WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked,Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,Who: and what a track show’d the upturn’d sod!Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severeBent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide,How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch’d in ranks:Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray:Scarce the stony lizard suck’d hollows in his flanks:Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.Sudden bow’d the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,Lengthen’d ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:Then amid a swift flight of wing’d seed white as curd,Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead,First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill,Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-poolRound the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields:Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high:Big of heart we labour’d at storing mighty yields,Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry!Hand-like rush’d the vintage; we strung the bellied skinsPlump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose:Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;Gentle beasties through push’d a cold long nose.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm’d the slender shaft:Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teethGrin against his will, trapp’d by masterstrokes of craft;Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe!Safe the tender lambs tugg’d the teats, and winter spedWhirl’d before the crocus, the year’s new gold.Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowheadRedden’d through his feathers for our dear fold.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darkenedThat had thee here obscure.Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb’d air!Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of loveEase because the creature was all too fair.Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good,Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast.He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-broodDanced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp’d mast.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known,Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame.Ere the string was tighten’d we heard the mellow tone,After he had taught how the sweet sounds came.Stretch’d about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you seeRed pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind.So began contention to give delight and beExcellent in things aim’d to make life kind.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats,You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew!Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats!Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few!You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays,You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent:He has been our fellow, the morning of our days;Us he chose for housemates, and this way went.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked,Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,Who: and what a track show’d the upturn’d sod!Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severeBent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide,How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch’d in ranks:Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray:Scarce the stony lizard suck’d hollows in his flanks:Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.Sudden bow’d the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,Lengthen’d ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:Then amid a swift flight of wing’d seed white as curd,Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead,First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill,Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-poolRound the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields:Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high:Big of heart we labour’d at storing mighty yields,Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry!Hand-like rush’d the vintage; we strung the bellied skinsPlump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose:Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;Gentle beasties through push’d a cold long nose.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm’d the slender shaft:Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teethGrin against his will, trapp’d by masterstrokes of craft;Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe!Safe the tender lambs tugg’d the teats, and winter spedWhirl’d before the crocus, the year’s new gold.Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowheadRedden’d through his feathers for our dear fold.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darkenedThat had thee here obscure.Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb’d air!Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of loveEase because the creature was all too fair.Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good,Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast.He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-broodDanced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp’d mast.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known,Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame.Ere the string was tighten’d we heard the mellow tone,After he had taught how the sweet sounds came.Stretch’d about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you seeRed pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind.So began contention to give delight and beExcellent in things aim’d to make life kind.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats,You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew!Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats!Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few!You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays,You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent:He has been our fellow, the morning of our days;Us he chose for housemates, and this way went.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
WHEN by Zeus relenting the mandate was revoked,Sentencing to exile the bright Sun-God,Mindful were the ploughmen of who the steer had yoked,Who: and what a track show’d the upturn’d sod!Mindful were the shepherds, as now the noon severeBent a burning eyebrow to brown evetide,How the rustic flute drew the silver to the sphere,Sister of his own, till her rays fell wide.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
Chirping none, the scarlet cicalas crouch’d in ranks:Slack the thistle-head piled its down-silk gray:Scarce the stony lizard suck’d hollows in his flanks:Thick on spots of umbrage our drowsed flocks lay.Sudden bow’d the chestnuts beneath a wind unheard,Lengthen’d ran the grasses, the sky grew slate:Then amid a swift flight of wing’d seed white as curd,Clear of limb a Youth smote the master’s gate.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
Water, first of singers, o’er rocky mount and mead,First of earthly singers, the sun-loved rill,Sang of him, and flooded the ripples on the reed,Seeking whom to waken and what ear fill.Water, sweetest soother to kiss a wound and cool,Sweetest and divinest, the sky-born brook,Chuckled, with a whimper, and made a mirror-poolRound the guest we welcomed, the strange hand shook.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
Many swarms of wild bees descended on our fields:Stately stood the wheatstalk with head bent high:Big of heart we labour’d at storing mighty yields,Wool and corn, and clusters to make men cry!Hand-like rush’d the vintage; we strung the bellied skinsPlump, and at the sealing the Youth’s voice rose:Maidens clung in circle, on little fists their chins;Gentle beasties through push’d a cold long nose.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
Foot to fire in snowtime we trimm’d the slender shaft:Often down the pit spied the lean wolf’s teethGrin against his will, trapp’d by masterstrokes of craft;Helpless in his froth-wrath as green logs seethe!Safe the tender lambs tugg’d the teats, and winter spedWhirl’d before the crocus, the year’s new gold.Hung the hooky beak up aloft, the arrowheadRedden’d through his feathers for our dear fold.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darkenedThat had thee here obscure.
Tales we drank of giants at war with gods above:Rocks were they to look on, and earth climb’d air!Tales of search for simples, and those who sought of loveEase because the creature was all too fair.Pleasant ran our thinking that while our work was good,Sure as fruits for sweat would the praise come fast.He that wrestled stoutest and tamed the billow-broodDanced in rings with girls, like a sail-flapp’d mast.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
Lo, the herb of healing, when once the herb is known,Shines in shady woods bright as new-sprung flame.Ere the string was tighten’d we heard the mellow tone,After he had taught how the sweet sounds came.Stretch’d about his feet, labour done, ’twas as you seeRed pomegranates tumble and burst hard rind.So began contention to give delight and beExcellent in things aim’d to make life kind.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
You with shelly horns, rams! and, promontory goats,You whose browsing beards dip in coldest dew!Bulls, that walk the pastures in kingly-flashing coats!Laurel, ivy, vine, wreathed for feasts not few!You that build the shade-roof, and you that court the rays,You that leap besprinkling the rock stream-rent:He has been our fellow, the morning of our days;Us he chose for housemates, and this way went.God! of whom musicAnd song and blood are pure,The day is never darken’dThat had thee here obscure.
774.
NOW the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes;Swift fly the fleeces,Thick the blossom-flakes.Now hill to hill has made the stride,And distance waves the without-end:Now in the breast a door flings wide;Our farthest smiles, our next is friend.And song of England’s rush of flowersIs this full breeze with mellow stops,That spins the lark for shine, for showers;He drinks his hurried flight, and drops.The stir in memory seem these things,Which out of moisten’d turf and clay,Astrain for light push patient rings,Or leap to find the waterway.’Tis equal to a wonder done,Whatever simple lives renewTheir tricks beneath the father sun,As though they caught a broken clue:So hard was earth an eyewink back;But now the common life has come,The blotting cloud a dappled pack,The grasses one vast underhum.A City clothed in snow and soot,With lamps for day in ghostly rows,Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot,The river that reflective flows:And there did fog down crypts of streetPlay spectre upon eye and mouth:—Their faces are a glass to greetThis magic of the whirl for South.A burly joy each creature swellsWith sound of its own hungry quest;Earth has to fill her empty wells,And speed the service of the nest;The phantom of the snow-wreath melt,That haunts the farmer’s look abroad,Who sees what tomb a white night built,Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod.For iron Winter held her firm;Across her sky he laid his hand;And bird he starved, he stiffen’d worm;A sightless heaven, a shaven land.Her shivering Spring feign’d fast asleep.The bitten buds dared not unfold:We raced on roads and ice to keepThought of the girl we love from cold.But now the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes,The heavens are out in fleeces,And earth’s green banner shakes.
NOW the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes;Swift fly the fleeces,Thick the blossom-flakes.Now hill to hill has made the stride,And distance waves the without-end:Now in the breast a door flings wide;Our farthest smiles, our next is friend.And song of England’s rush of flowersIs this full breeze with mellow stops,That spins the lark for shine, for showers;He drinks his hurried flight, and drops.The stir in memory seem these things,Which out of moisten’d turf and clay,Astrain for light push patient rings,Or leap to find the waterway.’Tis equal to a wonder done,Whatever simple lives renewTheir tricks beneath the father sun,As though they caught a broken clue:So hard was earth an eyewink back;But now the common life has come,The blotting cloud a dappled pack,The grasses one vast underhum.A City clothed in snow and soot,With lamps for day in ghostly rows,Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot,The river that reflective flows:And there did fog down crypts of streetPlay spectre upon eye and mouth:—Their faces are a glass to greetThis magic of the whirl for South.A burly joy each creature swellsWith sound of its own hungry quest;Earth has to fill her empty wells,And speed the service of the nest;The phantom of the snow-wreath melt,That haunts the farmer’s look abroad,Who sees what tomb a white night built,Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod.For iron Winter held her firm;Across her sky he laid his hand;And bird he starved, he stiffen’d worm;A sightless heaven, a shaven land.Her shivering Spring feign’d fast asleep.The bitten buds dared not unfold:We raced on roads and ice to keepThought of the girl we love from cold.But now the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes,The heavens are out in fleeces,And earth’s green banner shakes.
NOW the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes;Swift fly the fleeces,Thick the blossom-flakes.
Now hill to hill has made the stride,And distance waves the without-end:Now in the breast a door flings wide;Our farthest smiles, our next is friend.And song of England’s rush of flowersIs this full breeze with mellow stops,That spins the lark for shine, for showers;He drinks his hurried flight, and drops.The stir in memory seem these things,Which out of moisten’d turf and clay,Astrain for light push patient rings,Or leap to find the waterway.’Tis equal to a wonder done,Whatever simple lives renewTheir tricks beneath the father sun,As though they caught a broken clue:So hard was earth an eyewink back;But now the common life has come,The blotting cloud a dappled pack,The grasses one vast underhum.A City clothed in snow and soot,With lamps for day in ghostly rows,Breaks to the scene of hosts afoot,The river that reflective flows:And there did fog down crypts of streetPlay spectre upon eye and mouth:—Their faces are a glass to greetThis magic of the whirl for South.A burly joy each creature swellsWith sound of its own hungry quest;Earth has to fill her empty wells,And speed the service of the nest;The phantom of the snow-wreath melt,That haunts the farmer’s look abroad,Who sees what tomb a white night built,Where flocks now bleat and sprouts the clod.For iron Winter held her firm;Across her sky he laid his hand;And bird he starved, he stiffen’d worm;A sightless heaven, a shaven land.Her shivering Spring feign’d fast asleep.The bitten buds dared not unfold:We raced on roads and ice to keepThought of the girl we love from cold.
But now the North wind ceases,The warm South-west awakes,The heavens are out in fleeces,And earth’s green banner shakes.
775.
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back’d wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribb’d wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply plann’d,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!’Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mix’d. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betray’d by what is false within.
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back’d wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribb’d wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply plann’d,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!’Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mix’d. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betray’d by what is false within.
MARK where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like,Its skeleton shadow on the broad-back’d wave!Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave;Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike,And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand:In hearing of the ocean, and in sightOf those ribb’d wind-streaks running into white.If I the death of Love had deeply plann’d,I never could have made it half so sure,As by the unblest kisses which upbraidThe full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade!’Tis morning: but no morning can restoreWhat we have forfeited. I see no sin:The wrong is mix’d. In tragic life, God wot,No villain need be! Passions spin the plot:We are betray’d by what is false within.
776.
ON a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose.Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiendAbove the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d,Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose.Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.And now upon his western wing he lean’d,Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careen’d,Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows.Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scarsWith memory of the old revolt from Awe,He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars,Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank.Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank,The army of unalterable law.
ON a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose.Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiendAbove the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d,Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose.Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.And now upon his western wing he lean’d,Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careen’d,Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows.Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scarsWith memory of the old revolt from Awe,He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars,Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank.Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank,The army of unalterable law.
ON a starr’d night Prince Lucifer uprose.Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiendAbove the rolling ball in cloud part screen’d,Where sinners hugg’d their spectre of repose.Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those.And now upon his western wing he lean’d,Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careen’d,Now the black planet shadow’d Arctic snows.Soaring through wider zones that prick’d his scarsWith memory of the old revolt from Awe,He reach’d a middle height, and at the stars,Which are the brain of heaven, he look’d, and sank.Around the ancient track march’d, rank on rank,The army of unalterable law.
1829-1867
777.
THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,Exist alike in Love. Love is a seaFilling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;’Tis laving at this moment Saturn’s sides,’Tis in my blood and brain.All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire.The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of oursWhen Love is born in each.Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.The world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!
THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,Exist alike in Love. Love is a seaFilling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;’Tis laving at this moment Saturn’s sides,’Tis in my blood and brain.All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire.The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of oursWhen Love is born in each.Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.The world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!
THE fierce exulting worlds, the motes in rays,The churlish thistles, scented briers,The wind-swept bluebells on the sunny braes,Down to the central fires,
Exist alike in Love. Love is a seaFilling all the abysses dimOf lornest space, in whose deeps regallySuns and their bright broods swim.
This mighty sea of Love, with wondrous tides,Is sternly just to sun and grain;’Tis laving at this moment Saturn’s sides,’Tis in my blood and brain.
All things have something more than barren use;There is a scent upon the brier,A tremulous splendour in the autumn dews,Cold morns are fringed with fire.
The clodded earth goes up in sweet-breath’d flowers;In music dies poor human speech,And into beauty blow those hearts of oursWhen Love is born in each.
Daisies are white upon the churchyard sod,Sweet tears the clouds lean down and give.The world is very lovely. O my God,I thank Thee that I live!
778.
ON the Sabbath-day,Through the churchyard old and gray,Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,’Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,’Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,I stood careless, Barbara.My heart was otherwhere,While the organ shook the air,And the priest, with outspread hands, bless’d the people with a prayer;But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shineGleam’d a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—Gleam’d and vanish’d in a moment—O that face was surely thineOut of heaven, Barbara!O pallid, pallid face!O earnest eyes of grace!When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist:The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss’d,That wild morning, Barbara.I searched, in my despair,Sunny noon and midnight air;I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,You were sleeping, Barbara.’Mong angels, do you thinkOf the precious golden linkI clasp’d around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,Was emptied of its music, and we watch’d, through lattice-bars,The silent midnight heaven creeping o’er us with its stars,Till the day broke, Barbara?In the years I’ve changed;Wild and far my heart has ranged,And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack’d:I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.Still I love you, Barbara.Yet, Love, I am unblest;With many doubts opprest,I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest.Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,The hunger of my soul were still’d; for Death hath told you moreThan the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all loreYou could teach me, Barbara.In vain, in vain, in vain!You will never come again.There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee—Barbara!
ON the Sabbath-day,Through the churchyard old and gray,Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,’Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,’Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,I stood careless, Barbara.My heart was otherwhere,While the organ shook the air,And the priest, with outspread hands, bless’d the people with a prayer;But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shineGleam’d a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—Gleam’d and vanish’d in a moment—O that face was surely thineOut of heaven, Barbara!O pallid, pallid face!O earnest eyes of grace!When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist:The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss’d,That wild morning, Barbara.I searched, in my despair,Sunny noon and midnight air;I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,You were sleeping, Barbara.’Mong angels, do you thinkOf the precious golden linkI clasp’d around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,Was emptied of its music, and we watch’d, through lattice-bars,The silent midnight heaven creeping o’er us with its stars,Till the day broke, Barbara?In the years I’ve changed;Wild and far my heart has ranged,And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack’d:I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.Still I love you, Barbara.Yet, Love, I am unblest;With many doubts opprest,I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest.Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,The hunger of my soul were still’d; for Death hath told you moreThan the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all loreYou could teach me, Barbara.In vain, in vain, in vain!You will never come again.There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee—Barbara!
ON the Sabbath-day,Through the churchyard old and gray,Over the crisp and yellow leaves I held my rustling way;And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms,’Mid the gorgeous storms of music—in the mellow organ-calms,’Mid the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms,I stood careless, Barbara.
My heart was otherwhere,While the organ shook the air,And the priest, with outspread hands, bless’d the people with a prayer;But when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shineGleam’d a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mine—Gleam’d and vanish’d in a moment—O that face was surely thineOut of heaven, Barbara!
O pallid, pallid face!O earnest eyes of grace!When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place.You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist:The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist—A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kiss’d,That wild morning, Barbara.
I searched, in my despair,Sunny noon and midnight air;I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.O many and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone—Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,You were sleeping, Barbara.
’Mong angels, do you thinkOf the precious golden linkI clasp’d around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars,Was emptied of its music, and we watch’d, through lattice-bars,The silent midnight heaven creeping o’er us with its stars,Till the day broke, Barbara?
In the years I’ve changed;Wild and far my heart has ranged,And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;But to you I have been faithful whatsoever good I lack’d:I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.Still I love you, Barbara.
Yet, Love, I am unblest;With many doubts opprest,I wander like the desert wind without a place of rest.Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,The hunger of my soul were still’d; for Death hath told you moreThan the melancholy world doth know—things deeper than all loreYou could teach me, Barbara.
In vain, in vain, in vain!You will never come again.There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain;The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree,Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded sea;There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee—Barbara!
1830-1894
779.
FROM ‘THE PRINCE’S PROGRESS’
TOO late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loiter’d on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leap’d.The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now there are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seem’d never soft to her,Though toss’d of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs show’d in her locksThat used to be so brown.We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
TOO late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loiter’d on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leap’d.The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now there are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seem’d never soft to her,Though toss’d of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs show’d in her locksThat used to be so brown.We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
TOO late for love, too late for joy,Too late, too late!You loiter’d on the road too long,You trifled at the gate:The enchanted dove upon her branchDied without a mate;The enchanted princess in her towerSlept, died, behind the grate;Her heart was starving all this whileYou made it wait.
Ten years ago, five years ago,One year ago,Even then you had arrived in time,Though somewhat slow;Then you had known her living faceWhich now you cannot know:The frozen fountain would have leap’d.The buds gone on to blow,The warm south wind would have awakedTo melt the snow.
Is she fair now as she lies?Once she was fair;Meet queen for any kingly king,With gold-dust on her hair.Now there are poppies in her locks,White poppies she must wear;Must wear a veil to shroud her faceAnd the want graven there:Or is the hunger fed at length,Cast off the care?
We never saw her with a smileOr with a frown;Her bed seem’d never soft to her,Though toss’d of down;She little heeded what she wore,Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;We think her white brows often achedBeneath her crown,Till silvery hairs show’d in her locksThat used to be so brown.
We never heard her speak in haste:Her tones were sweet,And modulated just so muchAs it was meet:Her heart sat silent through the noiseAnd concourse of the street.There was no hurry in her hands,No hurry in her feet;There was no bliss drew nigh to her,That she might run to greet.
You should have wept her yesterday,Wasting upon her bed:But wherefore should you weep to-dayThat she is dead?Lo, we who love weep not to-day,But crown her royal head.Let be these poppies that we strew,Your roses are too red:Let be these poppies, not for youCut down and spread.
780.
MY heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water’d shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me.Raise me a daïs of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
MY heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water’d shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me.Raise me a daïs of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
MY heart is like a singing birdWhose nest is in a water’d shoot;My heart is like an apple-treeWhose boughs are bent with thick-set fruit;My heart is like a rainbow shellThat paddles in a halcyon sea;My heart is gladder than all these,Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a daïs of silk and down;Hang it with vair and purple dyes;Carve it in doves and pomegranates,And peacocks with a hundred eyes;Work it in gold and silver grapes,In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;Because the birthday of my lifeIs come, my love is come to me.
781.
WHEN I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember.And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain;And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
WHEN I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember.And if thou wilt, forget.I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain;And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
WHEN I am dead, my dearest,Sing no sad songs for me;Plant thou no roses at my head,Nor shady cypress tree:Be the green grass above meWith showers and dewdrops wet;And if thou wilt, remember.And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,I shall not feel the rain;I shall not hear the nightingaleSing on, as if in pain;And dreaming through the twilightThat doth not rise nor set,Haply I may remember,And haply may forget.
782.
ITOOK my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scann’d,Then set it down,And said, ‘It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.’As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor question’d since,Nor cared for cornflowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God:Now let thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.This contemn’d of a man,This marr’d one heedless day,This heart take thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
ITOOK my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scann’d,Then set it down,And said, ‘It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.’As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor question’d since,Nor cared for cornflowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God:Now let thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.This contemn’d of a man,This marr’d one heedless day,This heart take thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
ITOOK my heart in my hand(O my love, O my love),I said: Let me fall or stand,Let me live or die,But this once hear me speak(O my love, O my love)—Yet a woman’s words are weak;You should speak, not I.
You took my heart in your handWith a friendly smile,With a critical eye you scann’d,Then set it down,And said, ‘It is still unripe,Better wait awhile;Wait while the skylarks pipe,Till the corn grows brown.’
As you set it down it broke—Broke, but I did not wince;I smiled at the speech you spoke,At your judgement I heard:But I have not often smiledSince then, nor question’d since,Nor cared for cornflowers wild,Nor sung with the singing bird.
I take my heart in my hand,O my God, O my God,My broken heart in my hand:Thou hast seen, judge Thou.My hope was written on sand,O my God, O my God:Now let thy judgement stand—Yea, judge me now.
This contemn’d of a man,This marr’d one heedless day,This heart take thou to scanBoth within and without:Refine with fire its gold,Purge Thou its dross away—Yea, hold it in Thy hold,Whence none can pluck it out.
I take my heart in my hand—I shall not die, but live—Before Thy face I stand;I, for Thou callest such:All that I have I bring,All that I am I give,Smile Thou and I shall sing,But shall not question much.
783.
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you waiting at that door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you waiting at that door.Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
DOES the road wind uphill all the way?Yes, to the very end.Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?A roof for when the slow, dark hours begin.May not the darkness hide it from my face?You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?Those who have gone before.Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?They will not keep you waiting at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?Of labour you shall find the sum.Will there be beds for me and all who seek?Yea, beds for all who come.
784.
PASSING away, saith the World, passing away:Chances, beauty and youth sapp’d day by day:Thy life never continueth in one stay.Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grayThat hath won neither laurel nor bay?I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decayOn my bosom for aye.Then I answer’d: Yea.Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,Hearken what the past doth witness and say:Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day,Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:Watch thou and pray.Then I answer’d: Yea.Passing away, saith my God, passing away:Winter passeth after the long delay:New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May.Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray.Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day;My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say—Then I answer’d: Yea.
PASSING away, saith the World, passing away:Chances, beauty and youth sapp’d day by day:Thy life never continueth in one stay.Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grayThat hath won neither laurel nor bay?I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decayOn my bosom for aye.Then I answer’d: Yea.Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,Hearken what the past doth witness and say:Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day,Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:Watch thou and pray.Then I answer’d: Yea.Passing away, saith my God, passing away:Winter passeth after the long delay:New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May.Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray.Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day;My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say—Then I answer’d: Yea.
PASSING away, saith the World, passing away:Chances, beauty and youth sapp’d day by day:Thy life never continueth in one stay.Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grayThat hath won neither laurel nor bay?I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decayOn my bosom for aye.Then I answer’d: Yea.
Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play,Hearken what the past doth witness and say:Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day,Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:Watch thou and pray.Then I answer’d: Yea.
Passing away, saith my God, passing away:Winter passeth after the long delay:New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May.Though I tarry, wait for me, trust me, watch and pray.Arise, come away; night is past, and lo, it is day;My love, my sister, my spouse, thou shalt hear me say—Then I answer’d: Yea.
785.
MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall beholdWith mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould,Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll’d,See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and coldTremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,—The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was toll’d:Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall beholdWith mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould,Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll’d,See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and coldTremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,—The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was toll’d:Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
MARVEL of marvels, if I myself shall beholdWith mine own eyes my King in His city of gold;Where the least of lambs is spotless white in the fold,Where the least and last of saints in spotless white is stoled,Where the dimmest head beyond a moon is aureoled.O saints, my belovèd, now mouldering to mould in the mould,Shall I see you lift your heads, see your cerements unroll’d,See with these very eyes? who now in darkness and coldTremble for the midnight cry, the rapture, the tale untold,—The Bridegroom cometh, cometh, His Bride to enfold!
Cold it is, my belovèd, since your funeral bell was toll’d:Cold it is, O my King, how cold alone on the wold!
786.
SAFE where I cannot die yet,Safe where I hope to lie too,Safe from the fume and the fret;You, and you,Whom I never forget.Safe from the frost and the snow,Safe from the storm and the sun,Safe where the seeds wait to growOne by one,And to come back in blow.
SAFE where I cannot die yet,Safe where I hope to lie too,Safe from the fume and the fret;You, and you,Whom I never forget.Safe from the frost and the snow,Safe from the storm and the sun,Safe where the seeds wait to growOne by one,And to come back in blow.
SAFE where I cannot die yet,Safe where I hope to lie too,Safe from the fume and the fret;You, and you,Whom I never forget.Safe from the frost and the snow,Safe from the storm and the sun,Safe where the seeds wait to growOne by one,And to come back in blow.
787.
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann’d:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann’d:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
REMEMBER me when I am gone away,Gone far away into the silent land;When you can no more hold me by the hand,Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.Remember me when no more day by dayYou tell me of our future that you plann’d:Only remember me; you understandIt will be late to counsel then or pray.Yet if you should forget me for a whileAnd afterwards remember, do not grieve:For if the darkness and corruption leaveA vestige of the thoughts that once I had,Better by far you should forget and smileThan that you should remember and be sad.
788.
THE irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so standThou too aloof, bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seem’d not so far to seek,And all the world and I seem’d much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
THE irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so standThou too aloof, bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seem’d not so far to seek,And all the world and I seem’d much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
THE irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:—Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so standThou too aloof, bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? What hand thy hand?And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seem’d not so far to seek,And all the world and I seem’d much less cold,And at the rainbow’s foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong, and life itself not weak.
789.
OEARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hush’d in and curtain’d with a blessèd dearthOf all that irk’d her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
OEARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hush’d in and curtain’d with a blessèd dearthOf all that irk’d her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
OEARTH, lie heavily upon her eyes;Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching, Earth;Lie close around her; leave no room for mirthWith its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs.She hath no questions, she hath no replies,Hush’d in and curtain’d with a blessèd dearthOf all that irk’d her from the hour of birth;With stillness that is almost Paradise.Darkness more clear than noonday holdeth her,Silence more musical than any song;Even her very heart has ceased to stir:Until the morning of EternityHer rest shall not begin nor end, but be;And when she wakes she will not think it long.
1830-1897
790.
SHE knelt upon her brother’s grave,My little girl of six years old—He used to be so good and brave,The sweetest lamb of all our fold;He used to shout, he used to sing,Of all our tribe the little king—And so unto the turf her ear she laid,To hark if still in that dark place he play’d.No sound! no sound!Death’s silence was profound;And horror creptInto her aching heart, and Dora wept.If this is as it ought to be,My God, I leave it unto Thee.
SHE knelt upon her brother’s grave,My little girl of six years old—He used to be so good and brave,The sweetest lamb of all our fold;He used to shout, he used to sing,Of all our tribe the little king—And so unto the turf her ear she laid,To hark if still in that dark place he play’d.No sound! no sound!Death’s silence was profound;And horror creptInto her aching heart, and Dora wept.If this is as it ought to be,My God, I leave it unto Thee.
SHE knelt upon her brother’s grave,My little girl of six years old—He used to be so good and brave,The sweetest lamb of all our fold;He used to shout, he used to sing,Of all our tribe the little king—And so unto the turf her ear she laid,To hark if still in that dark place he play’d.No sound! no sound!Death’s silence was profound;And horror creptInto her aching heart, and Dora wept.If this is as it ought to be,My God, I leave it unto Thee.
791.
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,And yields the golden keys,Then is it as if God caress’dTwin babes upon His knees—Twin babes that, each to other press’d,Just feel the Father’s arms, wherewith they both are bless’d.But when I think if we must part,And all this personal dream be fled—O then my heart! O then my useless heart!Would God that thou wert dead—A clod insensible to joys and ills—A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,And yields the golden keys,Then is it as if God caress’dTwin babes upon His knees—Twin babes that, each to other press’d,Just feel the Father’s arms, wherewith they both are bless’d.But when I think if we must part,And all this personal dream be fled—O then my heart! O then my useless heart!Would God that thou wert dead—A clod insensible to joys and ills—A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
WHEN Jessie comes with her soft breast,And yields the golden keys,Then is it as if God caress’dTwin babes upon His knees—Twin babes that, each to other press’d,Just feel the Father’s arms, wherewith they both are bless’d.
But when I think if we must part,And all this personal dream be fled—O then my heart! O then my useless heart!Would God that thou wert dead—A clod insensible to joys and ills—A stone remote in some bleak gully of the hills!
792.
TO live within a cave—it is most good;But, if God make a day,And some one come, and say,‘Lo! I have gather’d faggots in the wood!’E’en let him stay,And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!So sit till morning! when the light is grownThat he the path can read,Then bid the man God-speed!His morning is not thine: yet must thou ownThey have a cheerful warmth—those ashes on the stone.
TO live within a cave—it is most good;But, if God make a day,And some one come, and say,‘Lo! I have gather’d faggots in the wood!’E’en let him stay,And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!So sit till morning! when the light is grownThat he the path can read,Then bid the man God-speed!His morning is not thine: yet must thou ownThey have a cheerful warmth—those ashes on the stone.
TO live within a cave—it is most good;But, if God make a day,And some one come, and say,‘Lo! I have gather’d faggots in the wood!’E’en let him stay,And light a fire, and fan a temporal mood!
So sit till morning! when the light is grownThat he the path can read,Then bid the man God-speed!His morning is not thine: yet must thou ownThey have a cheerful warmth—those ashes on the stone.
793.
AGARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!Rose plot,Fringed pool,Fern’d grot—The veriest schoolOf peace; and yet the foolContends that God is not—Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?Nay, but I have a sign;’Tis very sure God walks in mine.
AGARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!Rose plot,Fringed pool,Fern’d grot—The veriest schoolOf peace; and yet the foolContends that God is not—Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?Nay, but I have a sign;’Tis very sure God walks in mine.
AGARDEN is a lovesome thing, God wot!Rose plot,Fringed pool,Fern’d grot—The veriest schoolOf peace; and yet the foolContends that God is not—Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool?Nay, but I have a sign;’Tis very sure God walks in mine.
1831-1892
794.
SWEET are the rosy memories of the lipsThat first kiss’d ours, albeit they kiss no more:Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,Altho’ they leave us on a lonely shore:Sweet are familiar songs, tho’ Music dipsHer hollow shell in Thought’s forlornest wells:And sweet, tho’ sad, the sound of midnight bellsWhen the oped casement with the night-rain drips.There is a pleasure which is born of pain:The grave of all things hath its violet.Else why, thro’ days which never come again,Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret?Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?Why deem the dead more near in native land?Thy name hath been a silence in my lifeSo long, it falters upon language now,O more to me than sister or than wife,Once ... and now—nothing! It is hard to knowThat such things have been, and are not; and yetLife loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure,And goes upon its business and its pleasure,And knows not all the depths of its regret....Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as doThe snake’s brood theirs in spring! and be once moreWholly renew’d, to dwell i’ the time that’s new,With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.Peace, peace! My wild song will go wanderingToo wantonly, down paths a private painHath trodden bare. What was it jarr’d the strain?Some crush’d illusion, left with crumpled wingTangled in Music’s web of twinèd strings—That started that false note, and crack’d the tuneIn its beginning. Ah, forgotten thingsStumble back strangely! and the ghost of JuneStands by December’s fire, cold, cold! and putsThe last spark out.—How could I sing arightWith those old airs haunting me all the nightAnd those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?For back she comes, and moves reproachfully,The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft(Cruel to the last!) as tho’ ’twere I, not she,That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and leftMemory comfortless.—Away! away!Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings,Hopeless regret! In thinking of these thingsSome men have lost their minds, and others may.Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour!One deep, deep draught of the departed time!O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power,To beat and breathe thro’ all the valves of rhyme!Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that artThe cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long,Brim all the vacant chalices of songWith health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heartOne draught of what I shall not taste againSave when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm’d,—One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain,And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm’d,Love’s footsteps thro’ the waning Past to exploreUndaunted; and to carve in the wan lightOf Hope’s last outposts, on Song’s utmost height,The sad resemblance of an hour or more.Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy!Love in the land where love most lovely seems!Land of my love, tho’ I be far from thee,Lend, for love’s sake, the light of thy moonbeams,The spirit of thy cypress-groves and allThy dark-eyed beauty for a little whileTo my desire. Yet once more let her smileFall o’er me: o’er me let her long hair fall....Under the blessèd darkness unreprovedWe were alone, in that best hour of timeWhich first reveal’d to us how much we loved,’Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublimeHung trembling o’er us. At her feet I knelt,And gazed up from her feet into her eyes.Her face was bow’d: we breathed each other’s sighs:We did not speak: not move: we look’d: we felt.The night said not a word. The breeze was dead.The leaf lay without whispering on the tree,As I lay at her feet. Droop’d was her head:One hand in mine: and one still pensivelyWent wandering through my hair. We were together.How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream,Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream:Whither? Together: then what matter whither?It was enough for me to clasp her hand:To blend with her love-looks my own: no more.Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land,Blown by faint winds about a magic shore)To realize, in each mysterious feeling,The droop of the warm cheek so near my own:The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown:Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.How little know they life’s divinest bliss,That know not to possess and yet refrain!Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss:Grasp it—a few poor grains of dust remain.See how those floating flowers, the butterflies,Hover the garden thro’, and take no root!Desire for ever hath a flying foot:Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.Close not thy hand upon the innocent joyThat trusts itself within thy reach. It may,Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroyThe wingèd wanderer. Let it go or stay.Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold.Blessèd are those that spare, and that withhold;Because the whole world shall be trusted them.The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling NymphThat culls her flowers beside the precipiceOr dips her shining ankles in the lymph:But, just when she must perish or be his,Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shoreGains some new fountain; or the lilied lawnA rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun!To thee she shall be changed for evermore.Chase not too close the fading rapture. LeaveTo Love his long auroras, slowly seen.Be ready to release as to receive.Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, betweenWhose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh.Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own,If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknownIs life to love, religion, poetry.The moon had set. There was not any light,Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars paleIn outer air, and what by fits made brightHot oleanders in a rosy valeSearched by the lamping fly, whose little sparkWent in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slopeA ponderous shoulder sunward thro’ the dark.And the night pass’d in beauty like a dream.Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny,With her last star descending in the gleamOf the cold morrow, from the emptied sky.The hour, the distance from her old self, allThe novelty and loneness of the placeHad left a lovely awe on that fair face,And all the land grew strange and magical.As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch’d hill,Heavy with all heaven’s tears, for all earth’s care,She droop’d unto me, without force or will,And sank upon my bosom, murmuring thereA woman’s inarticulate passionate words.O moment of all moments upon earth!O life’s supreme! How worth, how wildly worth,Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.What even Eternity can not restore!When all the ends of life take hands and meetRound centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more,Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweetBe mingled so in the pale after-years!One hour of life immortal spirits possess.This drains the world, and leaves but weariness,And parching passion, and perplexing tears.Sad is it, that we cannot even keepThat hour to sweeten life’s last toil: but YouthGrasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep,We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth,They fall upon our work which must be done.And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking:Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching:And follow the long pathway all alone.
SWEET are the rosy memories of the lipsThat first kiss’d ours, albeit they kiss no more:Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,Altho’ they leave us on a lonely shore:Sweet are familiar songs, tho’ Music dipsHer hollow shell in Thought’s forlornest wells:And sweet, tho’ sad, the sound of midnight bellsWhen the oped casement with the night-rain drips.There is a pleasure which is born of pain:The grave of all things hath its violet.Else why, thro’ days which never come again,Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret?Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?Why deem the dead more near in native land?Thy name hath been a silence in my lifeSo long, it falters upon language now,O more to me than sister or than wife,Once ... and now—nothing! It is hard to knowThat such things have been, and are not; and yetLife loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure,And goes upon its business and its pleasure,And knows not all the depths of its regret....Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as doThe snake’s brood theirs in spring! and be once moreWholly renew’d, to dwell i’ the time that’s new,With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.Peace, peace! My wild song will go wanderingToo wantonly, down paths a private painHath trodden bare. What was it jarr’d the strain?Some crush’d illusion, left with crumpled wingTangled in Music’s web of twinèd strings—That started that false note, and crack’d the tuneIn its beginning. Ah, forgotten thingsStumble back strangely! and the ghost of JuneStands by December’s fire, cold, cold! and putsThe last spark out.—How could I sing arightWith those old airs haunting me all the nightAnd those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?For back she comes, and moves reproachfully,The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft(Cruel to the last!) as tho’ ’twere I, not she,That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and leftMemory comfortless.—Away! away!Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings,Hopeless regret! In thinking of these thingsSome men have lost their minds, and others may.Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour!One deep, deep draught of the departed time!O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power,To beat and breathe thro’ all the valves of rhyme!Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that artThe cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long,Brim all the vacant chalices of songWith health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heartOne draught of what I shall not taste againSave when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm’d,—One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain,And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm’d,Love’s footsteps thro’ the waning Past to exploreUndaunted; and to carve in the wan lightOf Hope’s last outposts, on Song’s utmost height,The sad resemblance of an hour or more.Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy!Love in the land where love most lovely seems!Land of my love, tho’ I be far from thee,Lend, for love’s sake, the light of thy moonbeams,The spirit of thy cypress-groves and allThy dark-eyed beauty for a little whileTo my desire. Yet once more let her smileFall o’er me: o’er me let her long hair fall....Under the blessèd darkness unreprovedWe were alone, in that best hour of timeWhich first reveal’d to us how much we loved,’Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublimeHung trembling o’er us. At her feet I knelt,And gazed up from her feet into her eyes.Her face was bow’d: we breathed each other’s sighs:We did not speak: not move: we look’d: we felt.The night said not a word. The breeze was dead.The leaf lay without whispering on the tree,As I lay at her feet. Droop’d was her head:One hand in mine: and one still pensivelyWent wandering through my hair. We were together.How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream,Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream:Whither? Together: then what matter whither?It was enough for me to clasp her hand:To blend with her love-looks my own: no more.Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land,Blown by faint winds about a magic shore)To realize, in each mysterious feeling,The droop of the warm cheek so near my own:The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown:Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.How little know they life’s divinest bliss,That know not to possess and yet refrain!Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss:Grasp it—a few poor grains of dust remain.See how those floating flowers, the butterflies,Hover the garden thro’, and take no root!Desire for ever hath a flying foot:Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.Close not thy hand upon the innocent joyThat trusts itself within thy reach. It may,Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroyThe wingèd wanderer. Let it go or stay.Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold.Blessèd are those that spare, and that withhold;Because the whole world shall be trusted them.The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling NymphThat culls her flowers beside the precipiceOr dips her shining ankles in the lymph:But, just when she must perish or be his,Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shoreGains some new fountain; or the lilied lawnA rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun!To thee she shall be changed for evermore.Chase not too close the fading rapture. LeaveTo Love his long auroras, slowly seen.Be ready to release as to receive.Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, betweenWhose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh.Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own,If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknownIs life to love, religion, poetry.The moon had set. There was not any light,Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars paleIn outer air, and what by fits made brightHot oleanders in a rosy valeSearched by the lamping fly, whose little sparkWent in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slopeA ponderous shoulder sunward thro’ the dark.And the night pass’d in beauty like a dream.Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny,With her last star descending in the gleamOf the cold morrow, from the emptied sky.The hour, the distance from her old self, allThe novelty and loneness of the placeHad left a lovely awe on that fair face,And all the land grew strange and magical.As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch’d hill,Heavy with all heaven’s tears, for all earth’s care,She droop’d unto me, without force or will,And sank upon my bosom, murmuring thereA woman’s inarticulate passionate words.O moment of all moments upon earth!O life’s supreme! How worth, how wildly worth,Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.What even Eternity can not restore!When all the ends of life take hands and meetRound centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more,Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweetBe mingled so in the pale after-years!One hour of life immortal spirits possess.This drains the world, and leaves but weariness,And parching passion, and perplexing tears.Sad is it, that we cannot even keepThat hour to sweeten life’s last toil: but YouthGrasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep,We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth,They fall upon our work which must be done.And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking:Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching:And follow the long pathway all alone.
SWEET are the rosy memories of the lipsThat first kiss’d ours, albeit they kiss no more:Sweet is the sight of sunset-sailing ships,Altho’ they leave us on a lonely shore:Sweet are familiar songs, tho’ Music dipsHer hollow shell in Thought’s forlornest wells:And sweet, tho’ sad, the sound of midnight bellsWhen the oped casement with the night-rain drips.
There is a pleasure which is born of pain:The grave of all things hath its violet.Else why, thro’ days which never come again,Roams Hope with that strange longing, like Regret?Why put the posy in the cold dead hand?Why plant the rose above the lonely grave?Why bring the corpse across the salt sea-wave?Why deem the dead more near in native land?
Thy name hath been a silence in my lifeSo long, it falters upon language now,O more to me than sister or than wife,Once ... and now—nothing! It is hard to knowThat such things have been, and are not; and yetLife loiters, keeps a pulse at even measure,And goes upon its business and its pleasure,And knows not all the depths of its regret....
Ah, could the memory cast her spots, as doThe snake’s brood theirs in spring! and be once moreWholly renew’d, to dwell i’ the time that’s new,With no reiterance of those pangs of yore.Peace, peace! My wild song will go wanderingToo wantonly, down paths a private painHath trodden bare. What was it jarr’d the strain?Some crush’d illusion, left with crumpled wing
Tangled in Music’s web of twinèd strings—That started that false note, and crack’d the tuneIn its beginning. Ah, forgotten thingsStumble back strangely! and the ghost of JuneStands by December’s fire, cold, cold! and putsThe last spark out.—How could I sing arightWith those old airs haunting me all the nightAnd those old steps that sound when daylight shuts?
For back she comes, and moves reproachfully,The mistress of my moods, and looks bereft(Cruel to the last!) as tho’ ’twere I, not she,That did the wrong, and broke the spell, and leftMemory comfortless.—Away! away!Phantoms, about whose brows the bindweed clings,Hopeless regret! In thinking of these thingsSome men have lost their minds, and others may.
Yet, O for one deep draught in this dull hour!One deep, deep draught of the departed time!O for one brief strong pulse of ancient power,To beat and breathe thro’ all the valves of rhyme!Thou, Memory, with thy downward eyes, that artThe cup-bearer of gods, pour deep and long,Brim all the vacant chalices of songWith health! Droop down thine urn. I hold my heartOne draught of what I shall not taste againSave when my brain with thy dark wine is brimm’d,—One draught! and then straight onward, spite of pain,And spite of all things changed, with gaze undimm’d,Love’s footsteps thro’ the waning Past to exploreUndaunted; and to carve in the wan lightOf Hope’s last outposts, on Song’s utmost height,The sad resemblance of an hour or more.
Midnight, and love, and youth, and Italy!Love in the land where love most lovely seems!Land of my love, tho’ I be far from thee,Lend, for love’s sake, the light of thy moonbeams,The spirit of thy cypress-groves and allThy dark-eyed beauty for a little whileTo my desire. Yet once more let her smileFall o’er me: o’er me let her long hair fall....
Under the blessèd darkness unreprovedWe were alone, in that best hour of timeWhich first reveal’d to us how much we loved,’Neath the thick starlight. The young night sublimeHung trembling o’er us. At her feet I knelt,And gazed up from her feet into her eyes.Her face was bow’d: we breathed each other’s sighs:We did not speak: not move: we look’d: we felt.
The night said not a word. The breeze was dead.The leaf lay without whispering on the tree,As I lay at her feet. Droop’d was her head:One hand in mine: and one still pensivelyWent wandering through my hair. We were together.How? Where? What matter? Somewhere in a dream,Drifting, slow drifting down a wizard stream:Whither? Together: then what matter whither?
It was enough for me to clasp her hand:To blend with her love-looks my own: no more.Enough (with thoughts like ships that cannot land,Blown by faint winds about a magic shore)To realize, in each mysterious feeling,The droop of the warm cheek so near my own:The cool white arm about my shoulder thrown:Those exquisite fair feet where I was kneeling.
How little know they life’s divinest bliss,That know not to possess and yet refrain!Let the young Psyche roam, a fleeting kiss:Grasp it—a few poor grains of dust remain.See how those floating flowers, the butterflies,Hover the garden thro’, and take no root!Desire for ever hath a flying foot:Free pleasure comes and goes beneath the skies.
Close not thy hand upon the innocent joyThat trusts itself within thy reach. It may,Or may not, linger. Thou canst but destroyThe wingèd wanderer. Let it go or stay.Love thou the rose, yet leave it on its stem.Think! Midas starved by turning all to gold.Blessèd are those that spare, and that withhold;Because the whole world shall be trusted them.
The foolish Faun pursues the unwilling NymphThat culls her flowers beside the precipiceOr dips her shining ankles in the lymph:But, just when she must perish or be his,Heaven puts an arm out. She is safe. The shoreGains some new fountain; or the lilied lawnA rarer sort of rose: but ah, poor Faun!To thee she shall be changed for evermore.
Chase not too close the fading rapture. LeaveTo Love his long auroras, slowly seen.Be ready to release as to receive.Deem those the nearest, soul to soul, betweenWhose lips yet lingers reverence on a sigh.Judge what thy sense can reach not, most thine own,If once thy soul hath seized it. The unknownIs life to love, religion, poetry.
The moon had set. There was not any light,Save of the lonely legion’d watch-stars paleIn outer air, and what by fits made brightHot oleanders in a rosy valeSearched by the lamping fly, whose little sparkWent in and out, like passion’s bashful hope.Meanwhile the sleepy globe began to slopeA ponderous shoulder sunward thro’ the dark.
And the night pass’d in beauty like a dream.Aloof in those dark heavens paused Destiny,With her last star descending in the gleamOf the cold morrow, from the emptied sky.The hour, the distance from her old self, allThe novelty and loneness of the placeHad left a lovely awe on that fair face,And all the land grew strange and magical.
As droops some billowy cloud to the crouch’d hill,Heavy with all heaven’s tears, for all earth’s care,She droop’d unto me, without force or will,And sank upon my bosom, murmuring thereA woman’s inarticulate passionate words.O moment of all moments upon earth!O life’s supreme! How worth, how wildly worth,Whole worlds of flame, to know this world affords.
What even Eternity can not restore!When all the ends of life take hands and meetRound centres of sweet fire. Ah, never more,Ah never, shall the bitter with the sweetBe mingled so in the pale after-years!One hour of life immortal spirits possess.This drains the world, and leaves but weariness,And parching passion, and perplexing tears.
Sad is it, that we cannot even keepThat hour to sweeten life’s last toil: but YouthGrasps all, and leaves us: and when we would weep,We dare not let our tears fall, lest, in truth,They fall upon our work which must be done.And so we bind up our torn hearts from breaking:Our eyes from weeping, and our brows from aching:And follow the long pathway all alone.
795.