What is there left for us to say,Now it has come to say good-by?And all our dreams of yesterdayHave vanished in the sunset sky—What is there left for us to say,Now different ways before us lie?A word of hope, a word of cheer,A word of love, that still shall last,When we are far to bring us nearThrough memories of the happy past;A word of hope, a word of cheer,To keep our sad hearts true and fast.What is there left for us to do,Now it has come to say farewell?And care, that bade us once adieu,Returns again with us to dwell—What is there left for us to do,Now different ways our fates compel?Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And look the love that shall remain—When severed so by many a mile—The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And trust inGodto meet again.
What is there left for us to say,Now it has come to say good-by?And all our dreams of yesterdayHave vanished in the sunset sky—What is there left for us to say,Now different ways before us lie?
A word of hope, a word of cheer,A word of love, that still shall last,When we are far to bring us nearThrough memories of the happy past;A word of hope, a word of cheer,To keep our sad hearts true and fast.
What is there left for us to do,Now it has come to say farewell?And care, that bade us once adieu,Returns again with us to dwell—What is there left for us to do,Now different ways our fates compel?
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And look the love that shall remain—When severed so by many a mile—The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And trust inGodto meet again.
Ilook upon my lady's face,And, in the world about me, seeNo face like hers in any place:Therefore it is I sing her praise.It is not made, as others singOf their dear loves, like ivory,But like a wild rose in the spring:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her brow is low and very fair,And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,Lies deep the darkness of her hair:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,And gaze out glad and fearlessly,Their wonder haunts me night and day:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,Twin curves of pencilled ebony,Within their spans contain my fate:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,So small and sweet, it well may beThat it for me is yet reserved:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Between her hair and rounded chin,Calm with her soul's calm purity,There lies no shadow of a sin:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Of perfect form, she is not tall,Just higher than the heart of me,Where'er I place her, all in all:Therefore it is I sing her praise.She is not shaped, as some have sungOf their dear loves, like some slim tree,But like the moon when it is young:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her hands, that smell of violet,So white and fashioned gracefully,Have woven round my heart a net:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Yea, I have loved her many a day;And though for me she may not be,Still at her feet my love I lay:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Albeit she be not for me,Godsend her grace and grant that sheKnow nought of sorrow all her days:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Ilook upon my lady's face,And, in the world about me, seeNo face like hers in any place:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
It is not made, as others singOf their dear loves, like ivory,But like a wild rose in the spring:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her brow is low and very fair,And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,Lies deep the darkness of her hair:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,And gaze out glad and fearlessly,Their wonder haunts me night and day:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,Twin curves of pencilled ebony,Within their spans contain my fate:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,So small and sweet, it well may beThat it for me is yet reserved:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Between her hair and rounded chin,Calm with her soul's calm purity,There lies no shadow of a sin:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Of perfect form, she is not tall,Just higher than the heart of me,Where'er I place her, all in all:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
She is not shaped, as some have sungOf their dear loves, like some slim tree,But like the moon when it is young:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Her hands, that smell of violet,So white and fashioned gracefully,Have woven round my heart a net:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Yea, I have loved her many a day;And though for me she may not be,Still at her feet my love I lay:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
Albeit she be not for me,Godsend her grace and grant that sheKnow nought of sorrow all her days:Therefore it is I sing her praise.
WhenSpringis here andMargeryGoes walking in the woods with me,She is so white, she is so shy,The little leaves clap hands and cry—Perdie!So white is she, so sky is she,Ah me!The maiden May hath just passed by!
WhenSpringis here andMargeryGoes walking in the woods with me,She is so white, she is so shy,The little leaves clap hands and cry—Perdie!So white is she, so sky is she,Ah me!The maiden May hath just passed by!
WhenSummer'shere andMargeryGoes walking in the fields with me,She is so pure, she is so fair,The wildflowers eye her and declare—Perdie!So pure is she, so fair is she,Just see,Where our sweet cousin takes the air!
WhenSummer'shere andMargeryGoes walking in the fields with me,She is so pure, she is so fair,The wildflowers eye her and declare—Perdie!So pure is she, so fair is she,Just see,Where our sweet cousin takes the air!
Why is it that myMargeryHears nothing that these say to me?She is so good, she is so true,My heart it maketh such ado;Perdie!So good is she, so true is she,You see,She can not hear the other two.
Why is it that myMargeryHears nothing that these say to me?She is so good, she is so true,My heart it maketh such ado;Perdie!So good is she, so true is she,You see,She can not hear the other two.
Beyond the orchard, in the lane,The crested red-bird sings again—O bird, whose song says,Have no care.Should I not care whenConstancethere,—MyConstance, with the bashful gaze,Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—If I declare my love, just saysSome careless thing as if in mock?Like—Past the orchard, in the lane,How sweet the red-bird sings again!There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest—O bird, whose patience says,All's well,How can it be with me, now tell?WhenConstance, with averted eyes,—Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—If I speak marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As,While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose gladness says,Be glad?Have I not reason to be sadWhenConstance, with demurest glance,Her face a-poppy with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers so in waywardness?—What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!
Beyond the orchard, in the lane,The crested red-bird sings again—O bird, whose song says,Have no care.Should I not care whenConstancethere,—MyConstance, with the bashful gaze,Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—If I declare my love, just saysSome careless thing as if in mock?Like—Past the orchard, in the lane,How sweet the red-bird sings again!
There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest—O bird, whose patience says,All's well,How can it be with me, now tell?WhenConstance, with averted eyes,—Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—If I speak marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As,While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.
What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose gladness says,Be glad?Have I not reason to be sadWhenConstance, with demurest glance,Her face a-poppy with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers so in waywardness?—What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!
When first I gazed onGertrude'sface,Beheld her loveliness and grace;Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,Her ways, more winsome than the kissSpringgives the flowers; her smile, that isBrighter than all the summer airMade sweet with birds:—I did declare,—And still declare!—there is no one,No girl beneath the moon or sun,So beautiful to look upon!And to my thoughts, that on her dwell,Nothing seems more desirable—NotOphirgold norOrientpearls—Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.
When first I gazed onGertrude'sface,Beheld her loveliness and grace;Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,Her ways, more winsome than the kissSpringgives the flowers; her smile, that isBrighter than all the summer airMade sweet with birds:—I did declare,—And still declare!—there is no one,No girl beneath the moon or sun,So beautiful to look upon!And to my thoughts, that on her dwell,Nothing seems more desirable—NotOphirgold norOrientpearls—Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.
When Autumn's here and days are short,LetLydialaugh and, hey!Straightway 't isMay-dayin my heart,And blossoms strew the way.WhenSummer'shere and days are long,LetLydiasigh and, ho!December'sfields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.No matter what the Seasons are,MyLydiais so dear,My soul admits no CalendarOf earth when she is near.
When Autumn's here and days are short,LetLydialaugh and, hey!Straightway 't isMay-dayin my heart,And blossoms strew the way.
WhenSummer'shere and days are long,LetLydiasigh and, ho!December'sfields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.
No matter what the Seasons are,MyLydiais so dear,My soul admits no CalendarOf earth when she is near.
Serious but smiling, stately and serene,And dreamier than a flower;A girl in whom all sympathies conveneAs perfumes in a bower;Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean,And their resistless power.Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth,Where thought like starlight curls;Lips of immortal rose, where love and youthNestle like two sweet pearls;Hair, that suggests the Bible braids ofRuth,Deeper than any girl's.When first I saw you, 't was as if withinMy soul took shape some song—Played by a master of the violin—A music pure and strong,That rapt my soul above all earthly sinTo heights that know no wrong.
Serious but smiling, stately and serene,And dreamier than a flower;A girl in whom all sympathies conveneAs perfumes in a bower;Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean,And their resistless power.
Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth,Where thought like starlight curls;Lips of immortal rose, where love and youthNestle like two sweet pearls;Hair, that suggests the Bible braids ofRuth,Deeper than any girl's.
When first I saw you, 't was as if withinMy soul took shape some song—Played by a master of the violin—A music pure and strong,That rapt my soul above all earthly sinTo heights that know no wrong.
She has the eyes of some barbarian QueenLeading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.And I have thought that Liberty, aloneAmong the mountain stars, might look like her,Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,Kindling her torch onFreedom'saltar-stone.For in her self, regal with riches ofBeauty and youth, again those Queens seem born—Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,AndErmengarde, returning love for love.
She has the eyes of some barbarian QueenLeading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.
And I have thought that Liberty, aloneAmong the mountain stars, might look like her,Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,Kindling her torch onFreedom'saltar-stone.
For in her self, regal with riches ofBeauty and youth, again those Queens seem born—Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,AndErmengarde, returning love for love.
Some things are good onAutumnnights,When with the storm the forest fights,And in the room the heaped hearth lightsOld-fashioned press and rafter:Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,And at your side a face petite,With lips of laughter.Upon the roof the rolling rain,And tapping at the window-pane,The wind that seems a witch's caneThat summons spells together:A hand within your own awhile;A mouth reflecting back your smile;And eyes, two stars, whose beams exileAll thoughts of weather.And, while the wind lulls, still to sitAnd watch her fire-lit needles flitA-knitting, and to feel her knitYour very heartstrings in it:Then, when the old clock ticks'tis late,To rise, and at the door to wait,Two words, or at the garden gate,A kissing minute.
Some things are good onAutumnnights,When with the storm the forest fights,And in the room the heaped hearth lightsOld-fashioned press and rafter:Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,And at your side a face petite,With lips of laughter.
Upon the roof the rolling rain,And tapping at the window-pane,The wind that seems a witch's caneThat summons spells together:A hand within your own awhile;A mouth reflecting back your smile;And eyes, two stars, whose beams exileAll thoughts of weather.
And, while the wind lulls, still to sitAnd watch her fire-lit needles flitA-knitting, and to feel her knitYour very heartstrings in it:Then, when the old clock ticks'tis late,To rise, and at the door to wait,Two words, or at the garden gate,A kissing minute.
IfGodshould say to me,Behold!—Yea, who shall doubt?—They who love others more than me,Shall I not turn, as oft of old,My face from them and cast them out?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your faceIs allGod'sgrace.IfGodshould say to me,Behold!—Is it not well?—They who have other gods than me,Shall I not bid them, as of old,Depart into the outerHell?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your eyesIsParadise.
IfGodshould say to me,Behold!—Yea, who shall doubt?—They who love others more than me,Shall I not turn, as oft of old,My face from them and cast them out?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your faceIs allGod'sgrace.
IfGodshould say to me,Behold!—Is it not well?—They who have other gods than me,Shall I not bid them, as of old,Depart into the outerHell?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your eyesIsParadise.
Iknow not if she be unkind,If she have faults I do not care;Search through the world—where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?I love her to despair.If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear;If she be proud—then pride must beAkin to Heaven's divinest three—I love her to despair.Why speak to me of that and this?All you may say weighs not a hair!In her,—whose lips I may not kiss,—To me naught but perfection is!—I love her to despair.
Iknow not if she be unkind,If she have faults I do not care;Search through the world—where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?I love her to despair.
If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear;If she be proud—then pride must beAkin to Heaven's divinest three—I love her to despair.
Why speak to me of that and this?All you may say weighs not a hair!In her,—whose lips I may not kiss,—To me naught but perfection is!—I love her to despair.
My life is grown a witchcraft placeThrough gazing on thy form and face.Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorceryThat makes my soul a melody.Now 't is thy Frown, that comes and goes,That makes my heart a page of prose.Some day, perhaps, a word of thineWill change me to thyValentine.
My life is grown a witchcraft placeThrough gazing on thy form and face.
Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorceryThat makes my soul a melody.
Now 't is thy Frown, that comes and goes,That makes my heart a page of prose.
Some day, perhaps, a word of thineWill change me to thyValentine.
When roads are mired with ice and snow,And the air of morn is crisp with rime;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And bells ring in theChristmastime:—It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—A man's strong love and a wedding-ring—It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And theChristmasservice is sung and said:—It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you—A woman's hand and a heart that's true.It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait!When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,AndChristmasrevels begin again:—It's—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast;A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss, and all is well.It's—Home, O my Heart, and love!
When roads are mired with ice and snow,And the air of morn is crisp with rime;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And bells ring in theChristmastime:—It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—A man's strong love and a wedding-ring—It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!
When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And theChristmasservice is sung and said:—It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you—A woman's hand and a heart that's true.It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait!
When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,AndChristmasrevels begin again:—It's—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast;A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss, and all is well.It's—Home, O my Heart, and love!
Lift up thy torch, O Year, and let us seeWhat DestinyHath made thee heir to at nativity!Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might,Whom some name Right;And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goesIn Friendship's clothes;And Happiness, the mask of many woes.Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see,Love bends the knee;And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains;And Cares and Pains,That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.Corruption, known as Honesty; and FameThat's but a name;And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth;And, like a youth,Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease;And, high 'mid these,War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight!Deep lies the nightAround us, andGodgrants us little light!
Lift up thy torch, O Year, and let us seeWhat DestinyHath made thee heir to at nativity!
Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might,Whom some name Right;And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.
Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goesIn Friendship's clothes;And Happiness, the mask of many woes.
Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see,Love bends the knee;And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.
Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains;And Cares and Pains,That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.
Corruption, known as Honesty; and FameThat's but a name;And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.
And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth;And, like a youth,Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.
Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease;And, high 'mid these,War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.
Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight!Deep lies the nightAround us, andGodgrants us little light!
When my old heart was young, my dear,The Earth and Heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of unseen races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills,God'srainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer Earth and Heaven meet;All Life is grown to one long streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry:And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.
When my old heart was young, my dear,The Earth and Heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of unseen races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills,God'srainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.
Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer Earth and Heaven meet;All Life is grown to one long streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry:And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.
Beyond the moon, within a land of mist,Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires,Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires;There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.Sad are the stars that day and night existAbove the Garden of all Dead Desires;And sad the roses that within it twistDeep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires;But sadder far are they who there hold tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist,Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed,On the wan willows music hangs her lyres,Æoliandials by which phantoms tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed,Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires,By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist;And meet with shapes that art's despair attires;And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.Thither we go, dreamer and realist,Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires,Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed,All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires,All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
Beyond the moon, within a land of mist,Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires,Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires;There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
Sad are the stars that day and night existAbove the Garden of all Dead Desires;And sad the roses that within it twistDeep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires;But sadder far are they who there hold tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist,Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed,On the wan willows music hangs her lyres,Æoliandials by which phantoms tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed,Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires,By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist;And meet with shapes that art's despair attires;And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.
Thither we go, dreamer and realist,Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires,Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed,All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires,All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst—Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.