SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow,How can thine heart be full of the spring?A thousand summers are over and dead.What hast thou found in the spring to follow?What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,The soft south whither thine heart is set?Shall not the grief of the old time follow?Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,Thy way is long to the sun and the south;But I, fulfill’d of my heart’s desire,Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,From tawny body and sweet small mouthFeed the heart of the night with fire.I the nightingale all spring through,O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,All spring through till the spring be done,Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,Take flight and follow and find the sun.Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,Though all things feast in the spring’s guest-chamber,How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?For where thou fliest I shall not follow,Till life forget and death remember,Till thou remember and I forget.Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,I know not how thou hast heart to sing.Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?Thy lord the summer is good to follow,And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,My heart in me is a molten emberAnd over my head the waves have met.But thou wouldst tarry or I would followCould I forget or thou remember,Couldst thou remember and I forget.O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,The heart’s division divideth us.Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollowTo the place of the slaying of Itylus,The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,I pray thee sing not a little space.Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?The woven web that was plain to follow,The small slain body, the flower-like face,Can I remember if thou forget?O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!The hands that cling and the feet that follow,The voice of the child’s blood crying yet,Who hath remember’d me? who hath forgotten?Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,But the world shall end when I forget.
SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow,How can thine heart be full of the spring?A thousand summers are over and dead.What hast thou found in the spring to follow?What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,The soft south whither thine heart is set?Shall not the grief of the old time follow?Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,Thy way is long to the sun and the south;But I, fulfill’d of my heart’s desire,Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,From tawny body and sweet small mouthFeed the heart of the night with fire.I the nightingale all spring through,O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,All spring through till the spring be done,Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,Take flight and follow and find the sun.Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,Though all things feast in the spring’s guest-chamber,How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?For where thou fliest I shall not follow,Till life forget and death remember,Till thou remember and I forget.Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,I know not how thou hast heart to sing.Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?Thy lord the summer is good to follow,And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,My heart in me is a molten emberAnd over my head the waves have met.But thou wouldst tarry or I would followCould I forget or thou remember,Couldst thou remember and I forget.O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,The heart’s division divideth us.Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollowTo the place of the slaying of Itylus,The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,I pray thee sing not a little space.Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?The woven web that was plain to follow,The small slain body, the flower-like face,Can I remember if thou forget?O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!The hands that cling and the feet that follow,The voice of the child’s blood crying yet,Who hath remember’d me? who hath forgotten?Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,But the world shall end when I forget.
SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow,How can thine heart be full of the spring?A thousand summers are over and dead.What hast thou found in the spring to follow?What hast thou found in thine heart to sing?What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?
O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,The soft south whither thine heart is set?Shall not the grief of the old time follow?Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?
Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,Thy way is long to the sun and the south;But I, fulfill’d of my heart’s desire,Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,From tawny body and sweet small mouthFeed the heart of the night with fire.
I the nightingale all spring through,O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,All spring through till the spring be done,Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,Take flight and follow and find the sun.
Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,Though all things feast in the spring’s guest-chamber,How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?For where thou fliest I shall not follow,Till life forget and death remember,Till thou remember and I forget.
Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,I know not how thou hast heart to sing.Hast thou the heart? is it all past over?Thy lord the summer is good to follow,And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?
O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,My heart in me is a molten emberAnd over my head the waves have met.But thou wouldst tarry or I would followCould I forget or thou remember,Couldst thou remember and I forget.
O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,The heart’s division divideth us.Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollowTo the place of the slaying of Itylus,The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.
O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,I pray thee sing not a little space.
Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?The woven web that was plain to follow,The small slain body, the flower-like face,Can I remember if thou forget?
O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!The hands that cling and the feet that follow,The voice of the child’s blood crying yet,Who hath remember’d me? who hath forgotten?Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow,But the world shall end when I forget.
1837
812.
TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the hollows and anglesRound the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadowThrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that liftBud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes—Rapture of life ineffable, perfect—as if in the brier,Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.
TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the hollows and anglesRound the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadowThrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that liftBud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes—Rapture of life ineffable, perfect—as if in the brier,Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.
TOSSING his mane of snows in wildest eddies and tangles,Lion-like March cometh in, hoarse, with tempestuous breath,Through all the moaning chimneys, and ’thwart all the hollows and anglesRound the shuddering house, threating of winter and death.
But in my heart I feel the life of the wood and the meadowThrilling the pulses that own kindred with fibres that liftBud and blade to the sunward, within the inscrutable shadow,Deep in the oak’s chill core, under the gathering drift.
Nay, to earth’s life in mine some prescience, or dream, or desire(How shall I name it aright?) comes for a moment and goes—Rapture of life ineffable, perfect—as if in the brier,Leafless there by my door, trembled a sense of the rose.
1839-1902
813.
OJOY of creation,To be!O rapture, to flyAnd be free!Be the battle lost or won,Though its smoke shall hide the sun,I shall find my love—the oneBorn for me!I shall know him where he standsAll alone,With the power in his handsNot o’erthrown;I shall know him by his face,By his godlike front and grace;I shall hold him for a spaceAll my own!It is he—O my love!So bold!It is I—all thy loveForetold!It is I—O love, what bliss!Dost thou answer to my kiss?O sweetheart! what is thisLieth there so cold?
OJOY of creation,To be!O rapture, to flyAnd be free!Be the battle lost or won,Though its smoke shall hide the sun,I shall find my love—the oneBorn for me!I shall know him where he standsAll alone,With the power in his handsNot o’erthrown;I shall know him by his face,By his godlike front and grace;I shall hold him for a spaceAll my own!It is he—O my love!So bold!It is I—all thy loveForetold!It is I—O love, what bliss!Dost thou answer to my kiss?O sweetheart! what is thisLieth there so cold?
OJOY of creation,To be!O rapture, to flyAnd be free!Be the battle lost or won,Though its smoke shall hide the sun,I shall find my love—the oneBorn for me!
I shall know him where he standsAll alone,With the power in his handsNot o’erthrown;I shall know him by his face,By his godlike front and grace;I shall hold him for a spaceAll my own!
It is he—O my love!So bold!It is I—all thy loveForetold!It is I—O love, what bliss!Dost thou answer to my kiss?O sweetheart! what is thisLieth there so cold?
1839-1916
814.
OYOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,Girl of my choice, Maureen!Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,Maureen?Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,White rose of the West, Maureen:For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,Maureen!Sure it’s one complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day,Bride of my dreams, Maureen:The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,Maureen!I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,Mavourneen, my own Maureen!When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm’s embrace,Maureen!O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me?My one true love, Maureen!And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,Maureen!
OYOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,Girl of my choice, Maureen!Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,Maureen?Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,White rose of the West, Maureen:For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,Maureen!Sure it’s one complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day,Bride of my dreams, Maureen:The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,Maureen!I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,Mavourneen, my own Maureen!When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm’s embrace,Maureen!O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me?My one true love, Maureen!And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,Maureen!
OYOU plant the pain in my heart with your wistful eyes,Girl of my choice, Maureen!Will you drive me mad for the kisses your shy, sweet mouth denies,Maureen?
Like a walking ghost I am, and no words to woo,White rose of the West, Maureen:For it’s pale you are, and the fear that’s on you is over me too,Maureen!
Sure it’s one complaint that’s on us, asthore, this day,Bride of my dreams, Maureen:The smart of the bee that stung us his honey must cure, they say,Maureen!
I’ll coax the light to your eyes, and the rose to your face,Mavourneen, my own Maureen!When I feel the warmth of your breast, and your nest is my arm’s embrace,Maureen!
O where was the King o’ the World that day—only me?My one true love, Maureen!And you the Queen with me there, and your throne in my heart, machree,Maureen!
815.
THERE’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my love and I, Love’s fair planet in the sky,O’er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.There’s a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhu, my mother’s son in Aghadoe!When your throat fries in hell’s drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!For they track’d me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe:O’er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where ’twould rest,Gone, to win the traitor’s gold, from Aghadoe!I walk’d to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe;Then I cover’d him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
THERE’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my love and I, Love’s fair planet in the sky,O’er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.There’s a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhu, my mother’s son in Aghadoe!When your throat fries in hell’s drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!For they track’d me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe:O’er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where ’twould rest,Gone, to win the traitor’s gold, from Aghadoe!I walk’d to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe;Then I cover’d him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
THERE’s a glade in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a green and silent glade in Aghadoe,Where we met, my love and I, Love’s fair planet in the sky,O’er that sweet and silent glade in Aghadoe.
There’s a glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe, Aghadoe,There’s a deep and secret glen in Aghadoe,Where I hid from the eyes of the red-coats and their spies,That year the trouble came to Aghadoe.
O, my curse on one black heart in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,On Shaun Dhu, my mother’s son in Aghadoe!When your throat fries in hell’s drouth, salt the flame be in your mouth,For the treachery you did in Aghadoe!
For they track’d me to that glen in Aghadoe, Aghadoe,When the price was on his head in Aghadoe:O’er the mountain, through the wood, as I stole to him with food,Where in hiding lone he lay in Aghadoe.
But they never took him living in Aghadoe, Aghadoe;With the bullets in his heart in Aghadoe,There he lay, the head, my breast keeps the warmth of where ’twould rest,Gone, to win the traitor’s gold, from Aghadoe!
I walk’d to Mallow town from Aghadoe, Aghadoe,Brought his head from the gaol’s gate to Aghadoe;Then I cover’d him with fern, and I piled on him the cairn,Like an Irish King he sleeps in Aghadoe.
O, to creep into that cairn in Aghadoe, Aghadoe!There to rest upon his breast in Aghadoe!Sure your dog for you could die with no truer heart than I,Your own love, cold on your cairn in Aghadoe.
1840
816.
OFLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:For my heart no measureKnows, nor other treasureTo buy a garland for my love to-day.And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:For I fain would borrowThy sad weeds to-morrow,To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity,Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,But passed forth from the city,Making thus my dittyOf fair love lost for ever and a day.
OFLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:For my heart no measureKnows, nor other treasureTo buy a garland for my love to-day.And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:For I fain would borrowThy sad weeds to-morrow,To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity,Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,But passed forth from the city,Making thus my dittyOf fair love lost for ever and a day.
OFLY not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure;Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay:For my heart no measureKnows, nor other treasureTo buy a garland for my love to-day.
And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow,Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away:For I fain would borrowThy sad weeds to-morrow,To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.
The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity,Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay,But passed forth from the city,Making thus my dittyOf fair love lost for ever and a day.
817.
DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting;Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure.Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun,Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion,This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness!Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul?Where are those passionate eyes that appeal’d to my eyes in passion?Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast I laid to my own?Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled.Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear?See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven,See, my desire is fulfill’d in thee, for it fills the earth.Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn’d I from the window,Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street,Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me,None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my belovèd’s.There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch.Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber,This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.I knew the house, with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree,Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street;I knew where my hope had climb’d to its goal and there encircledAll that those desolate walls once held, my belovèd’s heart.There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not.She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips.She told me all her pain and show’d me all her trouble.I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return’d her kiss.Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them.Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life.Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance;This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.Weeping strangled my voice. I call’d out, but none answer’d;Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door;She whom I love, who loved me, look’d not on my yearning,Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show’d me no more her soul.Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness,Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day;Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty,A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!
DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting;Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure.Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun,Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion,This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness!Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul?Where are those passionate eyes that appeal’d to my eyes in passion?Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast I laid to my own?Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled.Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear?See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven,See, my desire is fulfill’d in thee, for it fills the earth.Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn’d I from the window,Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street,Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me,None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my belovèd’s.There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch.Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber,This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.I knew the house, with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree,Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street;I knew where my hope had climb’d to its goal and there encircledAll that those desolate walls once held, my belovèd’s heart.There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not.She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips.She told me all her pain and show’d me all her trouble.I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return’d her kiss.Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them.Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life.Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance;This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.Weeping strangled my voice. I call’d out, but none answer’d;Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door;She whom I love, who loved me, look’d not on my yearning,Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show’d me no more her soul.Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness,Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day;Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty,A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!
DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens.Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars?Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city.A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.
Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters,Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love.Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting;Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.
This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure.Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun,Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion,This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.
Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness!Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul?Where are those passionate eyes that appeal’d to my eyes in passion?Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast I laid to my own?
Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled.Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear?See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven,See, my desire is fulfill’d in thee, for it fills the earth.
Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn’d I from the window,Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street,Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me,None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.
Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my belovèd’s.There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch.Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber,This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.
I knew the house, with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree,Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street;I knew where my hope had climb’d to its goal and there encircledAll that those desolate walls once held, my belovèd’s heart.
There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not.She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips.She told me all her pain and show’d me all her trouble.I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return’d her kiss.
Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them.Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life.Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance;This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.
Weeping strangled my voice. I call’d out, but none answer’d;Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door;She whom I love, who loved me, look’d not on my yearning,Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show’d me no more her soul.
Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness,Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day;Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty,A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!
818.
HE who has once been happy is for ayeOut of destruction’s reach. His fortune thenHolds nothing secret; and Eternity,Which is a mystery to other men,Has like a woman given him its joy.Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret,Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die,He who has once been happy! When I setThe world before me and survey its range,Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies,The shreds of pleasure which for lack of changeMen wrap around them and call happiness,The poor delights which are the tale and sumOf the world’s courage in its martyrdom;When I hear laughter from a tavern door,When I see crowds agape and in the rainWatching on tiptoe and with stifled roarTo see a rocket fired or a bull slain,When misers handle gold, when oratorsTouch strong men’s hearts with glory till they weep,When cities deck their streets for barren warsWhich have laid waste their youth, and when I keepCalmly the count of my own life and seeOn what poor stuff my manhood’s dreams were fedTill I too learn’d what dole of vanityWill serve a human soul for daily bread,—Then I remember that I once was youngAnd lived with Esther the world’s gods among.
HE who has once been happy is for ayeOut of destruction’s reach. His fortune thenHolds nothing secret; and Eternity,Which is a mystery to other men,Has like a woman given him its joy.Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret,Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die,He who has once been happy! When I setThe world before me and survey its range,Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies,The shreds of pleasure which for lack of changeMen wrap around them and call happiness,The poor delights which are the tale and sumOf the world’s courage in its martyrdom;When I hear laughter from a tavern door,When I see crowds agape and in the rainWatching on tiptoe and with stifled roarTo see a rocket fired or a bull slain,When misers handle gold, when oratorsTouch strong men’s hearts with glory till they weep,When cities deck their streets for barren warsWhich have laid waste their youth, and when I keepCalmly the count of my own life and seeOn what poor stuff my manhood’s dreams were fedTill I too learn’d what dole of vanityWill serve a human soul for daily bread,—Then I remember that I once was youngAnd lived with Esther the world’s gods among.
HE who has once been happy is for ayeOut of destruction’s reach. His fortune thenHolds nothing secret; and Eternity,Which is a mystery to other men,Has like a woman given him its joy.Time is his conquest. Life, if it should fret,Has paid him tribute. He can bear to die,He who has once been happy! When I setThe world before me and survey its range,Its mean ambitions, its scant fantasies,The shreds of pleasure which for lack of changeMen wrap around them and call happiness,The poor delights which are the tale and sumOf the world’s courage in its martyrdom;
When I hear laughter from a tavern door,When I see crowds agape and in the rainWatching on tiptoe and with stifled roarTo see a rocket fired or a bull slain,When misers handle gold, when oratorsTouch strong men’s hearts with glory till they weep,When cities deck their streets for barren warsWhich have laid waste their youth, and when I keepCalmly the count of my own life and seeOn what poor stuff my manhood’s dreams were fedTill I too learn’d what dole of vanityWill serve a human soul for daily bread,—Then I remember that I once was youngAnd lived with Esther the world’s gods among.
819.
IDID not choose thee, dearest. It was LoveThat made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blindAs a rude shepherd’s who to some lone groveHis offering brings and cares not at what shrineHe bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand,And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,And spoke the words I might not understand.I was unwise in all but the dear chanceWhich was my fortune, and the blind desireWhich led my foolish steps to Love’s abode,And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescienceWhich raised an altar and inscribed in fireIts dedicationTo the Unknown God.
IDID not choose thee, dearest. It was LoveThat made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blindAs a rude shepherd’s who to some lone groveHis offering brings and cares not at what shrineHe bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand,And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,And spoke the words I might not understand.I was unwise in all but the dear chanceWhich was my fortune, and the blind desireWhich led my foolish steps to Love’s abode,And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescienceWhich raised an altar and inscribed in fireIts dedicationTo the Unknown God.
IDID not choose thee, dearest. It was LoveThat made the choice, not I. Mine eyes were blindAs a rude shepherd’s who to some lone groveHis offering brings and cares not at what shrineHe bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine;The rest was Love’s. He took me by the hand,And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine,And spoke the words I might not understand.I was unwise in all but the dear chanceWhich was my fortune, and the blind desireWhich led my foolish steps to Love’s abode,And youth’s sublime unreason’d prescienceWhich raised an altar and inscribed in fireIts dedicationTo the Unknown God.
820.
TO-day, all day, I rode upon the down,With hounds and horsemen, a brave companyOn this side in its glory lay the sea,On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,And still we gallop’d on from gorse to gorse:And once, when check’d, a thrush sang, and my horsePrick’d his quick ears as to a sound unknown.I knew the Spring was come. I knew it evenBetter than all by this, that through my chaseIn bush and stone and hill and sea and heavenI seem’d to see and follow still your face.Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
TO-day, all day, I rode upon the down,With hounds and horsemen, a brave companyOn this side in its glory lay the sea,On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,And still we gallop’d on from gorse to gorse:And once, when check’d, a thrush sang, and my horsePrick’d his quick ears as to a sound unknown.I knew the Spring was come. I knew it evenBetter than all by this, that through my chaseIn bush and stone and hill and sea and heavenI seem’d to see and follow still your face.Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
TO-day, all day, I rode upon the down,With hounds and horsemen, a brave companyOn this side in its glory lay the sea,On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,And still we gallop’d on from gorse to gorse:And once, when check’d, a thrush sang, and my horsePrick’d his quick ears as to a sound unknown.I knew the Spring was come. I knew it evenBetter than all by this, that through my chaseIn bush and stone and hill and sea and heavenI seem’d to see and follow still your face.Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
821.
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of stormUpon the huge Atlantic, and once moreWe ride into still water and the calmOf a sweet evening, screen’d by either shoreOf Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o’er,Our exile is accomplish’d. Once againWe look on Europe, mistress as of yoreOf the fair earth and of the hearts of men.Ay, this is the famed rock which HerculesAnd Goth and Moor bequeath’d us. At this doorEngland stands sentry. God! to hear the shrillSweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,And at the summons of the rock gun's roarTo see her red coats marching from the hill!
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of stormUpon the huge Atlantic, and once moreWe ride into still water and the calmOf a sweet evening, screen’d by either shoreOf Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o’er,Our exile is accomplish’d. Once againWe look on Europe, mistress as of yoreOf the fair earth and of the hearts of men.Ay, this is the famed rock which HerculesAnd Goth and Moor bequeath’d us. At this doorEngland stands sentry. God! to hear the shrillSweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,And at the summons of the rock gun's roarTo see her red coats marching from the hill!
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven days of stormUpon the huge Atlantic, and once moreWe ride into still water and the calmOf a sweet evening, screen’d by either shoreOf Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o’er,Our exile is accomplish’d. Once againWe look on Europe, mistress as of yoreOf the fair earth and of the hearts of men.Ay, this is the famed rock which HerculesAnd Goth and Moor bequeath’d us. At this doorEngland stands sentry. God! to hear the shrillSweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze,And at the summons of the rock gun's roarTo see her red coats marching from the hill!
822.
O world, in very truth thou art too young;When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,Hast thou forgot what generations sprungOut of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?Hast thou no place in all their heritageWhere thou dost only weep, that I may comeNor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?O world, in very truth thou art too young.The heroic wealth of passionate emprizeBuilt thee fair cities for thy naked plains:How hast thou set thy summer growth amongThe broken stones which were their palaces!Hast thou forgot the darkness whereheliesWho made thee beautiful, or have thy beesFound out his grave to build their honeycombs?O world, in very truth thou art too young:They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,And, when they found for thee another star,Who made a festival and straightway hungThe jewel on thy neck. O merry world,Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyesWhich first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'dOne banner of thy bridal car for them.O world, in very truth thou art too young.There was a voice which sang about thy spring,Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips,And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongueBefore thy nightingales were come again.O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,No sudden weariness that thou art young?
O world, in very truth thou art too young;When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,Hast thou forgot what generations sprungOut of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?Hast thou no place in all their heritageWhere thou dost only weep, that I may comeNor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?O world, in very truth thou art too young.The heroic wealth of passionate emprizeBuilt thee fair cities for thy naked plains:How hast thou set thy summer growth amongThe broken stones which were their palaces!Hast thou forgot the darkness whereheliesWho made thee beautiful, or have thy beesFound out his grave to build their honeycombs?O world, in very truth thou art too young:They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,And, when they found for thee another star,Who made a festival and straightway hungThe jewel on thy neck. O merry world,Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyesWhich first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'dOne banner of thy bridal car for them.O world, in very truth thou art too young.There was a voice which sang about thy spring,Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips,And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongueBefore thy nightingales were come again.O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,No sudden weariness that thou art young?
O world, in very truth thou art too young;When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age?World, with thy covering of yellow flowers,Hast thou forgot what generations sprungOut of thy loins and loved thee and are gone?Hast thou no place in all their heritageWhere thou dost only weep, that I may comeNor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?O world, in very truth thou art too young.The heroic wealth of passionate emprizeBuilt thee fair cities for thy naked plains:How hast thou set thy summer growth amongThe broken stones which were their palaces!Hast thou forgot the darkness whereheliesWho made thee beautiful, or have thy beesFound out his grave to build their honeycombs?
O world, in very truth thou art too young:They gave thee love who measured out thy skies,And, when they found for thee another star,Who made a festival and straightway hungThe jewel on thy neck. O merry world,Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyesWhich first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'dOne banner of thy bridal car for them.O world, in very truth thou art too young.There was a voice which sang about thy spring,Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips,And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongueBefore thy nightingales were come again.O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing?Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,No sudden weariness that thou art young?
823.
ILONG have had a quarrel set with TimeBecause he robb’d me. Every day of lifeWas wrested from me after bitter strife:I never yet could see the sun go downBut I was angry in my heart, nor hearThe leaves fall in the wind without a tearOver the dying summer. I have knownNo truce with Time nor Time’s accomplice, Death.The fair world is the witness of a crimeRepeated every hour. For life and breathAre sweet to all who live; and bitterlyThe voices of these robbers of the heathSound in each ear and chill the passer-by.—What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time?What have we done to Death that we must die?
ILONG have had a quarrel set with TimeBecause he robb’d me. Every day of lifeWas wrested from me after bitter strife:I never yet could see the sun go downBut I was angry in my heart, nor hearThe leaves fall in the wind without a tearOver the dying summer. I have knownNo truce with Time nor Time’s accomplice, Death.The fair world is the witness of a crimeRepeated every hour. For life and breathAre sweet to all who live; and bitterlyThe voices of these robbers of the heathSound in each ear and chill the passer-by.—What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time?What have we done to Death that we must die?
ILONG have had a quarrel set with TimeBecause he robb’d me. Every day of lifeWas wrested from me after bitter strife:I never yet could see the sun go downBut I was angry in my heart, nor hearThe leaves fall in the wind without a tearOver the dying summer. I have knownNo truce with Time nor Time’s accomplice, Death.The fair world is the witness of a crimeRepeated every hour. For life and breathAre sweet to all who live; and bitterlyThe voices of these robbers of the heathSound in each ear and chill the passer-by.—What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time?What have we done to Death that we must die?
b. 1840
824.
Here in this sequester’d closeBloom the hyacinth and rose,Here beside the modest stockFlaunts the flaring hollyhock;Here, without a pang, one seesRanks, conditions, and degrees.All the seasons run their raceIn this quiet resting-place;Peach and apricot and figHere will ripen and grow big;Here is store and overplus,—More had not Alcinoüs!Here, in alleys cool and green,Far ahead the thrush is seen;Here along the southern wallKeeps the bee his festival;All is quiet else—afarSounds of toil and turmoil are.Here be shadows large and long;Here be spaces meet for song;Grant, O garden-god, that I,Now that none profane is nigh,—Now that mood and moment please,—Find the fair Pierides!
Here in this sequester’d closeBloom the hyacinth and rose,Here beside the modest stockFlaunts the flaring hollyhock;Here, without a pang, one seesRanks, conditions, and degrees.All the seasons run their raceIn this quiet resting-place;Peach and apricot and figHere will ripen and grow big;Here is store and overplus,—More had not Alcinoüs!Here, in alleys cool and green,Far ahead the thrush is seen;Here along the southern wallKeeps the bee his festival;All is quiet else—afarSounds of toil and turmoil are.Here be shadows large and long;Here be spaces meet for song;Grant, O garden-god, that I,Now that none profane is nigh,—Now that mood and moment please,—Find the fair Pierides!
Here in this sequester’d closeBloom the hyacinth and rose,Here beside the modest stockFlaunts the flaring hollyhock;Here, without a pang, one seesRanks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their raceIn this quiet resting-place;Peach and apricot and figHere will ripen and grow big;Here is store and overplus,—More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,Far ahead the thrush is seen;Here along the southern wallKeeps the bee his festival;All is quiet else—afarSounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long;Here be spaces meet for song;Grant, O garden-god, that I,Now that none profane is nigh,—Now that mood and moment please,—Find the fair Pierides!
825.
Triolet
IINTENDED an Ode,And it turn’d to a SonnetIt beganà la mode,I intended an Ode;But Rose crossed the roadIn her latest new bonnet;I intended an Ode;And it turn’d to a Sonnet.
IINTENDED an Ode,And it turn’d to a SonnetIt beganà la mode,I intended an Ode;But Rose crossed the roadIn her latest new bonnet;I intended an Ode;And it turn’d to a Sonnet.
IINTENDED an Ode,And it turn’d to a SonnetIt beganà la mode,I intended an Ode;But Rose crossed the roadIn her latest new bonnet;I intended an Ode;And it turn’d to a Sonnet.
826.
Rondeau
IN after days when grasses highO’er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honour’d dust,I shall not question nor reply.I shall not see the morning sky;I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!But yet, now living, fain would IThat some one then should testify,Saying—‘He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust.’Will none?—Then let my memory dieIn after days!
IN after days when grasses highO’er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honour’d dust,I shall not question nor reply.I shall not see the morning sky;I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!But yet, now living, fain would IThat some one then should testify,Saying—‘He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust.’Will none?—Then let my memory dieIn after days!
IN after days when grasses highO’er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honour’d dust,I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky;I shall not hear the night-wind sigh;I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!
But yet, now living, fain would IThat some one then should testify,Saying—‘He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust.’Will none?—Then let my memory dieIn after days!
1841-1882
827.
HE that is by Mooni nowSees the water-sapphires gleamingWhere the River Spirit, dreaming,Sleeps by fall and fountain streamingUnder lute of leaf and bough!—Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is,Psalms from unseen wildernessesDeep amongst far hill-recesses—He that is by Mooni now.Yea, for him by Mooni’s margeSings the yellow-hair’d September,With the face the gods remember,When the ridge is burnt to ember,And the dumb sea chains the barge!Where the mount like molten brass is,Down beneath fern-feather’d passesNoonday dew in cool green grassesGleams on him by Mooni’s marge.Who that dwells by Mooni yet,Feels in flowerful forest archesSmiting wings and breath that parchesWhere strong Summer’s path of march is,And the suns in thunder set!Housed beneath the gracious kirtleOf the shadowy water-myrtle—Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle,He is safe by Mooni yet!Days there were when he who sings(Dumb so long through passion’s losses)Stood where Mooni’s water crossesShining tracks of green-hair’d mosses,Like a soul with radiant wings:Then the psalm the wind rehearses—Then the song the stream disperses—Lent a beauty to his verses,Who to-night of Mooni sings.Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!Certain days are not above me,Certain hearts have ceased to love me,Certain fancies fail to move me,Like the effluent morning dream.Head whereon the white is stealing,Heart whose hurts are past all healing,Where is now the first, pure feeling?Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!. . .Still to be by Mooni cool—Where the water-blossoms glister,And by gleaming vale and vistaSits the English April’s sister,Soft and sweet and wonderful!Just to rest beneath the burningOuter world—its sneers and spurning—Ah, my heart—my heart is yearningStill to be by Mooni cool!
HE that is by Mooni nowSees the water-sapphires gleamingWhere the River Spirit, dreaming,Sleeps by fall and fountain streamingUnder lute of leaf and bough!—Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is,Psalms from unseen wildernessesDeep amongst far hill-recesses—He that is by Mooni now.Yea, for him by Mooni’s margeSings the yellow-hair’d September,With the face the gods remember,When the ridge is burnt to ember,And the dumb sea chains the barge!Where the mount like molten brass is,Down beneath fern-feather’d passesNoonday dew in cool green grassesGleams on him by Mooni’s marge.Who that dwells by Mooni yet,Feels in flowerful forest archesSmiting wings and breath that parchesWhere strong Summer’s path of march is,And the suns in thunder set!Housed beneath the gracious kirtleOf the shadowy water-myrtle—Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle,He is safe by Mooni yet!Days there were when he who sings(Dumb so long through passion’s losses)Stood where Mooni’s water crossesShining tracks of green-hair’d mosses,Like a soul with radiant wings:Then the psalm the wind rehearses—Then the song the stream disperses—Lent a beauty to his verses,Who to-night of Mooni sings.Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!Certain days are not above me,Certain hearts have ceased to love me,Certain fancies fail to move me,Like the effluent morning dream.Head whereon the white is stealing,Heart whose hurts are past all healing,Where is now the first, pure feeling?Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!. . .Still to be by Mooni cool—Where the water-blossoms glister,And by gleaming vale and vistaSits the English April’s sister,Soft and sweet and wonderful!Just to rest beneath the burningOuter world—its sneers and spurning—Ah, my heart—my heart is yearningStill to be by Mooni cool!
HE that is by Mooni nowSees the water-sapphires gleamingWhere the River Spirit, dreaming,Sleeps by fall and fountain streamingUnder lute of leaf and bough!—Hears what stamp of Storm with stress is,Psalms from unseen wildernessesDeep amongst far hill-recesses—He that is by Mooni now.
Yea, for him by Mooni’s margeSings the yellow-hair’d September,With the face the gods remember,When the ridge is burnt to ember,And the dumb sea chains the barge!Where the mount like molten brass is,Down beneath fern-feather’d passesNoonday dew in cool green grassesGleams on him by Mooni’s marge.
Who that dwells by Mooni yet,Feels in flowerful forest archesSmiting wings and breath that parchesWhere strong Summer’s path of march is,And the suns in thunder set!Housed beneath the gracious kirtleOf the shadowy water-myrtle—Winds may kiss with heat and hurtle,He is safe by Mooni yet!
Days there were when he who sings(Dumb so long through passion’s losses)Stood where Mooni’s water crossesShining tracks of green-hair’d mosses,Like a soul with radiant wings:Then the psalm the wind rehearses—Then the song the stream disperses—Lent a beauty to his verses,Who to-night of Mooni sings.
Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!Certain days are not above me,Certain hearts have ceased to love me,Certain fancies fail to move me,Like the effluent morning dream.Head whereon the white is stealing,Heart whose hurts are past all healing,Where is now the first, pure feeling?Ah, the theme—the sad, gray theme!. . .Still to be by Mooni cool—Where the water-blossoms glister,And by gleaming vale and vistaSits the English April’s sister,Soft and sweet and wonderful!Just to rest beneath the burningOuter world—its sneers and spurning—Ah, my heart—my heart is yearningStill to be by Mooni cool!
1844-1881
828.
WE are the music-makers,And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakers,And sitting by desolate streams;World-losers and world-forsakers,On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakersOf the world for ever, it seems.With wonderful deathless dittiesWe build up the world’s great cities,And out of a fabulous storyWe fashion an empire’s glory:One man with a dream, at pleasure,Shall go forth and conquer a crown;And three with a new song’s measureCan trample an empire down.We, in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth,Built Nineveh with our sighing,And Babel itself with our mirth;And o’erthrew them with prophesyingTo the old of the new world’s worth;For each age is a dream that is dying,Or one that is coming to birth.
WE are the music-makers,And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakers,And sitting by desolate streams;World-losers and world-forsakers,On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakersOf the world for ever, it seems.With wonderful deathless dittiesWe build up the world’s great cities,And out of a fabulous storyWe fashion an empire’s glory:One man with a dream, at pleasure,Shall go forth and conquer a crown;And three with a new song’s measureCan trample an empire down.We, in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth,Built Nineveh with our sighing,And Babel itself with our mirth;And o’erthrew them with prophesyingTo the old of the new world’s worth;For each age is a dream that is dying,Or one that is coming to birth.
WE are the music-makers,And we are the dreamers of dreams,Wandering by lone sea-breakers,And sitting by desolate streams;World-losers and world-forsakers,On whom the pale moon gleams:Yet we are the movers and shakersOf the world for ever, it seems.
With wonderful deathless dittiesWe build up the world’s great cities,And out of a fabulous storyWe fashion an empire’s glory:One man with a dream, at pleasure,Shall go forth and conquer a crown;And three with a new song’s measureCan trample an empire down.
We, in the ages lyingIn the buried past of the earth,Built Nineveh with our sighing,And Babel itself with our mirth;And o’erthrew them with prophesyingTo the old of the new world’s worth;For each age is a dream that is dying,Or one that is coming to birth.
829.
IMADE another garden, yea,For my new Love:I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walk’d therein,And laid the garden waste.She enter’d with her weary smile,Just as of old;She look’d around a little whileAnd shiver’d with the cold:Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turn’d the red rose white.Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeem’d like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turn’d back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
IMADE another garden, yea,For my new Love:I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walk’d therein,And laid the garden waste.She enter’d with her weary smile,Just as of old;She look’d around a little whileAnd shiver’d with the cold:Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turn’d the red rose white.Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeem’d like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turn’d back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
IMADE another garden, yea,For my new Love:I left the dead rose where it layAnd set the new above.Why did my Summer not begin?Why did my heart not haste?My old Love came and walk’d therein,And laid the garden waste.
She enter’d with her weary smile,Just as of old;She look’d around a little whileAnd shiver’d with the cold:Her passing touch was death to all,Her passing look a blight;She made the white rose-petals fall,And turn’d the red rose white.
Her pale robe clinging to the grassSeem’d like a snakeThat bit the grass and ground, alas!And a sad trail did make.She went up slowly to the gate,And then, just as of yore,She turn’d back at the last to waitAnd say farewell once more.
830.
IF you go over desert and mountain,Far into the country of Sorrow,To-day and to-night and to-morrow,And maybe for months and for years;You shall come with a heart that is burstingFor trouble and toiling and thirsting.You shall certainly come to the fountainAt length,—to the Fountain of Tears.Very peaceful the place is, and solelyFor piteous lamenting and sighing,And those who come living or dyingAlike from their hopes and their fears;Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,And statues that cover their faces:But out of the gloom springs the holyAnd beautiful Fountain of Tears.And it flows and it flows with a motionSo gentle and lovely and listless,And murmurs a tune so resistlessTo him who hath suffer’d and hears—You shall surely—without a word spoken,Kneel down there and know your heart broken,And yield to the long-curb’d emotionThat day by the Fountain of Tears.For it grows and it grows, as though leapingUp higher the more one is thinking;And ever its tunes go on sinkingMore poignantly into the ears:Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,Reach’d after dry desert and mountain,You shall fall down at length in your weepingAnd bathe your sad face in the tears.Then alas! while you lie there a seasonAnd sob between living and dying,And give up the land you were tryingTo find ’mid your hopes and your fears;—O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,Strong men shall not stay to care for you,Nor wonder indeed for what reasonYour way should seem harder than theirs.But perhaps, while you lie, never liftingYour cheek from the wet leaves it presses,Nor caring to raise your wet tressesAnd look how the cold world appears—O perhaps the mere silences round you—All things in that place Grief hath found you—Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting,May soothe you somewhat through your tears.You may feel, when a falling leaf brushesYour face, as though some one had kiss’d you;Or think at least some one who miss’d youHad sent you a thought,—if that cheers;Or a bird’s little song, faint and broken,May pass for a tender word spoken:—Enough, while around you there rushesThat life-drowning torrent of tears.And the tears shall flow faster and faster,Brim over and baffle resistance,And roll down blear’d roads to each distanceOf past desolation and years;Till they cover the place of each sorrow,And leave you no past and no morrow:For what man is able to masterAnd stem the great Fountain of Tears?But the floods and the tears meet and gather;The sound of them all grows like thunder:—O into what bosom, I wonder,Is pour’d the whole sorrow of years?For Eternity only seems keepingAccount of the great human weeping:May God, then, the Maker and Father—May He find a place for the tears!
IF you go over desert and mountain,Far into the country of Sorrow,To-day and to-night and to-morrow,And maybe for months and for years;You shall come with a heart that is burstingFor trouble and toiling and thirsting.You shall certainly come to the fountainAt length,—to the Fountain of Tears.Very peaceful the place is, and solelyFor piteous lamenting and sighing,And those who come living or dyingAlike from their hopes and their fears;Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,And statues that cover their faces:But out of the gloom springs the holyAnd beautiful Fountain of Tears.And it flows and it flows with a motionSo gentle and lovely and listless,And murmurs a tune so resistlessTo him who hath suffer’d and hears—You shall surely—without a word spoken,Kneel down there and know your heart broken,And yield to the long-curb’d emotionThat day by the Fountain of Tears.For it grows and it grows, as though leapingUp higher the more one is thinking;And ever its tunes go on sinkingMore poignantly into the ears:Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,Reach’d after dry desert and mountain,You shall fall down at length in your weepingAnd bathe your sad face in the tears.Then alas! while you lie there a seasonAnd sob between living and dying,And give up the land you were tryingTo find ’mid your hopes and your fears;—O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,Strong men shall not stay to care for you,Nor wonder indeed for what reasonYour way should seem harder than theirs.But perhaps, while you lie, never liftingYour cheek from the wet leaves it presses,Nor caring to raise your wet tressesAnd look how the cold world appears—O perhaps the mere silences round you—All things in that place Grief hath found you—Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting,May soothe you somewhat through your tears.You may feel, when a falling leaf brushesYour face, as though some one had kiss’d you;Or think at least some one who miss’d youHad sent you a thought,—if that cheers;Or a bird’s little song, faint and broken,May pass for a tender word spoken:—Enough, while around you there rushesThat life-drowning torrent of tears.And the tears shall flow faster and faster,Brim over and baffle resistance,And roll down blear’d roads to each distanceOf past desolation and years;Till they cover the place of each sorrow,And leave you no past and no morrow:For what man is able to masterAnd stem the great Fountain of Tears?But the floods and the tears meet and gather;The sound of them all grows like thunder:—O into what bosom, I wonder,Is pour’d the whole sorrow of years?For Eternity only seems keepingAccount of the great human weeping:May God, then, the Maker and Father—May He find a place for the tears!
IF you go over desert and mountain,Far into the country of Sorrow,To-day and to-night and to-morrow,And maybe for months and for years;You shall come with a heart that is burstingFor trouble and toiling and thirsting.You shall certainly come to the fountainAt length,—to the Fountain of Tears.
Very peaceful the place is, and solelyFor piteous lamenting and sighing,And those who come living or dyingAlike from their hopes and their fears;Full of cypress-like shadows the place is,And statues that cover their faces:But out of the gloom springs the holyAnd beautiful Fountain of Tears.
And it flows and it flows with a motionSo gentle and lovely and listless,And murmurs a tune so resistlessTo him who hath suffer’d and hears—You shall surely—without a word spoken,Kneel down there and know your heart broken,And yield to the long-curb’d emotionThat day by the Fountain of Tears.
For it grows and it grows, as though leapingUp higher the more one is thinking;And ever its tunes go on sinkingMore poignantly into the ears:Yea, so blessèd and good seems that fountain,Reach’d after dry desert and mountain,You shall fall down at length in your weepingAnd bathe your sad face in the tears.
Then alas! while you lie there a seasonAnd sob between living and dying,And give up the land you were tryingTo find ’mid your hopes and your fears;—O the world shall come up and pass o’er you,Strong men shall not stay to care for you,Nor wonder indeed for what reasonYour way should seem harder than theirs.
But perhaps, while you lie, never liftingYour cheek from the wet leaves it presses,Nor caring to raise your wet tressesAnd look how the cold world appears—O perhaps the mere silences round you—All things in that place Grief hath found you—Yea, e’en to the clouds o’er you drifting,May soothe you somewhat through your tears.
You may feel, when a falling leaf brushesYour face, as though some one had kiss’d you;Or think at least some one who miss’d youHad sent you a thought,—if that cheers;Or a bird’s little song, faint and broken,May pass for a tender word spoken:—Enough, while around you there rushesThat life-drowning torrent of tears.
And the tears shall flow faster and faster,Brim over and baffle resistance,And roll down blear’d roads to each distanceOf past desolation and years;Till they cover the place of each sorrow,And leave you no past and no morrow:For what man is able to masterAnd stem the great Fountain of Tears?
But the floods and the tears meet and gather;The sound of them all grows like thunder:—O into what bosom, I wonder,Is pour’d the whole sorrow of years?For Eternity only seems keepingAccount of the great human weeping:May God, then, the Maker and Father—May He find a place for the tears!
1844-1890
831.
THE red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O, the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.
THE red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O, the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.
THE red rose whispers of passion,And the white rose breathes of love;O, the red rose is a falcon,And the white rose is a dove.
But I send you a cream-white rosebudWith a flush on its petal tips;For the love that is purest and sweetestHas a kiss of desire on the lips.
1844
832.
MY delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood’Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
MY delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood’Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
MY delight and thy delightWalking, like two angels white,In the gardens of the night:
My desire and thy desireTwining to a tongue of fire,Leaping live, and laughing higher:
Thro’ the everlasting strifeIn the mystery of life.
Love, from whom the world begun,Hath the secret of the sun.
Love can tell, and love alone,Whence the million stars were strewn,Why each atom knows its own,How, in spite of woe and death,Gay is life, and sweet is breath:
This he taught us, this we knew,Happy in his science true,Hand in hand as we stood’Neath the shadows of the wood,Heart to heart as we layIn the dawning of the day.
833.
ANGEL spirits of sleep,White-robed, with silver hair,In your meadows fair,Where the willows weep,And the sad moonbeamOn the gliding streamWrites her scatter’d dream:Angel spirits of sleep,Dancing to the weirIn the hollow roarOf its waters deep;Know ye how men sayThat ye haunt no moreIsle and grassy shoreWith your moonlit play;That ye dance not here,White-robed spirits of sleep,All the summer nightThreading dances light?
ANGEL spirits of sleep,White-robed, with silver hair,In your meadows fair,Where the willows weep,And the sad moonbeamOn the gliding streamWrites her scatter’d dream:Angel spirits of sleep,Dancing to the weirIn the hollow roarOf its waters deep;Know ye how men sayThat ye haunt no moreIsle and grassy shoreWith your moonlit play;That ye dance not here,White-robed spirits of sleep,All the summer nightThreading dances light?
ANGEL spirits of sleep,White-robed, with silver hair,In your meadows fair,Where the willows weep,And the sad moonbeamOn the gliding streamWrites her scatter’d dream:
Angel spirits of sleep,Dancing to the weirIn the hollow roarOf its waters deep;Know ye how men sayThat ye haunt no moreIsle and grassy shoreWith your moonlit play;That ye dance not here,White-robed spirits of sleep,All the summer nightThreading dances light?
834.