i

ITELL you, hopeless grief is passionless;That only men incredulous of despair,Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight airBeat upward to God’s throne in loud accessOf shrieking and reproach. Full desertnessIn souls as countries lieth silent-bareUnder the blanching, vertical eye-glareOf the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, expressGrief for thy Dead in silence like to death—Most like a monumental statue setIn everlasting watch and moveless woeTill itself crumble to the dust beneath.Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:If it could weep, it could arise and go.

Sonnets from the Portuguese

682.

I thought once how Theocritus had sungOf the sweet years, the dear and wish’d-for years,Who each one in a gracious hand appearsTo bear a gift for mortals old or young:And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,I saw in gradual vision through my tearsThe sweet, sad years, the melancholy years—Those of my own life, who by turns had flungA shadow across me. Straightway I was ’ware,So weeping, how a mystic Shape did moveBehind me, and drew me backward by the hair;And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,‘Guess now who holds thee?’—‘Death’ I said. But thereThe silver answer rang—‘Not Death, but Love.’

683.

UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart!Unlike our uses and our destinies.Our ministering two angels look surpriseOn one another, as they strike athwartTheir wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, artA guest for queens to social pageantries,With gages from a hundred brighter eyesThan tears even can make mine, to play thy partOf chief musician. What hast thou to doWith looking from the lattice-lights at me—A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing throughThe dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?The chrism is on thine head—on mine the dew—And Death must dig the level where these agree.

684.

GO from me. Yet I feel that I shall standHenceforward in thy shadow. NevermoreAlone upon the threshold of my doorOf individual life I shall commandThe uses of my soul, nor lift my handSerenely in the sunshine as before,Without the sense of that which I forbore—Thy touch upon the palm. The widest landDoom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mineWith pulses that beat double. What I doAnd what I dream include thee, as the wineMust taste of its own grapes. And when I sueGod for myself, He hears that name of thine,And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

685.

IF thou must love me, let it be for naughtExcept for love’s sake only. Do not say,‘I love her for her smile—her look—her wayOf speaking gently,—for a trick of thoughtThat falls in well with mine, and certes broughtA sense of pleasant ease on such a day—For these things in themselves, Belovèd, mayBe changed, or change for thee—and love, so wrought,May be unwrought so. Neither love me forThine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry:A creature might forget to weep, who boreThy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!But love me for love’s sake, that evermoreThou mayst love on, through love’s eternity.

686.

WHEN our two souls stand up erect and strong,Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,Until the lengthening wings break into fireAt either curving point,—what bitter wrongCan the earth do us, that we should not longBe here contented? Think! In mounting higher,The angels would press on us, and aspireTo drop some golden orb of perfect songInto our deep, dear silence. Let us stayRather on earth, Belovèd—where the unfitContrarious moods of men recoil awayAnd isolate pure spirits, and permitA place to stand and love in for a day,With darkness and the death-hour rounding it.

687.

WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,Down in the reeds by the river?Spreading ruin and scattering ban,Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,And breaking the golden lilies afloatWith the dragon-fly on the river.He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,From the deep cool bed of the river;The limpid water turbidly ran,And the broken lilies a-dying lay,And the dragon-fly had fled away,Ere he brought it out of the river.High on the shore sat the great god Pan,While turbidly flow’d the river;And hack’d and hew’d as a great god canWith his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeedTo prove it fresh from the river.He cut it short, did the great god Pan(How tall it stood in the river!),Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,Steadily from the outside ring,And notch’d the poor dry empty thingIn holes, as he sat by the river.‘This is the way’ laugh’d the great god Pan(Laugh’d while he sat by the river),‘The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.’Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,He blew in power by the river.Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-flyCame back to dream on the river.Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and pain—For the reed which grows nevermore againAs a reed with the reeds of the river.

He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,From the deep cool bed of the river;The limpid water turbidly ran,And the broken lilies a-dying lay,And the dragon-fly had fled away,Ere he brought it out of the river.

High on the shore sat the great god Pan,While turbidly flow’d the river;And hack’d and hew’d as a great god canWith his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,Till there was not a sign of the leaf indeedTo prove it fresh from the river.

He cut it short, did the great god Pan(How tall it stood in the river!),Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,Steadily from the outside ring,And notch’d the poor dry empty thingIn holes, as he sat by the river.

‘This is the way’ laugh’d the great god Pan(Laugh’d while he sat by the river),‘The only way, since gods beganTo make sweet music, they could succeed.’Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed,He blew in power by the river.

Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan!Piercing sweet by the river!Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!The sun on the hill forgot to die,And the lilies revived, and the dragon-flyCame back to dream on the river.

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,To laugh as he sits by the river,Making a poet out of a man:The true gods sigh for the cost and pain—For the reed which grows nevermore againAs a reed with the reeds of the river.

1807-1898

688.

THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide.The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;So let the lifeless Hours be glorifiedWith deathless thoughts and echo’d in sweet song:And through the sunset of this purple cupThey will resume the roses of their prime,And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!The days are sad, it is the Holy tide:Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown,Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side,Red as the drops upon His thorny crown;No haggard Passion and no lawless MirthFright off the solemn Muse,—tell sweet old tales,Sing songs as we sit brooding o’er the hearth,Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

The days are sad, it is the Holy tide:Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown,Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side,Red as the drops upon His thorny crown;No haggard Passion and no lawless MirthFright off the solemn Muse,—tell sweet old tales,Sing songs as we sit brooding o’er the hearth,Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails.

1807-1882

689.

OFTEN I think of the beautiful townThat is seated by the sea;Often in thought go up and downThe pleasant streets of that dear old town,And my youth comes back to me.And a verse of a Lapland songIs haunting my memory still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,And catch, in sudden gleams,The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,And islands that were the HesperidesOf all my boyish dreams.And the burden of that old song,It murmurs and whispers still:‘A Boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I remember the black wharves and the slips,And the sea-tides tossing free;And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships,And the magic of the sea.And the voice of that wayward songIs singing and saying still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I remember the bulwarks by the shore,And the fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,And the bugle wild and shrill.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I remember the sea-fight far away,How it thunder’d o’er the tide!And the dead sea-captains, as they layIn their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bayWhere they in battle died.And the sound of that mournful songGoes through me with a thrill:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I can see the breezy dome of groves,The shadows of Deering’s woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a Sabbath sound, as of dovesIn quiet neighbourhoods.And the verse of that sweet old song,It flutters and murmurs still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the schoolboy’s brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that wereI find my lost youth again.And the strange and beautiful song,The groves are repeating it still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,And catch, in sudden gleams,The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,And islands that were the HesperidesOf all my boyish dreams.And the burden of that old song,It murmurs and whispers still:‘A Boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the black wharves and the slips,And the sea-tides tossing free;And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,And the beauty and mystery of the ships,And the magic of the sea.And the voice of that wayward songIs singing and saying still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the bulwarks by the shore,And the fort upon the hill;The sunrise gun with its hollow roar,The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er,And the bugle wild and shrill.And the music of that old songThrobs in my memory still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the sea-fight far away,How it thunder’d o’er the tide!And the dead sea-captains, as they layIn their graves o’erlooking the tranquil bayWhere they in battle died.And the sound of that mournful songGoes through me with a thrill:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I can see the breezy dome of groves,The shadows of Deering’s woods;And the friendships old and the early lovesCome back with a Sabbath sound, as of dovesIn quiet neighbourhoods.And the verse of that sweet old song,It flutters and murmurs still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

I remember the gleams and glooms that dartAcross the schoolboy’s brain;The song and the silence in the heart,That in part are prophecies, and in partAre longings wild and vain.And the voice of that fitful songSings on, and is never still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

There are things of which I may not speak;There are dreams that cannot die;There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,And bring a pallor into the cheek,And a mist before the eye.And the words of that fatal songCome over me like a chill:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

Strange to me now are the forms I meetWhen I visit the dear old town;But the native air is pure and sweet,And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,As they balance up and down,Are singing the beautiful song,Are sighing and whispering still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

And Deering’s woods are fresh and fair,And with joy that is almost painMy heart goes back to wander there,And among the dreams of the days that wereI find my lost youth again.And the strange and beautiful song,The groves are repeating it still:‘A boy’s will is the wind’s will,And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.’

1807-1892

690.

OCHRIST of God! whose life and deathOur own have reconciled,Most quietly, most tenderlyTake home thy star-named child!Thy grace is in her patient eyes,Thy words are on her tongue;The very silence round her seemsAs if the angels sung.Her smile is as a listening child’sWho hears its mother’s call;The lilies of Thy perfect peaceAbout her pillow fall.She leans from out our clinging armsTo rest herself in Thine;Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can weOur well-beloved resign.O, less for her than for ourselvesWe bow our heads and pray;Her setting star, like Bethlehem’s,To Thee shall point the way!

OCHRIST of God! whose life and deathOur own have reconciled,Most quietly, most tenderlyTake home thy star-named child!

Thy grace is in her patient eyes,Thy words are on her tongue;The very silence round her seemsAs if the angels sung.

Her smile is as a listening child’sWho hears its mother’s call;The lilies of Thy perfect peaceAbout her pillow fall.

She leans from out our clinging armsTo rest herself in Thine;Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can weOur well-beloved resign.

O, less for her than for ourselvesWe bow our heads and pray;Her setting star, like Bethlehem’s,To Thee shall point the way!

1807-1867

691.

I’m sittin’ on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin’ long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin’ fresh and green,And the lark sang loud and high—And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more will speak.’Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near,The church where we were wed, Mary,I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest—For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.I’m very lonely now, Mary,For the poor make no new friends,But, O, they love the better still,The few our Father sends!And you were allIhad, Mary,My blessin’ and my pride:There’s nothin’ left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm’s young strength was gone:There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there,And you hid it, for my sake!I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore—O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I’ll not forget you, darling!In the land I’m goin’ to;They say there’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there—But I’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!And often in those grand old woodsI’ll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side:And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.

The place is little changed, Mary,The day is bright as then,The lark’s loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the wordsYou never more will speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near,The church where we were wed, Mary,I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest—For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary,For the poor make no new friends,But, O, they love the better still,The few our Father sends!And you were allIhad, Mary,My blessin’ and my pride:There’s nothin’ left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm’s young strength was gone:There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there,And you hid it, for my sake!I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore—O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I’ll not forget you, darling!In the land I’m goin’ to;They say there’s bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there—But I’ll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woodsI’ll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I’ll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side:And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.

1808-1876

692.

IDO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!And yet when thou art absent I am sad;And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:And often in my solitude I sighThat those I do love are not more like thee!I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)Which breaks the lingering echo of the toneThy voice of music leaves upon my ear.I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,Between me and the midnight heaven arise,Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,Because they see me gazing where thou art.

IDO not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!And yet when thou art absent I am sad;And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad.

I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:And often in my solitude I sighThat those I do love are not more like thee!

I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)Which breaks the lingering echo of the toneThy voice of music leaves upon my ear.

I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,Between me and the midnight heaven arise,Oftener than any eyes I ever knew.

I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,Because they see me gazing where thou art.

1808-1879

693.

WHEN Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year,And her young artless words began to flow,One day we gave the child a colour’d sphereOf the wide earth, that she might mark and know,By tint and outline, all its sea and land.She patted all the world; old empires peep’dBetween her baby fingers; her soft handWas welcome at all frontiers. How she leap’d,And laugh’d and prattled in her world-wide bliss;But when we turn’d her sweet unlearnèd eyeOn our own isle, she raised a joyous cry—‘Oh! yes, I see it, Letty’s home is there!’And while she hid all England with a kiss,Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

1809-1849

694.

HELEN, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicèan barks of yoreThat gently, o’er a perfumed sea,The weary way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre holy land!

HELEN, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicèan barks of yoreThat gently, o’er a perfumed sea,The weary way-worn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo, in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand,Ah! Psyche, from the regions whichAre holy land!

695.

IT was many and many a year ago,In a kingdom by the sea,That a maiden there lived whom you may knowBy the name of Annabel Lee.And this maiden she lived with no other thoughtThan to love and be loved by me.I was a child and she was a childIn this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee,With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee,So that her high-born kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me—Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud one night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we—Of many far wiser than we—And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.

I was a child and she was a childIn this kingdom by the sea:But we loved with a love that was more than love—I and my Annabel Lee,With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heavenCoveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chillingMy beautiful Annabel Lee,So that her high-born kinsmen cameAnd bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchreIn this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,Went envying her and me—Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud one night,Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the loveOf those who were older than we—Of many far wiser than we—And neither the angels in heaven above,Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soulOf the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreamsOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyesOf the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,In the sepulchre there by the sea,In her tomb by the sounding sea.

696.

THANK Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called ‘Living’Is conquer’d at last.Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length:But no matter—I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead—Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat madden’d my brain—With the fever called ‘Living’That burn’d in my brain.And O! of all torturesThat torture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst—I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst.—Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomy,And narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed—And, tosleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odourAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odour,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drown’d in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kiss’d me,She fondly caress’d,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguish’d,She cover’d me warm,And she pray’d to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.And I lie so composedly,Now, in my bed(Knowing her love),That you fancy me dead—And I rest so contentedly,Now, in my bed(With her love at my breast),That you fancy me dead—That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead.But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.

THANK Heaven! the crisis—The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last—And the fever called ‘Living’Is conquer’d at last.

Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length:But no matter—I feelI am better at length.

And I rest so composedlyNow, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead—Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart—ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!

The sickness—the nausea—The pitiless pain—Have ceased, with the feverThat madden’d my brain—With the fever called ‘Living’That burn’d in my brain.

And O! of all torturesThat torture the worstHas abated—the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst—I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst.

—Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground—From a cavern not very farDown under ground.

And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomy,And narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed—And, tosleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.

My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes,Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses—Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odourAbout it, of pansies—A rosemary odour,Commingled with pansies—With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.

And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie—Drown’d in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss’d me,She fondly caress’d,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breast—Deeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish’d,She cover’d me warm,And she pray’d to the angelsTo keep me from harm—To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly,Now, in my bed(Knowing her love),That you fancy me dead—And I rest so contentedly,Now, in my bed(With her love at my breast),That you fancy me dead—That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie—It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie—With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.

1809-1883

697.

’TIS a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, O sighing!When such a time comethI do retireInto an old roomBeside a bright fire:O, pile a bright fire!And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—O, drearily sings!I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit I,Reading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!Then with an old friendI talk of our youth—How ’twas gladsome, but oftenFoolish, forsooth:But gladsome, gladsome!Or, to get merry,We sing some old rhymeThat made the wood ring againIn summer time—Sweet summer time!Then go we smoking,Silent and snug:Naught passes between us,Save a brown jug—Sometimes!And sometimes a tearWill rise in each eye,Seeing the two old friendsSo merrily—So merrily!And ere to bedGo we, go we,Down on the ashesWe kneel on the knee,Praying together!Thus, then, live ITill, ’mid all the gloom,By Heaven! the bold sunIs with me in the roomShining, shining!Then the clouds part,Swallows soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!I jump up like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!

’TIS a dull sightTo see the year dying,When winter windsSet the yellow wood sighing:Sighing, O sighing!

When such a time comethI do retireInto an old roomBeside a bright fire:O, pile a bright fire!

And there I sitReading old things,Of knights and lorn damsels,While the wind sings—O, drearily sings!

I never look outNor attend to the blast;For all to be seenIs the leaves falling fast:Falling, falling!

But close at the hearth,Like a cricket, sit I,Reading of summerAnd chivalry—Gallant chivalry!

Then with an old friendI talk of our youth—How ’twas gladsome, but oftenFoolish, forsooth:But gladsome, gladsome!

Or, to get merry,We sing some old rhymeThat made the wood ring againIn summer time—Sweet summer time!

Then go we smoking,Silent and snug:Naught passes between us,Save a brown jug—Sometimes!

And sometimes a tearWill rise in each eye,Seeing the two old friendsSo merrily—So merrily!

And ere to bedGo we, go we,Down on the ashesWe kneel on the knee,Praying together!

Thus, then, live ITill, ’mid all the gloom,By Heaven! the bold sunIs with me in the roomShining, shining!

Then the clouds part,Swallows soaring between;The spring is alive,And the meadows are green!

I jump up like mad,Break the old pipe in twain,And away to the meadows,The meadows again!

698.

ABOOK of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness—O. Wilderness were Paradise enow!Some for the Glories of This World; and someSigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!Look to the blowing Rose about us—‘Lo,Laughing,’ she says, ‘into the world I blow,At once the silken tassel of my PurseTear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.’And those who husbanded the Golden grainAnd those who flung it to the winds like RainAlike to no such aureate Earth are turn’dAs, buried once, Men want dug up again.

ABOOK of Verses underneath the Bough,A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and ThouBeside me singing in the Wilderness—O. Wilderness were Paradise enow!

Some for the Glories of This World; and someSigh for the Prophet’s Paradise to come;Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go,Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

Look to the blowing Rose about us—‘Lo,Laughing,’ she says, ‘into the world I blow,At once the silken tassel of my PurseTear, and its Treasure on the Garden throw.’

And those who husbanded the Golden grainAnd those who flung it to the winds like RainAlike to no such aureate Earth are turn’dAs, buried once, Men want dug up again.

THINK, in this batter’d CaravanseraiWhose Portals are alternate Night and Day,How Sultán after Sultán with his PompAbode his destined Hour, and went his way.They say the Lion and the Lizard keepThe Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the wild AssStamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.I sometimes think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.And this reviving Herb whose tender GreenFledges the River-Lip on which we lean—Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knowsFrom what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clearsTo-dayof past Regrets and Future Fears:To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.For some we loved, the loveliest and the bestThat from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,And one by one crept silently to rest.And we, that now make merry in the RoomThey left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of EarthDescend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!

THINK, in this batter’d CaravanseraiWhose Portals are alternate Night and Day,How Sultán after Sultán with his PompAbode his destined Hour, and went his way.

They say the Lion and the Lizard keepThe Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:And Bahrám, that great Hunter—the wild AssStamps o’er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

I sometimes think that never blows so redThe Rose as where some buried Cæsar bled;That every Hyacinth the Garden wearsDropt in her Lap from some once lovely Head.

And this reviving Herb whose tender GreenFledges the River-Lip on which we lean—Ah, lean upon it lightly! for who knowsFrom what once lovely Lip it springs unseen!

Ah, my Belovèd, fill the Cup that clearsTo-dayof past Regrets and Future Fears:To-morrow!—Why, To-morrow I may beMyself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the bestThat from his Vintage rolling Time hath prest,Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the RoomThey left, and Summer dresses in new bloom,Ourselves must we beneath the Couch of EarthDescend—ourselves to make a Couch—for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,Before we too into the Dust descend;Dust unto Dust, and under Dust to lie,Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and—sans End!

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