Within the old, old forestThe wind hath whispered meThou dwellest—thou, who warrestWith birds in melody,And all the wood-ways starrestWith wild-flow’rs fragrantly,Thou presence none may see!
Within the old, old forestThe wind hath whispered meThou dwellest—thou, who warrestWith birds in melody,And all the wood-ways starrestWith wild-flow’rs fragrantly,Thou presence none may see!
Within the old, old forestThe wind hath whispered meThou dwellest—thou, who warrestWith birds in melody,And all the wood-ways starrestWith wild-flow’rs fragrantly,Thou presence none may see!
If I should find thee sittingBeneath the woodland tree,The elder-blossoms knittingIn wreaths of witchery,Between the glimpse and flitting,What wouldst thou show to me,Thou presence none may see?
If I should find thee sittingBeneath the woodland tree,The elder-blossoms knittingIn wreaths of witchery,Between the glimpse and flitting,What wouldst thou show to me,Thou presence none may see?
If I should find thee sittingBeneath the woodland tree,The elder-blossoms knittingIn wreaths of witchery,Between the glimpse and flitting,What wouldst thou show to me,Thou presence none may see?
O thou, who, haply, hidest,A flower upon the tree;Or in a color glidest,Or murmur of a bee;Or in a scent abidest,A fragrance,—show to meThe things no man may see!
O thou, who, haply, hidest,A flower upon the tree;Or in a color glidest,Or murmur of a bee;Or in a scent abidest,A fragrance,—show to meThe things no man may see!
O thou, who, haply, hidest,A flower upon the tree;Or in a color glidest,Or murmur of a bee;Or in a scent abidest,A fragrance,—show to meThe things no man may see!
If I should find thee dreamingUpon the wild-rose lea,The heart within thee gleamingAnd breathing like a bee,Between the real and seeming,What wouldst thou say to me,Thou presence none may see?
If I should find thee dreamingUpon the wild-rose lea,The heart within thee gleamingAnd breathing like a bee,Between the real and seeming,What wouldst thou say to me,Thou presence none may see?
If I should find thee dreamingUpon the wild-rose lea,The heart within thee gleamingAnd breathing like a bee,Between the real and seeming,What wouldst thou say to me,Thou presence none may see?
O thou, who, haply, tellestTo birds their wild wood glee;Who in the water wellestAs murmuring melody;And in the wood-wind dwellestAs music,—sing to meOf that no man may see!
O thou, who, haply, tellestTo birds their wild wood glee;Who in the water wellestAs murmuring melody;And in the wood-wind dwellestAs music,—sing to meOf that no man may see!
O thou, who, haply, tellestTo birds their wild wood glee;Who in the water wellestAs murmuring melody;And in the wood-wind dwellestAs music,—sing to meOf that no man may see!
The trees before the coming stormToss, wild as leaping CorybantsWho fling to Cybele an armOf rapture, and a face that pantsThrough hair the ritual frenzy slants.Vague, stormy shapes of tempest sit,August, majestic, and immense,Beneath the stars—as, lightning-lit,A god might give wild audienceTo awe and night and violence.Storm is her signet; hers, who writesStern laws in flame; and, shadowy,With thunder seals the rolled-out nights,And sits in terrible mystery—The mountain-crownéd Cybele.
The trees before the coming stormToss, wild as leaping CorybantsWho fling to Cybele an armOf rapture, and a face that pantsThrough hair the ritual frenzy slants.Vague, stormy shapes of tempest sit,August, majestic, and immense,Beneath the stars—as, lightning-lit,A god might give wild audienceTo awe and night and violence.Storm is her signet; hers, who writesStern laws in flame; and, shadowy,With thunder seals the rolled-out nights,And sits in terrible mystery—The mountain-crownéd Cybele.
The trees before the coming stormToss, wild as leaping CorybantsWho fling to Cybele an armOf rapture, and a face that pantsThrough hair the ritual frenzy slants.
Vague, stormy shapes of tempest sit,August, majestic, and immense,Beneath the stars—as, lightning-lit,A god might give wild audienceTo awe and night and violence.
Storm is her signet; hers, who writesStern laws in flame; and, shadowy,With thunder seals the rolled-out nights,And sits in terrible mystery—The mountain-crownéd Cybele.
I write these things that men may hear.This was the word that gave me cheer:There sate a dæmon at mine ear,Who whispered me, “Man knoweth naught.—First know thyself wouldst thou know aught.”This was the word that brought me grace:There fell a shape before my face,Who motioned me, “All forms are sin’s.—He aims above himself who wins.”This was the word that made me wise:There stood an angel at mine eyes,Who looked, “The world lives selfishly.—Give thy own self if thou wouldst see.”These are the words they brought to me.
I write these things that men may hear.This was the word that gave me cheer:There sate a dæmon at mine ear,Who whispered me, “Man knoweth naught.—First know thyself wouldst thou know aught.”This was the word that brought me grace:There fell a shape before my face,Who motioned me, “All forms are sin’s.—He aims above himself who wins.”This was the word that made me wise:There stood an angel at mine eyes,Who looked, “The world lives selfishly.—Give thy own self if thou wouldst see.”These are the words they brought to me.
I write these things that men may hear.
This was the word that gave me cheer:There sate a dæmon at mine ear,Who whispered me, “Man knoweth naught.—First know thyself wouldst thou know aught.”
This was the word that brought me grace:There fell a shape before my face,Who motioned me, “All forms are sin’s.—He aims above himself who wins.”
This was the word that made me wise:There stood an angel at mine eyes,Who looked, “The world lives selfishly.—Give thy own self if thou wouldst see.”
These are the words they brought to me.
Of Rosamond the beautiful, of herThe joy and pride of Cunimund,—last kingOf the fierce Gepidæ,—a warriorSuch as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at warWith Cunimund her father,—fame did bringReport of such proud loveliness and graceThat he had loved her ere he saw her face.War was between them and the hate of thrones:For he had slain a son of TurismundAnd brother of King Cunimund. His bonesWere as a wall between desire—unsunnedOf such encouragement as young Love owns;Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunnedAppeal with dead defiance, and the grimConfrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—Such oft is Life! that, standing with despair,Looks on some crime,—as looked the conquerorOf Rosamond,—ere goaded on to dareFate through the stern arbitrament of war:Death smiles within the danger of her hair;Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar,Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouthAn exarch marshals legions from the south.Yet, should he so prevail against her might—Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautifulAngers and scorns—that she be forced, some night,To pledge him faith in Hate’s full cup, a skull—What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white,Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dullPoison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!—Life writes notFailurewhere Fate writesHe dared.
Of Rosamond the beautiful, of herThe joy and pride of Cunimund,—last kingOf the fierce Gepidæ,—a warriorSuch as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at warWith Cunimund her father,—fame did bringReport of such proud loveliness and graceThat he had loved her ere he saw her face.War was between them and the hate of thrones:For he had slain a son of TurismundAnd brother of King Cunimund. His bonesWere as a wall between desire—unsunnedOf such encouragement as young Love owns;Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunnedAppeal with dead defiance, and the grimConfrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—Such oft is Life! that, standing with despair,Looks on some crime,—as looked the conquerorOf Rosamond,—ere goaded on to dareFate through the stern arbitrament of war:Death smiles within the danger of her hair;Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar,Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouthAn exarch marshals legions from the south.Yet, should he so prevail against her might—Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautifulAngers and scorns—that she be forced, some night,To pledge him faith in Hate’s full cup, a skull—What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white,Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dullPoison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!—Life writes notFailurewhere Fate writesHe dared.
Of Rosamond the beautiful, of herThe joy and pride of Cunimund,—last kingOf the fierce Gepidæ,—a warriorSuch as the old-world minstrels loved to sing,To Alboin, Prince of Lombardy,—at warWith Cunimund her father,—fame did bringReport of such proud loveliness and graceThat he had loved her ere he saw her face.
War was between them and the hate of thrones:For he had slain a son of TurismundAnd brother of King Cunimund. His bonesWere as a wall between desire—unsunnedOf such encouragement as young Love owns;Young Love, before the ruined lips that stunnedAppeal with dead defiance, and the grimConfrontment mocking as the hopes of him.—
Such oft is Life! that, standing with despair,Looks on some crime,—as looked the conquerorOf Rosamond,—ere goaded on to dareFate through the stern arbitrament of war:Death smiles within the danger of her hair;Defeat, more deadly than the wild Avar,Looks, armored, from her eyes; and in her mouthAn exarch marshals legions from the south.
Yet, should he so prevail against her might—Her woman Pride, her hosts of beautifulAngers and scorns—that she be forced, some night,To pledge him faith in Hate’s full cup, a skull—What though he sees Revenge writ, fiery white,Upon her brow! revenge, that hides a dullPoison for sleep, or dagger all prepared!—Life writes notFailurewhere Fate writesHe dared.
It shall not be forgottenOf any one who sees,—The sorrel-flow’r amid the moss,The wind-flow’r ’mid the trees.Though I can but rememberAll flowers byherface,That flow’r, which is my life’s perfume,Kin to the wild-flow’r race.It shall not be forgottenOf any one who looks,—The evening-star above the hills,Its image in the brooks.Though I can but rememberAll planets byhereyes,Those stars, which are my destiny,Bright sisters to the skies’.And, oh, the song that followsThe wing-beat of the bird!—It shall not be forgottenWhen once such song is heard.Though I can but rememberAll music byherwords,Her voice, which is my heart’s response,Kin to the building bird’s.Howcanthey be forgotten,The fair and fugitive,When in all birds and stars and flowersLove’s intimations live!
It shall not be forgottenOf any one who sees,—The sorrel-flow’r amid the moss,The wind-flow’r ’mid the trees.Though I can but rememberAll flowers byherface,That flow’r, which is my life’s perfume,Kin to the wild-flow’r race.It shall not be forgottenOf any one who looks,—The evening-star above the hills,Its image in the brooks.Though I can but rememberAll planets byhereyes,Those stars, which are my destiny,Bright sisters to the skies’.And, oh, the song that followsThe wing-beat of the bird!—It shall not be forgottenWhen once such song is heard.Though I can but rememberAll music byherwords,Her voice, which is my heart’s response,Kin to the building bird’s.Howcanthey be forgotten,The fair and fugitive,When in all birds and stars and flowersLove’s intimations live!
It shall not be forgottenOf any one who sees,—The sorrel-flow’r amid the moss,The wind-flow’r ’mid the trees.
Though I can but rememberAll flowers byherface,That flow’r, which is my life’s perfume,Kin to the wild-flow’r race.
It shall not be forgottenOf any one who looks,—The evening-star above the hills,Its image in the brooks.
Though I can but rememberAll planets byhereyes,Those stars, which are my destiny,Bright sisters to the skies’.
And, oh, the song that followsThe wing-beat of the bird!—It shall not be forgottenWhen once such song is heard.
Though I can but rememberAll music byherwords,Her voice, which is my heart’s response,Kin to the building bird’s.
Howcanthey be forgotten,The fair and fugitive,When in all birds and stars and flowersLove’s intimations live!
A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:One large, white star above the solitude,Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,Wild roses wistful in a web of rain.
A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:One large, white star above the solitude,Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,Wild roses wistful in a web of rain.
A mile of moonlight and the whispering wood:A mile of shadow and the odorous lane:One large, white star above the solitude,Like one sweet wish: and, laughter after pain,Wild roses wistful in a web of rain.
No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead,No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks,—Tattooed with stars and lichens,—doth love needTo guide him where, among the hollyhocks,A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart’s locks.
No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead,No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks,—Tattooed with stars and lichens,—doth love needTo guide him where, among the hollyhocks,A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart’s locks.
No star, no rose, to lesson him and lead,No woodsman compass of the skies and rocks,—Tattooed with stars and lichens,—doth love needTo guide him where, among the hollyhocks,A blur of moonlight, gleam his sweetheart’s locks.
We name it beauty—that permitted part,The love-elected apotheosisOf Nature, which the god within the heart,Just touching, makes immortal, but by this—A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss.
We name it beauty—that permitted part,The love-elected apotheosisOf Nature, which the god within the heart,Just touching, makes immortal, but by this—A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss.
We name it beauty—that permitted part,The love-elected apotheosisOf Nature, which the god within the heart,Just touching, makes immortal, but by this—A star, a rose, the memory of a kiss.
Long are the days, and overlong the nights.The weary hours are a heavy chainUpon the feet of all Earth’s dear delights,Holding them ever prisoners to pain.What shall beguile me to believe againIn hope, that Faith within her parable writesOf life, Care reads with eyes whose teardrops stain?Shall such assist me to subdue the heights?Long is the night, and overlong the day.—The burden of all being!—Is it worseOr better, lo! that they who toil and prayMay win no more than they who toil and curseA little sleep, a little love, ah me!And the slow weight up the soul’s Calvary!
Long are the days, and overlong the nights.The weary hours are a heavy chainUpon the feet of all Earth’s dear delights,Holding them ever prisoners to pain.What shall beguile me to believe againIn hope, that Faith within her parable writesOf life, Care reads with eyes whose teardrops stain?Shall such assist me to subdue the heights?Long is the night, and overlong the day.—The burden of all being!—Is it worseOr better, lo! that they who toil and prayMay win no more than they who toil and curseA little sleep, a little love, ah me!And the slow weight up the soul’s Calvary!
Long are the days, and overlong the nights.The weary hours are a heavy chainUpon the feet of all Earth’s dear delights,Holding them ever prisoners to pain.What shall beguile me to believe againIn hope, that Faith within her parable writesOf life, Care reads with eyes whose teardrops stain?Shall such assist me to subdue the heights?Long is the night, and overlong the day.—The burden of all being!—Is it worseOr better, lo! that they who toil and prayMay win no more than they who toil and curseA little sleep, a little love, ah me!And the slow weight up the soul’s Calvary!
Not his the part to win the goal,The flaming goal that flies before,Into whose course the apples rollOf self that stay the feet the more.Beyond himself he shall not winWhose aim is as a driven dust,That his own soul must wander in,Seeing no farther than his lust.
Not his the part to win the goal,The flaming goal that flies before,Into whose course the apples rollOf self that stay the feet the more.Beyond himself he shall not winWhose aim is as a driven dust,That his own soul must wander in,Seeing no farther than his lust.
Not his the part to win the goal,The flaming goal that flies before,Into whose course the apples rollOf self that stay the feet the more.
Beyond himself he shall not winWhose aim is as a driven dust,That his own soul must wander in,Seeing no farther than his lust.
Mine is the part of no companion handOf help, except my shadow’s silent self:A moonlight traveller in Fancy’s landOf leering gnome and hollow-laughing elf:Whose forests deepen and whose moon goes down,When night’s blind shadow shall usurp my own;And, ’midst the dust and wreck of some old town,The City of Dreams, I grope and fall alone.
Mine is the part of no companion handOf help, except my shadow’s silent self:A moonlight traveller in Fancy’s landOf leering gnome and hollow-laughing elf:Whose forests deepen and whose moon goes down,When night’s blind shadow shall usurp my own;And, ’midst the dust and wreck of some old town,The City of Dreams, I grope and fall alone.
Mine is the part of no companion handOf help, except my shadow’s silent self:A moonlight traveller in Fancy’s landOf leering gnome and hollow-laughing elf:
Whose forests deepen and whose moon goes down,When night’s blind shadow shall usurp my own;And, ’midst the dust and wreck of some old town,The City of Dreams, I grope and fall alone.
What magic shall solve us the secretOf beauty that’s born for an hour?That gleams, in the flight of an egret,Or swoons, in the scent of a flower,With death for a dower?What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?What pipes in the wind but a faun?What blooms in the waters that scatterBut limbs of a nymph that is gone,When we walk in the dawn?What sings on the hills but a fairy?Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?What breathes through the leaves but the airyDim spirits of shadow and light,When we walk in the night?Behold how the world-heart is eagerTo draw us and hold us and claim!Through truths of the dreams that beleaguerHer soul she makes ours the same,And death but a name.
What magic shall solve us the secretOf beauty that’s born for an hour?That gleams, in the flight of an egret,Or swoons, in the scent of a flower,With death for a dower?What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?What pipes in the wind but a faun?What blooms in the waters that scatterBut limbs of a nymph that is gone,When we walk in the dawn?What sings on the hills but a fairy?Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?What breathes through the leaves but the airyDim spirits of shadow and light,When we walk in the night?Behold how the world-heart is eagerTo draw us and hold us and claim!Through truths of the dreams that beleaguerHer soul she makes ours the same,And death but a name.
What magic shall solve us the secretOf beauty that’s born for an hour?That gleams, in the flight of an egret,Or swoons, in the scent of a flower,With death for a dower?
What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?What pipes in the wind but a faun?What blooms in the waters that scatterBut limbs of a nymph that is gone,When we walk in the dawn?
What sings on the hills but a fairy?Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?What breathes through the leaves but the airyDim spirits of shadow and light,When we walk in the night?
Behold how the world-heart is eagerTo draw us and hold us and claim!Through truths of the dreams that beleaguerHer soul she makes ours the same,And death but a name.
They lean their faces to me throughGreen windows of the woods;Their cool throats sweet with honey-dewBeneath their leafy hoods—No dream they dream but hath been trueHere in the solitudes.Star trillium, in the underbrush,In whom Spring bares her face;Sun eglantine, that breathes the blushOf Summer’s quiet grace;Moon mallow, in whom lives the hushOf Autumn’s tragic pace.This one hath heard the dryad’s sighsBehind the covering bark;That one hath felt the satyr’s eyesGleam through the bosky dark;And one hath seen the Naiad riseIn waters all a-spark.I bend my soul unto them, stilledIn worship man hath lost:—The old-world myths that science killedAre living things almostTo me through these whose forms are filledWith Beauty’s pagan ghost.And with new eyes I seem to seeThe world these live within,—A shuttered world of mystery,Where unreal forms beginReal forms of idealityThat have no unreal kin.
They lean their faces to me throughGreen windows of the woods;Their cool throats sweet with honey-dewBeneath their leafy hoods—No dream they dream but hath been trueHere in the solitudes.Star trillium, in the underbrush,In whom Spring bares her face;Sun eglantine, that breathes the blushOf Summer’s quiet grace;Moon mallow, in whom lives the hushOf Autumn’s tragic pace.This one hath heard the dryad’s sighsBehind the covering bark;That one hath felt the satyr’s eyesGleam through the bosky dark;And one hath seen the Naiad riseIn waters all a-spark.I bend my soul unto them, stilledIn worship man hath lost:—The old-world myths that science killedAre living things almostTo me through these whose forms are filledWith Beauty’s pagan ghost.And with new eyes I seem to seeThe world these live within,—A shuttered world of mystery,Where unreal forms beginReal forms of idealityThat have no unreal kin.
They lean their faces to me throughGreen windows of the woods;Their cool throats sweet with honey-dewBeneath their leafy hoods—No dream they dream but hath been trueHere in the solitudes.
Star trillium, in the underbrush,In whom Spring bares her face;Sun eglantine, that breathes the blushOf Summer’s quiet grace;Moon mallow, in whom lives the hushOf Autumn’s tragic pace.
This one hath heard the dryad’s sighsBehind the covering bark;That one hath felt the satyr’s eyesGleam through the bosky dark;And one hath seen the Naiad riseIn waters all a-spark.
I bend my soul unto them, stilledIn worship man hath lost:—The old-world myths that science killedAre living things almostTo me through these whose forms are filledWith Beauty’s pagan ghost.
And with new eyes I seem to seeThe world these live within,—A shuttered world of mystery,Where unreal forms beginReal forms of idealityThat have no unreal kin.
How some succeed, who have least need,In that they make no effort for!And pluck, where others pluck a weed,The burning blossom of a star,Grown from no earthly seed.For some shall reap who never sow;And some shall toil and ne’er attain—What boots it, in ourselves to knowSuch labor here is not in vain,When we still see it so!
How some succeed, who have least need,In that they make no effort for!And pluck, where others pluck a weed,The burning blossom of a star,Grown from no earthly seed.For some shall reap who never sow;And some shall toil and ne’er attain—What boots it, in ourselves to knowSuch labor here is not in vain,When we still see it so!
How some succeed, who have least need,In that they make no effort for!And pluck, where others pluck a weed,The burning blossom of a star,Grown from no earthly seed.
For some shall reap who never sow;And some shall toil and ne’er attain—What boots it, in ourselves to knowSuch labor here is not in vain,When we still see it so!
Unto the portal of the House of Song,Symbols of wrong and emblems of unrest,And mottoes of despair and envious jest,And stony masks of scorn and hate belong.Who enters here shall feel his soul deniedAll welcome; where the chiselled form of LoveStares down in marble on the shrine aboveThe tomb of Beauty where he dreamed and died.Who enters here shall know no poppy flowersOf Rest, or harp-tones of serene Content;Only sad ghosts of music and of scentShall mock his mind with their remembered powers.Here must he wait till striving Patience carvesHis name upon the century-storied floor;His heart’s blood staining one dim pane the moreIn Fame’s high casement while he sings and starves.
Unto the portal of the House of Song,Symbols of wrong and emblems of unrest,And mottoes of despair and envious jest,And stony masks of scorn and hate belong.Who enters here shall feel his soul deniedAll welcome; where the chiselled form of LoveStares down in marble on the shrine aboveThe tomb of Beauty where he dreamed and died.Who enters here shall know no poppy flowersOf Rest, or harp-tones of serene Content;Only sad ghosts of music and of scentShall mock his mind with their remembered powers.Here must he wait till striving Patience carvesHis name upon the century-storied floor;His heart’s blood staining one dim pane the moreIn Fame’s high casement while he sings and starves.
Unto the portal of the House of Song,Symbols of wrong and emblems of unrest,And mottoes of despair and envious jest,And stony masks of scorn and hate belong.
Who enters here shall feel his soul deniedAll welcome; where the chiselled form of LoveStares down in marble on the shrine aboveThe tomb of Beauty where he dreamed and died.
Who enters here shall know no poppy flowersOf Rest, or harp-tones of serene Content;Only sad ghosts of music and of scentShall mock his mind with their remembered powers.
Here must he wait till striving Patience carvesHis name upon the century-storied floor;His heart’s blood staining one dim pane the moreIn Fame’s high casement while he sings and starves.
Oh, why for us the blighted bloom,The blossom that lies withering!—Why has He, of Life’s changeless loom,Created here no changeless thing?Where grows the rose of fadeless Grace?Through which the spirit manifestsThe fact of an immortal place,The dream on which religion rests.Where buds the lily of our Faith?That grows for us in unknown wise,Out of the barren dust of death,The pregnant bloom of Paradise.In Heaven! so near that flowers know!That flowers see how near!—and thusReflect the knowledge here belowOf love and life unknown to us.
Oh, why for us the blighted bloom,The blossom that lies withering!—Why has He, of Life’s changeless loom,Created here no changeless thing?Where grows the rose of fadeless Grace?Through which the spirit manifestsThe fact of an immortal place,The dream on which religion rests.Where buds the lily of our Faith?That grows for us in unknown wise,Out of the barren dust of death,The pregnant bloom of Paradise.In Heaven! so near that flowers know!That flowers see how near!—and thusReflect the knowledge here belowOf love and life unknown to us.
Oh, why for us the blighted bloom,The blossom that lies withering!—Why has He, of Life’s changeless loom,Created here no changeless thing?
Where grows the rose of fadeless Grace?Through which the spirit manifestsThe fact of an immortal place,The dream on which religion rests.
Where buds the lily of our Faith?That grows for us in unknown wise,Out of the barren dust of death,The pregnant bloom of Paradise.
In Heaven! so near that flowers know!That flowers see how near!—and thusReflect the knowledge here belowOf love and life unknown to us.
All things have power to hold us back.Our very hopes build up a wallOf doubt, whose shadow stretches blackO’er all.The dreams, that helped us once, becomeDread disappointments, that opposeDead eyes to ours, and lips made dumbWith woes.The thoughts that opened doors beforeWithin the mind’s house, hide away;Discouragement hath locked the doorFor aye.Come, loss, more frequently than gain!And failure than success! untilThe spirit’s struggle to attainIs still!
All things have power to hold us back.Our very hopes build up a wallOf doubt, whose shadow stretches blackO’er all.The dreams, that helped us once, becomeDread disappointments, that opposeDead eyes to ours, and lips made dumbWith woes.The thoughts that opened doors beforeWithin the mind’s house, hide away;Discouragement hath locked the doorFor aye.Come, loss, more frequently than gain!And failure than success! untilThe spirit’s struggle to attainIs still!
All things have power to hold us back.Our very hopes build up a wallOf doubt, whose shadow stretches blackO’er all.
The dreams, that helped us once, becomeDread disappointments, that opposeDead eyes to ours, and lips made dumbWith woes.
The thoughts that opened doors beforeWithin the mind’s house, hide away;Discouragement hath locked the doorFor aye.
Come, loss, more frequently than gain!And failure than success! untilThe spirit’s struggle to attainIs still!
No more for him, where hills look down,Shall Morning crownHer rainy brow with blossom bands!—The Morning Hours, whose rosy handsDrop wild-flowers of the breaking skiesUpon the sod ’neath which he lies.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where hills look down,Shall Morning crownHer rainy brow with blossom bands!—The Morning Hours, whose rosy handsDrop wild-flowers of the breaking skiesUpon the sod ’neath which he lies.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where hills look down,Shall Morning crownHer rainy brow with blossom bands!—The Morning Hours, whose rosy handsDrop wild-flowers of the breaking skiesUpon the sod ’neath which he lies.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where waters sleep,Shall Evening heapThe long gold of the perfect days!The Eventide, whose warm hand laysGreat poppies of the afterglowUpon the turf he rests below.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where waters sleep,Shall Evening heapThe long gold of the perfect days!The Eventide, whose warm hand laysGreat poppies of the afterglowUpon the turf he rests below.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where waters sleep,Shall Evening heapThe long gold of the perfect days!The Eventide, whose warm hand laysGreat poppies of the afterglowUpon the turf he rests below.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where woodlands loom,Shall Midnight bloomThe star-flow’red acres of the blue!The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strewDead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where woodlands loom,Shall Midnight bloomThe star-flow’red acres of the blue!The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strewDead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—No more for him! No more! no more!
No more for him, where woodlands loom,Shall Midnight bloomThe star-flow’red acres of the blue!The Midnight Hours, whose dim hands strewDead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—No more for him! No more! no more!
The hills, that Morning’s footsteps wake;The waves that takeA brightness from the Eve; the woods,The solitudes, o’er which Night broods,Their Spirits have, whose parts are oneWith his, whose mortal part is done.Whose part is done; alas! is done.
The hills, that Morning’s footsteps wake;The waves that takeA brightness from the Eve; the woods,The solitudes, o’er which Night broods,Their Spirits have, whose parts are oneWith his, whose mortal part is done.Whose part is done; alas! is done.
The hills, that Morning’s footsteps wake;The waves that takeA brightness from the Eve; the woods,The solitudes, o’er which Night broods,Their Spirits have, whose parts are oneWith his, whose mortal part is done.Whose part is done; alas! is done.
What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his earWhisper with all thy love—Haply he’ll hear.One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his ear.What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be given him,Now he is dead?That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heartLay now his heart beside,Never to part.That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heart.
What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his earWhisper with all thy love—Haply he’ll hear.One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his ear.What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be given him,Now he is dead?That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heartLay now his heart beside,Never to part.That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heart.
What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?
One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his earWhisper with all thy love—Haply he’ll hear.One thing, he knew not of,Sweet, in his ear.
What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be given him,Now he is dead?
That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heartLay now his heart beside,Never to part.That which was long deniedHere, Sweet,—thy heart.
Here in the dusk I picture it again,Her face, as ’twas before she fell asleep:Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul’s inmost deep.I shall not see its like again! the browOf marble, that the fair hair aureoled,—Like some pale lily in the afterglow,—With supernatural gold.As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardThro’ some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters round.So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections—as the stars suggestThe silence, purity, and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal—The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.
Here in the dusk I picture it again,Her face, as ’twas before she fell asleep:Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul’s inmost deep.I shall not see its like again! the browOf marble, that the fair hair aureoled,—Like some pale lily in the afterglow,—With supernatural gold.As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardThro’ some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters round.So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections—as the stars suggestThe silence, purity, and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal—The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.
Here in the dusk I picture it again,Her face, as ’twas before she fell asleep:Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul’s inmost deep.
I shall not see its like again! the browOf marble, that the fair hair aureoled,—Like some pale lily in the afterglow,—With supernatural gold.
As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardThro’ some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters round.
So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections—as the stars suggestThe silence, purity, and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.
She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal—The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.
The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain;Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose.The day was dim; now eve comes on again,Grave as a life weighed down with many woes:So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died;Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side:The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf.The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide,Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief:So hope is gone, and doubt and loss abide.An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled;Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red:The frost falls, subtle as a serpent’s breath.The dusk was sad; now night is overhead,Grim as a life brought face to face with death:So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.
The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain;Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose.The day was dim; now eve comes on again,Grave as a life weighed down with many woes:So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died;Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side:The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf.The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide,Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief:So hope is gone, and doubt and loss abide.An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled;Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red:The frost falls, subtle as a serpent’s breath.The dusk was sad; now night is overhead,Grim as a life brought face to face with death:So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.
The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain;Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose.The day was dim; now eve comes on again,Grave as a life weighed down with many woes:So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.
The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died;Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side:The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf.The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide,Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief:So hope is gone, and doubt and loss abide.
An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled;Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red:The frost falls, subtle as a serpent’s breath.The dusk was sad; now night is overhead,Grim as a life brought face to face with death:So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.
Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me nowTo look with high face for a star of hope?Or up endeavor’s unsubduable slopeAdvance a bosom of desire, and bowA back of patience in a thankless task?Alone beside the grave of love I ask,Shalt thou? or thou?Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk aloneThe easy ways of silence and of sleep.What though I go with eyes that can not weep,And lips contracted with no uttered moan,Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,A dead-sea path of desert night that leadsTo one white stone!Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,Night lie before me and behind me night,And God within far Heaven refuse to lightThe consolation of the dawn for me,—Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,It is enough love leaves my soul to dwellWith memory.
Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me nowTo look with high face for a star of hope?Or up endeavor’s unsubduable slopeAdvance a bosom of desire, and bowA back of patience in a thankless task?Alone beside the grave of love I ask,Shalt thou? or thou?Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk aloneThe easy ways of silence and of sleep.What though I go with eyes that can not weep,And lips contracted with no uttered moan,Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,A dead-sea path of desert night that leadsTo one white stone!Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,Night lie before me and behind me night,And God within far Heaven refuse to lightThe consolation of the dawn for me,—Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,It is enough love leaves my soul to dwellWith memory.
Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me nowTo look with high face for a star of hope?Or up endeavor’s unsubduable slopeAdvance a bosom of desire, and bowA back of patience in a thankless task?Alone beside the grave of love I ask,Shalt thou? or thou?
Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk aloneThe easy ways of silence and of sleep.What though I go with eyes that can not weep,And lips contracted with no uttered moan,Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,A dead-sea path of desert night that leadsTo one white stone!
Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,Night lie before me and behind me night,And God within far Heaven refuse to lightThe consolation of the dawn for me,—Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,It is enough love leaves my soul to dwellWith memory.
The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.She stands with Lilith finger-tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe grapes of life; whose wine she sips,—With Lilith-laughter-lightened lips,—The soul, as from a curious cup.What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her lips’ wild kiss, that stained the clay,Her hands’ hot clasp—shall these not stay,That made its nothingness divine?Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept, flame once, ’neath the snowOf her moon’d breasts—and this is much!
The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.She stands with Lilith finger-tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe grapes of life; whose wine she sips,—With Lilith-laughter-lightened lips,—The soul, as from a curious cup.What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her lips’ wild kiss, that stained the clay,Her hands’ hot clasp—shall these not stay,That made its nothingness divine?Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept, flame once, ’neath the snowOf her moon’d breasts—and this is much!
The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.
She stands with Lilith finger-tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe grapes of life; whose wine she sips,—With Lilith-laughter-lightened lips,—The soul, as from a curious cup.
What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her lips’ wild kiss, that stained the clay,Her hands’ hot clasp—shall these not stay,That made its nothingness divine?
Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept, flame once, ’neath the snowOf her moon’d breasts—and this is much!
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day’s dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks ’tis well.Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely, on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth’s desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellious hair?—Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup’s bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.How long, how long since Life hath kissed her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Mixing their speech with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams’ wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith glowing from God’s hands.The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals—as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note;—And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Filled with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood’s tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent’s hiss.He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.He, whom she wins, hath nothing ’neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,—Life’s bitter bread his heart’s fierce tears make wet.What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull!
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day’s dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks ’tis well.Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely, on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth’s desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellious hair?—Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup’s bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.How long, how long since Life hath kissed her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Mixing their speech with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams’ wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith glowing from God’s hands.The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals—as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note;—And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Filled with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood’s tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent’s hiss.He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.He, whom she wins, hath nothing ’neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,—Life’s bitter bread his heart’s fierce tears make wet.What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull!
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day’s dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks ’tis well.
Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely, on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth’s desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellious hair?—Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.
He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup’s bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.
How long, how long since Life hath kissed her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Mixing their speech with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!
Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams’ wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith glowing from God’s hands.
The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals—as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note;—And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.
So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Filled with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood’s tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent’s hiss.
He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.
He, whom she wins, hath nothing ’neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,—Life’s bitter bread his heart’s fierce tears make wet.
What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull!
Man’s is the learning of his books—What is all knowledge that he knowsBeside the wit of winding brooks,The wisdom of the summer rose!How soil distils the scent in flowersBaffles his science: heaven-dyed,How, from the sunshine and the showers,They draw their colors, hath defied.Nor hath he solved why light is white,Yet paints with hues the dawns and noons,Stains all the hollow edge of nightWith glory as of molten moons.What knows he of the laws of birthOr death, or what these are and why!Or what it is within the earthThat helps us live and helps us die!
Man’s is the learning of his books—What is all knowledge that he knowsBeside the wit of winding brooks,The wisdom of the summer rose!How soil distils the scent in flowersBaffles his science: heaven-dyed,How, from the sunshine and the showers,They draw their colors, hath defied.Nor hath he solved why light is white,Yet paints with hues the dawns and noons,Stains all the hollow edge of nightWith glory as of molten moons.What knows he of the laws of birthOr death, or what these are and why!Or what it is within the earthThat helps us live and helps us die!
Man’s is the learning of his books—What is all knowledge that he knowsBeside the wit of winding brooks,The wisdom of the summer rose!
How soil distils the scent in flowersBaffles his science: heaven-dyed,How, from the sunshine and the showers,They draw their colors, hath defied.
Nor hath he solved why light is white,Yet paints with hues the dawns and noons,Stains all the hollow edge of nightWith glory as of molten moons.
What knows he of the laws of birthOr death, or what these are and why!Or what it is within the earthThat helps us live and helps us die!
Of moires of placid glitterThe moon is knitter,Under dark trees, whose branchesThe blue night blanches:Upon yon stream’s swift arrowLights lie, as narrowAs is the glance of some pale sorceress,Spell-haunted, watching in a wilderness.And I, who, dreaming, wander,Seem to behold her yonder,My beautiful dream, my bodiless loveliness.
Of moires of placid glitterThe moon is knitter,Under dark trees, whose branchesThe blue night blanches:Upon yon stream’s swift arrowLights lie, as narrowAs is the glance of some pale sorceress,Spell-haunted, watching in a wilderness.And I, who, dreaming, wander,Seem to behold her yonder,My beautiful dream, my bodiless loveliness.
Of moires of placid glitterThe moon is knitter,Under dark trees, whose branchesThe blue night blanches:Upon yon stream’s swift arrowLights lie, as narrowAs is the glance of some pale sorceress,Spell-haunted, watching in a wilderness.And I, who, dreaming, wander,Seem to behold her yonder,My beautiful dream, my bodiless loveliness.
Upon this water’s glimmerWhite sheets of shimmerGlow outward, as if innerSea-castles,—thinnerThan peeléd pearl,—through curlingsAnd water whirlings,Let spray the light of lucid dome and spire,The smoldering silver of an inward fire.—Perhaps her towers, enchanted,Are there; on mountains plantedOf crystal:—hers! the soul of my desire!
Upon this water’s glimmerWhite sheets of shimmerGlow outward, as if innerSea-castles,—thinnerThan peeléd pearl,—through curlingsAnd water whirlings,Let spray the light of lucid dome and spire,The smoldering silver of an inward fire.—Perhaps her towers, enchanted,Are there; on mountains plantedOf crystal:—hers! the soul of my desire!
Upon this water’s glimmerWhite sheets of shimmerGlow outward, as if innerSea-castles,—thinnerThan peeléd pearl,—through curlingsAnd water whirlings,Let spray the light of lucid dome and spire,The smoldering silver of an inward fire.—Perhaps her towers, enchanted,Are there; on mountains plantedOf crystal:—hers! the soul of my desire!
Or there above the beeches,On terraced reachesOf rolling roses, toweredAnd moonbeam-bowered,Is it her palace airy?—Or dream of Fairy?—Piled, full of melody and marble-white,Its pointed casements lit with piercing light:Wherein, all veiled and hidden,She waits,—who long hath biddenMe come to her,—her accoladed knight?
Or there above the beeches,On terraced reachesOf rolling roses, toweredAnd moonbeam-bowered,Is it her palace airy?—Or dream of Fairy?—Piled, full of melody and marble-white,Its pointed casements lit with piercing light:Wherein, all veiled and hidden,She waits,—who long hath biddenMe come to her,—her accoladed knight?
Or there above the beeches,On terraced reachesOf rolling roses, toweredAnd moonbeam-bowered,Is it her palace airy?—Or dream of Fairy?—Piled, full of melody and marble-white,Its pointed casements lit with piercing light:Wherein, all veiled and hidden,She waits,—who long hath biddenMe come to her,—her accoladed knight?
The blue night’s sweetness settles—Like hyacinth petals,Bowed by their weight of rain-drops—Around me: pain dropsFrom off my heart, the sadnessOf life to gladnessOf beauty turns, that was not born to die;That whispers in my soul and tells me whyI, too, was born—to renderHer worship: feel her splendorExpand me like a rose beneath God’s eye.
The blue night’s sweetness settles—Like hyacinth petals,Bowed by their weight of rain-drops—Around me: pain dropsFrom off my heart, the sadnessOf life to gladnessOf beauty turns, that was not born to die;That whispers in my soul and tells me whyI, too, was born—to renderHer worship: feel her splendorExpand me like a rose beneath God’s eye.
The blue night’s sweetness settles—Like hyacinth petals,Bowed by their weight of rain-drops—Around me: pain dropsFrom off my heart, the sadnessOf life to gladnessOf beauty turns, that was not born to die;That whispers in my soul and tells me whyI, too, was born—to renderHer worship: feel her splendorExpand me like a rose beneath God’s eye.
A Lorelei full fair she sitsAbove the Stream of Life that rolls;And, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men’s souls.They hear her harp, they hear her song,Behold her beauty throned on high,And gazing on her, sweep along,Strike on the rocks and sink and die.
A Lorelei full fair she sitsAbove the Stream of Life that rolls;And, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men’s souls.They hear her harp, they hear her song,Behold her beauty throned on high,And gazing on her, sweep along,Strike on the rocks and sink and die.
A Lorelei full fair she sitsAbove the Stream of Life that rolls;And, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men’s souls.
They hear her harp, they hear her song,Behold her beauty throned on high,And gazing on her, sweep along,Strike on the rocks and sink and die.
Lay but a finger onIts pallid petals sweet,They flutter, gray and wan,Beneath the passing feet.But, soft! blown rose, althoughDeparted is thy bloom,—Thy bud, thy youth, I know,Had no such sweet perfume.Thou art like one whose pageOf life is beauty-fraught,Who grays to ripe old-age,Sweet-mellowed through with thought:Who, when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,With dreams, that are not dead,Still gives his name perfume.
Lay but a finger onIts pallid petals sweet,They flutter, gray and wan,Beneath the passing feet.But, soft! blown rose, althoughDeparted is thy bloom,—Thy bud, thy youth, I know,Had no such sweet perfume.Thou art like one whose pageOf life is beauty-fraught,Who grays to ripe old-age,Sweet-mellowed through with thought:Who, when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,With dreams, that are not dead,Still gives his name perfume.
Lay but a finger onIts pallid petals sweet,They flutter, gray and wan,Beneath the passing feet.
But, soft! blown rose, althoughDeparted is thy bloom,—Thy bud, thy youth, I know,Had no such sweet perfume.
Thou art like one whose pageOf life is beauty-fraught,Who grays to ripe old-age,Sweet-mellowed through with thought:
Who, when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,With dreams, that are not dead,Still gives his name perfume.
Ah, it is well for men to strainAnd strive and yearn to rise;The soul’s salvation is in pain,In toil and sacrifice.The grandest souls that rose above,Thought’s noblest heights to tread,Found consolation in their love,And life behind the dead.A living glory in the tomb,Whose night shall end in light;An intense splendor veiled with gloom,Too blinding for earth’s sight.Nepenthe of this struggling world,Whose knowledge comforts care,And in the heart, where it is curled,Conquers the snake, despair.
Ah, it is well for men to strainAnd strive and yearn to rise;The soul’s salvation is in pain,In toil and sacrifice.The grandest souls that rose above,Thought’s noblest heights to tread,Found consolation in their love,And life behind the dead.A living glory in the tomb,Whose night shall end in light;An intense splendor veiled with gloom,Too blinding for earth’s sight.Nepenthe of this struggling world,Whose knowledge comforts care,And in the heart, where it is curled,Conquers the snake, despair.
Ah, it is well for men to strainAnd strive and yearn to rise;The soul’s salvation is in pain,In toil and sacrifice.
The grandest souls that rose above,Thought’s noblest heights to tread,Found consolation in their love,And life behind the dead.
A living glory in the tomb,Whose night shall end in light;An intense splendor veiled with gloom,Too blinding for earth’s sight.
Nepenthe of this struggling world,Whose knowledge comforts care,And in the heart, where it is curled,Conquers the snake, despair.
Look on my face: to-morrowI am to-day.From me you may not borrowOr take away.I mark life’s mirth and sorrow,Birth and decay.I know nor joy nor sadness:I go, yet stay:And men in me find gladnessAnd grief, they say:I stay not for their madness,Nor pass away.
Look on my face: to-morrowI am to-day.From me you may not borrowOr take away.I mark life’s mirth and sorrow,Birth and decay.I know nor joy nor sadness:I go, yet stay:And men in me find gladnessAnd grief, they say:I stay not for their madness,Nor pass away.
Look on my face: to-morrowI am to-day.From me you may not borrowOr take away.I mark life’s mirth and sorrow,Birth and decay.
I know nor joy nor sadness:I go, yet stay:And men in me find gladnessAnd grief, they say:I stay not for their madness,Nor pass away.