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PASSING AND GLASSING

All things that pass

Are woman's looking-glass ; They show her how her bloom must fade, And she herself be laid With wither'd roses in the shade;

With wither'd roses and the fallen peach, Unlovely, out of reach

Of summer joy that was.

IF I could trust mine own self with your

fate, Shall I not rather trust it in God's

hand ? Without whose will one lily doth not

stand, Nor sparrow fall at his appointed date ; Who numbereth the innumerable sand, Who weighs the wind and water with a

weight, To whom the world is neither small nor

great, Whose knowledge foreknew every plan we

plann'd. Searching my heart for all that touches

you, I find there only love and love's good

will
Helpless to help and impotent to do,
Of understanding dull, of sight most dim;
And therefore I commend you back to

Him
Whose love your love's capacity can fill.

All things that pass

Are woman's tiring-glass ;
The faded lavender is sweet,
Sweet the dead violet
Culld and laid by and car'd for yet ;

The dried-up violets and dried lavender
Still sweet, may comfort her,

Nor need she cry Alas !

All things that pass

Are wisdom's looking-glass ; Being full of hope and fear, and still Brimful of good or ill, According to our work and will ;

IX

EGS

For there is nothing new beneath the sun ; Our doings have been done,

And that which shall be was.

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THE THREAD OF LIFE

me :

STAR Sirius and the Pole Star dwell afar Beyond the drawings each of other's

strength: One blazes through the brief bright sum

mer's length Lavishing life-heat from a flaming car; While one unchangeable upon a throne Broods o'er the frozen heart of earth

alone, Content to reign the bright particular star Of some who wander or of some who

groan. They own no drawings each of other's

strength, Nor vibrate in a visible sympathy, Nor veer along their courses each toward

each : Yet are their orbits pitch'd in harmony Of one dear heaven, across whose depth

and length Mayhap they talk together without speech.

THE irresponsive silence of the land,
The irresponsive sounding of the sea,
Speak both one message of one sense to
Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so stand
Thou too aloof, bound with the flawless

band Of inner solitude ; we bind not thee ; But who from thy self-chain shall set thee

free? What heart shall touch thy heart? what

hand thy hand ? And I am sometimes proud and sometimes

meek, And sometimes I remember days of old When fellowship seem'd not so far to seek And all the world and I seem'd much less

cold, And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold, And hope felt strong and life itself not

weak.

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Two gaz'd into a pool, he gaz'd and she, Not hand in hand, yet heart in heart, I

think, Pale and reluctant on the water's brink, As on the brink of parting which must be. Each eyed the other's aspect, she and he, Each felt one hungering heart leap up and

sink, Each tasted bitterness which both must

drink, There on the brink of life's dividing sea. Lilies upon the surface, deep below Two wistful faces craving each for each, Resolute and reluctant without speech :A sudden ripple made the faces flow One moment join'd, to vanish out of reach : So these hearts join'd, and ah! were parted

We lack, yet cannot fix upon the lack :
Not this, nor that ; yet somewhat, cer-

tainly.
We see the things we do not yearn to see
Around us : and what see we glancing back ?
Lost hopes that leave our hearts upon the

rack, Hopes that were never ours yet seem'd to

peache

be,

For which we steer'd on life's salt stormy

sea

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der

TWIST ME A CROWN

Braving the sunstroke and the frozen pack.
If thus to look behind is all in vain,
And all in vain to look to left or right,
Why face we not our future once again,
Launching with hardier hearts across the

main, Straining dim eyes to catch the invisible

sight, And strong to bear ourselves in patient

pain ?

Twist me a crown of wind-flowers;

That I may fly away
To hear the singers at their song,

And players at their play.

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Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore ; And Mario can soothe with a tenor note

The souls in Purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow : And who was not thrill’d in the strangest

way, As we heard him sing, while the gas

burn'd

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was

hot), And her warm white neck in its golden

chain, And her full, soft hair, just tied in a knot,

And falling loose again ; And the jasmine-flower in her fair young

breast, (O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine

flower!) And the one bird singing alone to his nest,

And the one star over the tower.

low,

Non ti scordar di me?

The Emperor there, in his box of state,

Look'd grave, as if he had just then seen The red flag wave from the city-gate

Where his eagles in bronze had been. The Empress, too, had a tear in her eye. You'd have said that her fancy had gone

back again, For one moment, under the old blue sky,

To the old glad life in Spain.

Well ! there in our front-row box we sat,

Together, my bride-betroth'd and I; My gaze was fix'd on my opera-hat,

And hers on the stage hard by.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife, And the letter that brought me back my

ring. And it all seem'd then, in the waste of

life, Such a very little thing ! For I thought of her grave below the hill, Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands

over ; And I thought ... “were she only living

still, How I could forgive her, and love her !And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in

that hour, And of how, after all, old things were

best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine

flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

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It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,

It made me creep, and it made me cold ! Like the scent that steals from the crum

bling sheet Where a mummy is half unroll’d.

I have not a doubt she was thinking then

Of her former lord, good soul that he was ! Who died the richest and roundest of men,

The Marquis of Carabas. I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,

Through a needle's eye he had not to pass. I wish him well, for the jointure given

To my lady of Carabas. Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love, As I had not been thinking of aught for

years, Till over my eyes there began to move

Something that felt like tears. I thought of the dress that she wore last time, When we stood, 'neath the cypress-trees,

together, In that lost land, in that soft clime,

In the crimson evening weather;

And I turn'd, and look’d. She was sitting

there In a dim box, over the stage ; and dress'd In that muslin dress with that full soft

hair, And that jasmine in her breast !

I was here ; and she was there ;
And the glittering horseshoe curv'd be-

tween : From my bride-betroth'd, with her raven

hair, And her sumptuous scornful mien,

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