan’s rageWith all else foul, deform’d and miscreate:She hath full toil to keep the names of loveHonour’d on earth, as they are bright above.

Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,

And purge her story of the men of hate,

That they go dirgeless down to Satan’s rage

With all else foul, deform’d and miscreate:

She hath full toil to keep the names of love

Honour’d on earth, as they are bright above.

I heard great Hector sounding war’s alarms,Where thro’ the listless ghosts chiding he strode,As tho’ the Greeks besieged his last abode,And he his Troy’s hope still, her king-at-arms.But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charmsWith weary oblivion, his passion glow’dLike the cold night-worm’s candle, and only show’dSuch mimic flame as neither heats nor harms.’Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,How rude catastrophe had dim’d his day,And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:To arms! to arms!what more the voice would sayWas swallow’d in the valleys, and grew faintUpon the thin air, as he pass’d away.

I heard great Hector sounding war’s alarms,

Where thro’ the listless ghosts chiding he strode,

As tho’ the Greeks besieged his last abode,

And he his Troy’s hope still, her king-at-arms.

But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charms

With weary oblivion, his passion glow’d

Like the cold night-worm’s candle, and only show’d

Such mimic flame as neither heats nor harms.

’Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,How rude catastrophe had dim’d his day,And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:To arms! to arms!what more the voice would sayWas swallow’d in the valleys, and grew faintUpon the thin air, as he pass’d away.

’Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,

How rude catastrophe had dim’d his day,

And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:

To arms! to arms!what more the voice would say

Was swallow’d in the valleys, and grew faint

Upon the thin air, as he pass’d away.

Since not the enamour’d sun with glance more fondKisses the foliage of his sacred tree,Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;Nay since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bondIs writ my promise of eternity;Since to such high hope thou’st encouraged me,That if thou look but from me I despond;Since thou’rt my all in all, O think of this:Think of the dedication of my youth:Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,My sheer annihilation if I miss:Think—if thou shouldst be false—think of thy truth.

Since not the enamour’d sun with glance more fond

Kisses the foliage of his sacred tree,

Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,

Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;

Nay since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bond

Is writ my promise of eternity;

Since to such high hope thou’st encouraged me,

That if thou look but from me I despond;

Since thou’rt my all in all, O think of this:Think of the dedication of my youth:Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,My sheer annihilation if I miss:Think—if thou shouldst be false—think of thy truth.

Since thou’rt my all in all, O think of this:

Think of the dedication of my youth:

Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:

Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,

My sheer annihilation if I miss:

Think—if thou shouldst be false—think of thy truth.

These meagre rhymes, which a returning moodSometimes o’errateth, I as oft despise;And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,See them as others with contemptuous eyes.Nay, and I wonder less at God’s respectFor man, a minim jot in time and space,Than at the soaring faith of His elect,That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace.O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,Most infinitely tender, so to touchThe work that we can meanly reckon of:Surely—I say—we are favour’d overmuch.But of this wonder, what doth most amazeIs that we know our love is held for praise.

These meagre rhymes, which a returning mood

Sometimes o’errateth, I as oft despise;

And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,

See them as others with contemptuous eyes.

Nay, and I wonder less at God’s respect

For man, a minim jot in time and space,

Than at the soaring faith of His elect,

That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace.

O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,Most infinitely tender, so to touchThe work that we can meanly reckon of:Surely—I say—we are favour’d overmuch.But of this wonder, what doth most amazeIs that we know our love is held for praise.

O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,

Most infinitely tender, so to touch

The work that we can meanly reckon of:

Surely—I say—we are favour’d overmuch.

But of this wonder, what doth most amaze

Is that we know our love is held for praise.

Beauty sat with, me all the summer day,Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;Nor mark’d I till we parted, how, hard by,Love in her train stood ready for his prey.She, as too proud to join herself the fray,Trusting too much to her divine ally,When she saw victory tarry, chid him—‘WhyDost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?’Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,Told of our ancient truce: so from the fightWe straight withdrew our forces, all the three.Baffled but not dishearten’d she took flightScheming new tactics: Love came home with me,And prompts my measured verses as I write.

Beauty sat with, me all the summer day,

Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;

Nor mark’d I till we parted, how, hard by,

Love in her train stood ready for his prey.

She, as too proud to join herself the fray,

Trusting too much to her divine ally,

When she saw victory tarry, chid him—‘Why

Dost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?’

Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,Told of our ancient truce: so from the fightWe straight withdrew our forces, all the three.Baffled but not dishearten’d she took flightScheming new tactics: Love came home with me,And prompts my measured verses as I write.

Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,

Told of our ancient truce: so from the fight

We straight withdrew our forces, all the three.

Baffled but not dishearten’d she took flight

Scheming new tactics: Love came home with me,

And prompts my measured verses as I write.

In autumn moonlight, when the white air wanIs fragrant in the wake of summer hence,’Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereonIn melancholy and godlike indolence:When the proud spirit, lull’d by mortal primeTo fond pretence of immortality,Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,All things whate’er have been or yet shall be.And like the garden, where the year is spent,The ruin of old life is full of yearning,Mingling poetic rapture of lamentWith flowers and sunshine of spring’s sure returning;Only in visions of the white air wanBy godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan

Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence,

’Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon

In melancholy and godlike indolence:

When the proud spirit, lull’d by mortal prime

To fond pretence of immortality,

Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,

All things whate’er have been or yet shall be.

And like the garden, where the year is spent,The ruin of old life is full of yearning,Mingling poetic rapture of lamentWith flowers and sunshine of spring’s sure returning;Only in visions of the white air wanBy godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

And like the garden, where the year is spent,

The ruin of old life is full of yearning,

Mingling poetic rapture of lament

With flowers and sunshine of spring’s sure returning;

Only in visions of the white air wan

By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

When first I saw thee, dearest, if I sayThe spells that conjure back the hour and place,And evermore I look upon thy face,As in the spring of years long passed away;No fading of thy beauty’s rich array,No detriment of age on thee I trace,But time’s defeat written in spoils of grace,From rivals robb’d, whom thou didst pity and slay.So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,To life’s desire the same, and nothing new:But as thou wert in dream and prescienceAt love’s arising, now thou standst to viewIn the broad noon of his magnificence.

When first I saw thee, dearest, if I say

The spells that conjure back the hour and place,

And evermore I look upon thy face,

As in the spring of years long passed away;

No fading of thy beauty’s rich array,

No detriment of age on thee I trace,

But time’s defeat written in spoils of grace,

From rivals robb’d, whom thou didst pity and slay.

So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,To life’s desire the same, and nothing new:But as thou wert in dream and prescienceAt love’s arising, now thou standst to viewIn the broad noon of his magnificence.

So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,

Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,

To life’s desire the same, and nothing new:

But as thou wert in dream and prescience

At love’s arising, now thou standst to view

In the broad noon of his magnificence.

’Twas on the very day winter took leaveOf those fair fields I love, when to the skiesThe fragrant Earth was smiling in surpriseAt that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,I wander’d forth my sorrow to relieve;Yet walk’d amid sweet pleasure in such wiseAs Adam went alone in Paradise,Before God of His pity fashion’d Eve.And out of tune with all the joy aroundI laid me down beneath a flowering tree,And o’er my senses crept a sleep profound;In which it seem’d that thou wert given to me,Rending my body, where with hurried soundI feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

’Twas on the very day winter took leave

Of those fair fields I love, when to the skies

The fragrant Earth was smiling in surprise

At that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,

I wander’d forth my sorrow to relieve;

Yet walk’d amid sweet pleasure in such wise

As Adam went alone in Paradise,

Before God of His pity fashion’d Eve.

And out of tune with all the joy aroundI laid me down beneath a flowering tree,And o’er my senses crept a sleep profound;In which it seem’d that thou wert given to me,Rending my body, where with hurried soundI feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

And out of tune with all the joy around

I laid me down beneath a flowering tree,

And o’er my senses crept a sleep profound;

In which it seem’d that thou wert given to me,

Rending my body, where with hurried sound

I feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

Love that I know, love I am wise in, love,My strength, my pride, my grace, my skill untaught,My faith here upon earth, my hope above,My contemplation and perpetual thought:The pleasure of my fancy, my heart’s fire,My joy, my peace, my praise, my happy theme,The aim of all my doing, my desireOf being, my life by day, by night my dream:Love, my sweet melancholy, my distress,My pain, my doubt, my trouble, my despair,My only folly and unhappiness,And in my careless moments still my care:O love, sweet love, earthly love, love divine,Sayst thou to-day, O love, that thou art mine?

Love that I know, love I am wise in, love,

My strength, my pride, my grace, my skill untaught,

My faith here upon earth, my hope above,

My contemplation and perpetual thought:

The pleasure of my fancy, my heart’s fire,

My joy, my peace, my praise, my happy theme,

The aim of all my doing, my desire

Of being, my life by day, by night my dream:

Love, my sweet melancholy, my distress,My pain, my doubt, my trouble, my despair,My only folly and unhappiness,And in my careless moments still my care:O love, sweet love, earthly love, love divine,Sayst thou to-day, O love, that thou art mine?

Love, my sweet melancholy, my distress,

My pain, my doubt, my trouble, my despair,

My only folly and unhappiness,

And in my careless moments still my care:

O love, sweet love, earthly love, love divine,

Sayst thou to-day, O love, that thou art mine?

The dark and serious angel, who so longVex’d his immortal strength in charge of me,Hath smiled for joy and fled in libertyTo take his pastime with the peerless throng.Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,Wounding his heart to wonder what might beGod’s purpose in a soul of such degree;And there he had left me but for mandate strong.But seeing thee with me now, his task at closeHe knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,And work confusion of so many foes:The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goesUnto what great reward I cannot say.

The dark and serious angel, who so long

Vex’d his immortal strength in charge of me,

Hath smiled for joy and fled in liberty

To take his pastime with the peerless throng.

Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,

Wounding his heart to wonder what might be

God’s purpose in a soul of such degree;

And there he had left me but for mandate strong.

But seeing thee with me now, his task at closeHe knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,And work confusion of so many foes:The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goesUnto what great reward I cannot say.

But seeing thee with me now, his task at close

He knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,

And work confusion of so many foes:

The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,

Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goes

Unto what great reward I cannot say.

I will be what God made me, nor protestAgainst the bent of genius in my time,That science of my friends robs all the best,While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.Be they our mighty men, and let me dwellIn shadow among the mighty shades of old,With love’s forsaken palace for my cell;Whence I look forth and all the world behold,And say, These better days, in best things worse,This bastardy of time’s magnificence,Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,To crown new love with higher excellence.Curs’d tho’ I be to live my life alone,My toil is for man’s joy, his joy my own.

I will be what God made me, nor protest

Against the bent of genius in my time,

That science of my friends robs all the best,

While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.

Be they our mighty men, and let me dwell

In shadow among the mighty shades of old,

With love’s forsaken palace for my cell;

Whence I look forth and all the world behold,

And say, These better days, in best things worse,This bastardy of time’s magnificence,Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,To crown new love with higher excellence.Curs’d tho’ I be to live my life alone,My toil is for man’s joy, his joy my own.

And say, These better days, in best things worse,

This bastardy of time’s magnificence,

Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,

To crown new love with higher excellence.

Curs’d tho’ I be to live my life alone,

My toil is for man’s joy, his joy my own.

I live on hope and that I think do allWho come into this world, and since I seeMyself in swim with such good company,I take my comfort whatsoe’er befall.I abide and abide, as if more stout and tallMy spirit would grow by waiting like a tree;And, clear of others’ toil, it pleaseth meIn dreams their quick ambition to forestall.And if thro’ careless eagerness I slideTo some accomplishment, I give my voiceStill to desire, and in desire abide.I have no stake abroad; if I rejoiceIn what is done or doing, I confideNeither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

I live on hope and that I think do all

Who come into this world, and since I see

Myself in swim with such good company,

I take my comfort whatsoe’er befall.

I abide and abide, as if more stout and tall

My spirit would grow by waiting like a tree;

And, clear of others’ toil, it pleaseth me

In dreams their quick ambition to forestall.

And if thro’ careless eagerness I slideTo some accomplishment, I give my voiceStill to desire, and in desire abide.I have no stake abroad; if I rejoiceIn what is done or doing, I confideNeither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

And if thro’ careless eagerness I slide

To some accomplishment, I give my voice

Still to desire, and in desire abide.

I have no stake abroad; if I rejoice

In what is done or doing, I confide

Neither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoyThe purchase of those tears, the world’s disdain,Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?Have ye no springtide, and no burst of MayIn flowers and leafy trees, when solemn nightPants with love-music, and the holy dayBreaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thoughtOf us, or in new excellence divineIs old forgot? or do ye count for noughtWhat the Greek did and what the Florentine?We keep your memories well: O in your storeLive not our best joys treasured evermore?

Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy

The purchase of those tears, the world’s disdain,

Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,

Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?

Have ye no springtide, and no burst of May

In flowers and leafy trees, when solemn night

Pants with love-music, and the holy day

Breaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light?

What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thoughtOf us, or in new excellence divineIs old forgot? or do ye count for noughtWhat the Greek did and what the Florentine?We keep your memories well: O in your storeLive not our best joys treasured evermore?

What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thought

Of us, or in new excellence divine

Is old forgot? or do ye count for nought

What the Greek did and what the Florentine?

We keep your memories well: O in your store

Live not our best joys treasured evermore?

Ah heavenly joy! But who hath ever heard,Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever findJoy’s language? There is neither speech nor word;Nought but itself to teach it to mankind.Scarce in our twenty thousand painful daysWe may touch something: but there lives—beyondThe best of art, or nature’s kindest phase—The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:The cause of beauty given to man’s desires,Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,The aim of all the good that here we prize;Which but to love, pursue and pray for wellMaketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

Ah heavenly joy! But who hath ever heard,

Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever find

Joy’s language? There is neither speech nor word;

Nought but itself to teach it to mankind.

Scarce in our twenty thousand painful days

We may touch something: but there lives—beyond

The best of art, or nature’s kindest phase—

The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond:

The cause of beauty given to man’s desires,Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,The aim of all the good that here we prize;Which but to love, pursue and pray for wellMaketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

The cause of beauty given to man’s desires,

Writ in the expectancy of starry skies,

The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,

The aim of all the good that here we prize;

Which but to love, pursue and pray for well

Maketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

My wearied heart, whenever, after all,Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,And from all dear illusions disenthrall:However then thou shalt appear to callMy fearful heart, since down at others’ feetIt bade me kneel so oft, I’ll not retreatFrom thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall.And I shall say, ‘Receive this loving heartWhich err’d in sorrow only; and in sinTook no delight; but being forced apartFrom thee, without thee hoping thee to win,Most prized what most thou madest as thou artOn earth, till heaven were open to enter in.’

My wearied heart, whenever, after all,

Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,

When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,

And from all dear illusions disenthrall:

However then thou shalt appear to call

My fearful heart, since down at others’ feet

It bade me kneel so oft, I’ll not retreat

From thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall.

And I shall say, ‘Receive this loving heartWhich err’d in sorrow only; and in sinTook no delight; but being forced apartFrom thee, without thee hoping thee to win,Most prized what most thou madest as thou artOn earth, till heaven were open to enter in.’

And I shall say, ‘Receive this loving heart

Which err’d in sorrow only; and in sin

Took no delight; but being forced apart

From thee, without thee hoping thee to win,

Most prized what most thou madest as thou art

On earth, till heaven were open to enter in.’

Dreary was winter, wet with changeful stingOf clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,That dallied with her promise till ’twas lost.A sunless and half-hearted summer drown’dThe flowers in needful and unwelcom’d rain;And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown’dFrom fruitless orchards and unripen’d grain.But could the skies of this most desolate yearIn its last month learn with our love to glow,Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphereAbove the sunsets of five years ago:Of my great praise too part should be its own,Now reckon’d peerless for thy love alone.

Dreary was winter, wet with changeful sting

Of clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;

And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,

That dallied with her promise till ’twas lost.

A sunless and half-hearted summer drown’d

The flowers in needful and unwelcom’d rain;

And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown’d

From fruitless orchards and unripen’d grain.

But could the skies of this most desolate yearIn its last month learn with our love to glow,Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphereAbove the sunsets of five years ago:Of my great praise too part should be its own,Now reckon’d peerless for thy love alone.

But could the skies of this most desolate year

In its last month learn with our love to glow,

Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphere

Above the sunsets of five years ago:

Of my great praise too part should be its own,

Now reckon’d peerless for thy love alone.

Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free:Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done:Tho’ to win thee I left all else unwon,Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me.My first desire, thou too foregone must be,Thou too, O much lamented now, tho’ noneWill turn to pity thy forsaken son,Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee.None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse,To thy Sicilian fields: I once have beenOn thy loved hills, and where thou first didst useThy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen,Have pluck’d and wreath’d thy flowers; but do thou chooseSome happier brow to wear thy garlands green.

Away now, lovely Muse, roam and be free:

Our commerce ends for aye, thy task is done:

Tho’ to win thee I left all else unwon,

Thou, whom I most have won, art not for me.

My first desire, thou too foregone must be,

Thou too, O much lamented now, tho’ none

Will turn to pity thy forsaken son,

Nor thy divine sisters will weep for thee.

None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse,To thy Sicilian fields: I once have beenOn thy loved hills, and where thou first didst useThy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen,Have pluck’d and wreath’d thy flowers; but do thou chooseSome happier brow to wear thy garlands green.

None will weep for thee: thou return, O Muse,

To thy Sicilian fields: I once have been

On thy loved hills, and where thou first didst use

Thy sweetly balanced rhyme, O thankless queen,

Have pluck’d and wreath’d thy flowers; but do thou choose

Some happier brow to wear thy garlands green.

Eternal Father, who didst all create,In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,Till its loud praises sound at heaven’s high gate.Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,That here on earth Thou mayst as well approveOur service, as Thou ownest theirs above,Whose joy we echo and in pain await.Grant body and soul each day their daily bread:And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,Even as our anger soon is past and deadBe Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,And in the vale of terror comforted.

Eternal Father, who didst all create,

In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,

To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,

Till its loud praises sound at heaven’s high gate.

Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,

That here on earth Thou mayst as well approve

Our service, as Thou ownest theirs above,

Whose joy we echo and in pain await.

Grant body and soul each day their daily bread:And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,Even as our anger soon is past and deadBe Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,And in the vale of terror comforted.

Grant body and soul each day their daily bread:

And should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,

Even as our anger soon is past and dead

Be Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:

By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,

And in the vale of terror comforted.

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