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And as I wrought, while all above

And all around was fragrant air, In the sick burthen of


love It seemed each sun - thrill'd blossom

there Beat like a heart among the leaves. O heart, that never beats nor heaves,

In that one darkness lying still,

What now to thee my love's great will, Or the fine web the sunshine weaves ?




A SONNET is a moment's monument, -
Memorial from the Soul's eternity
To one dead, deathless hour. Look that it

Whether for lustral rite or dire portent,
Of its own arduous fulness reverent :
Carve it in ivory or in ebony,
As Day or Night may rule ; and let Time

; Its flowering crest impearld and orient. A Sonnet is a coin : its face reveals The soul, — its converse, to what power 't is

due : Whether for tribute to the august ap

peals Of Life, or dower in Love's high retinue, It serve ; or, 'mid the dark wharf's caver

nous breath, In Charon's palm it pay the toll to Death.


me :

For now doth daylight disavow
Those days — nought left to see

hear. Only in solemn whispers now At night-time these things reach mine

ear ; When the leaf-shadows at a breath Shrink in the road, and all the heath,

Forest and water, far and wide,

In limpid starlight glorified,
Lie like the mystery of death.
Last night at last I could have slept,

And yet delay'd my sleep till dawn,
Still wandering. Then it was I wept :

For unawares I came upon Those glades where once she walk'd with And as I stood there suddenly,

All wan with traversing the night,

Upon the desolate verge of light Yearn'd loud the iron-bosom'd sea. Even so, where Heaven holds breath and

hears The beating heart of Love's own breast, Where round the secret of all spheres

All angels lay their wings to rest, How shall my soul stand rapt and aw'd, When, by the new birth borne abroad

Throughout the music of the suns,

It enters in her soul at once
And knows the silence there for God!
Here with her face doth memory sit

Meanwhile, and wait the day's decline,
Till other eyes shall look from it,

Eyes of the spirit's Palestine,
Even than the old gaze tenderer :
While hopes and aims long lost with her

Stand round her image side by side,
Like tombs of pilgrims that have died
About the Holy Sepulchre.

WHEN do I see thee most, beloved one ?
When in the light the spirits of mine eyes
Before thy face, their altar, solemnize
The worship of that Love through thee

made known ?
Or when, in the dusk hours (we two alone),
Close-kiss'd, and eloquent of still replies
Thy twilight-hidden glimmering visage lies,
And my soul only sees thy soul its own ?
O love, my love! if I no more should see
Thyself, nor on the earth the shadow of

thee, Nor image of thine eyes in any spring, How then should sound upon Life's darken

ing slope The ground-whirl of the perish'd leaves of

Hope, The wind of Death's imperishable wing ?


High grace, the dower of queens ; and

therewithal Some wood-born wonder's sweet simpli

city; A glance like water brimming with the sky Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows


poor heart,

Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth in- Without her ? Tears, ah me! for love's thrall

good grace, The heart; a mouth whose passionate And cold forgetfulness of night or day. forms imply

What of the heart without her ? Nay, All music and all silence held thereby ; Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal ; Of thee what word remains ere speech be A round rear'd neck, meet column of

still ? Love's shrine

A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary; Steep ways and weary, without her thou Hands which forever at Love's bidding be,

art, And soft-stirr'd feet still answering to his Where the long cloud, the long wood's sign :

counterpart, These are her gifts, as tongue may tell Sheds doubled darkness up the laboring them o'er.

hill. Breathe low her name, my soul ; for that

means more.



late ;

The mother will not turn, who thinks she

hears Not I myself know all my love for thee : Her nursling's speech first grow articuHow should I reach so far, who cannot weigh

But breathless, with averted eyes elate To-morrow's dower by gage of yesterday? She sits, with open lips and open ears, Shall birth and death, and all dark names That it may call her twice. 'Mid doubts that be

and fears As doors and windows bar'd to some loud Thus oft my soul has hearken'd ; till the sea,

song, Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with A central moan for days, at length found spray ;

tongue, And shall my sense pierce love, – the last And the sweet music well’d and the sweet relay

tears. And ultimate outpost of eternity ?

But now, whatever while the soul is fain Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all ? To list that wonted murmur, as it were One murmuring shell he gathers from the The speech-bound sea-shell's low, imporsand,

tunate strain, One little heart-flame shelter'd in his hand. No breath of song, thy voice alone is Yet through thine eyes he grants me clear- there, est call

O bitterly belov’d! and all her gain And veriest touch of powers primordial Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer. That any hour-girt life may understand.


The changing guests, each in a different What of her glass without her ? The mood,

Sit at the roadside table, and arise : There where the pool is blind of the moon's And every life among them in like wise face.

Is a soul's board set daily with new food. Her dress without her ? The toss'd empty What man has bent o'er his son's sleep, to space

brood Of cloud-rack whence the moon has pass'd How that face shall watch his when cold it away.

lies ? Her paths without her ? Day's appointed Or thought, as his own mother kiss'd his sway

eyes, Usurp'd by desolate night. Her pillow'd of what her kiss was when his father place

woo'd ?

blank gray


May not this ancient room thou sitt'st in

In separate living souls for joy or pain ?
Nay, all its corners may be painted plain
Where Heaven shows pictures of some life

spent well ;
And may be stamp'd, a memory all in vain,
Upon the sight of lidless eyes in Hell.

Her eyes now, from whose mouth the slim

pipes creep
And leave it pouting, while the shadow'd

Is cool against her naked side? Let be :
Say nothing now unto her lest she weep,
Nor name this ever. Be it as it was,
Life touching lips with Immortality.



MARY MAGDALENE Look in my face ; my name is Might-have

been ; I am also call’d No-more, Too-late, Fare

(For a Drawing by D. G. R.?) well ; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell “Why wilt thou cast the roses from thine Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet be

hair? tween ;

Nay, be thou all a rose, — wreath, lips, and Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen

cheek. Which had Life's form and Love's, but by Nay, not this house, that banquet-house my spell

we seek; Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, See how they kiss and enter; come thou Of ultimate things unutter'd the frail

there. screen.

This delicate day of love we two will Mark me, how still I am ! But should there

share dart

Till at our ear love's whispering night One moment through thy soul the soft sur

shall speak. prise

What, sweet one, - hold'st thou still the Of that wing'd Peace which lulls the breath

foolish freak? of sighs,

Nay, when I kiss thy feet they 'll leave the Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart

stair." Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart “ Oh loose me! Seest thou not my BrideSleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

groom's face That draws me to Him? For His feet my

kiss, SONNETS ON PICTURES My hair, my tears He craves to-day :


What words can tell what other day and


Shall see me clasp those blood-stain'd feet

of His ? (In the Louvre)

He needs me, calls me, loves me : let me
WATER, for anguish of the solstice :- nay,
But dip the vessel slowly, — nay, but lean
And hark how at its verge the wave sighs

Reluctant. Hush ! beyond all depth away
The heat lies silent at the brink of day : I HAVE been here before,
Now the hand trails upon the viol-string

But when or how I cannot tell : That sobs, and the brown faces cease to I know the grass beyond the door, sing,

The sweet keen smell, Sad with the whole of pleasure. Whither The sighing sound, the lights around the stray

shore. 1 In the drawing Mary has left a procession of revellers, and is ascending by a sudden impulse the steps of the house where she sees Christ. Her lover has followed her, and is trying to turn her back.


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Hast thou no right to joy,
O youth grown old ! who palest with the

Of the measureless annoy,
The pain and havoc wrought
By Fate on man : and of the many men,
The unfed, the untanght,
Who groan beneath that adamantine chain
Whose tightness kills, whose slackness

whips the flow Of waves of futile woe : Hast thou no right to joy ?


Thou thinkest in thy mind
In thee it were unkind
To revel in the liquid Hyblian store,
While more and more the horror and the

The pity and the woe grow more and more,
Persistent still to claim
The filling of thy mind.

Which satisfies the soul,
The firmness lost in softness, touch of typi-

cal meetness,
Which lets the soul have rest;
Those things to which thyself aspirest :-
That they

gh born to quaff the bowl divine, As thou art, yield to the strict law of duty; And thou from them must thine example

take, Leave the amaranthine vine, And the prized joy forsake. O thou, foregone in this, Long struggling with a world that is amiss, Reach some old volume down, Some poet's book, which in thy bygone years Thou hast consum'd with joys as keen as

fears, When o'er it thou wouldst hang with rap

turous frown, Admiring with sweet envy all The exquisite of words, the lance-like fall Of mighty verses, each on each, The sweetness which did never cloy, (So wrought with thought ere touch'd with

speech), And ask again, Hast thou no right to joy ? Take the most precious tones that thunder

struck thine ears In gentler days gone by : And if they yield no more the old ecstasy, Then give thyself to tears.

Thou thinkest that, if none in all the rout
Who compass thee about
Turn full their soul to that which thou de-

Nor seek to gain thy goal,
Beauty, the heart of beauty,
The sweetness, yea, the thoughtful sweet-

ness, The one right way in each, the best,

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