Puslapio vaizdai

I that saw where ye trod

The dim paths of the night
Set the shadow call'd God

In your skies to give light ;
But the morning of manhood is risen, and

the shadowless soul is in sight.

The tree many-rooted

That swells to the sky
With frondage red-fruited,

The life-tree am I ;
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my

leaves : ye shall live and not die.
But the Gods of your fashion

That take and that give,
In their pity and passion

That scourge and forgive,
They are worms that are bred in the bark
that falls off : they shall die and not live.
My own blood is what stanches
The wounds in my

bark : Stars caught in my branches

Make day of the dark, And are worshipp'd as suns till the sunrise

shall tread out their fires as a spark.

All forms of all faces,

All works of all hands
In unsearchable places

Of time-stricken lands,
All death and all life, and all reigns and all

ruins, drop through me as sands.
Though sore be my burden

And more than ye know,
And my growth have no guerdon

But only to grow,
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings

above me or deathworms below.
These too have their part in me,

As I too in these ;
Such fire is at heart in me,

Such sap is this tree's,
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets

of infinite lands and of seas.

Where dead ages hide under

The live roots of the tree,
In my darkness the thunder

Makes utterance of me;
In the clash of my boughs with each other

ye hear the waves sound of the sea.
That noise is of Time,

As his feathers are spread
And his feet set to climb

Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles,

and branches are bent with his tread.

In the spring-color'd hours

When my mind was as May's,
There brake forth of me flowers

By centuries of days,
Strong blossoms with perfume of man-

hood, shot out from my spirit as
And the sound of them springing

And smell of their shoots
Were as warmth and sweet singing

And strength to my roots ;
And the lives of my children made perfect

with freedom of soul were my fruits.

The storm-winds of ages

Blow through me and cease,
The war-wind that rages,

The spring-wind of peace,
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses,

ere one of my blossoms increase.
All sounds of all changes,

All shadows and lights
On the world's mountain-ranges

And stream-riven heights,
Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and lan-

guage of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights ;

I bid you but be ;

I have need not of prayer ;
I have need of you free

As your mouths of mine air ; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits

of me fair.
More fair than strange fruit is

Of faith ye espouse ;
In me only the root is

That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of

your vows. In the darkening and whitening

Abysses ador'd,
With dayspring and lightning

For lamp and for sword,
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are

red with the wrath of the Lord.

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No rosebuds yet by dawn impearld

Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world

A baby's hands.


Thought made him and breaks him,

Truth slays and forgives ;
But to you, as time takes him,

This new thing it gives,
Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds

upon freedom and lives.
For truth only is living,

Truth only is whole,
And the love of his giving

Man's polestar and pole ;
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my

body, and seed of my soul.
One birth of my bosom ;

One beam of mine eye ;
One topmost blossom

That scales the sky;
Man, equal and one with me, man that is

made of me, man that is I.

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin,

Ere lips learn words or sighs,
Bless all things bright enough to win

A baby's eyes.
Love, while the sweet thing laughs and lies,

And sleep flows out and in, Lies perfect in them Paradise. Their glance might cast out pain and sin,

Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad godhead felt within

A baby's eyes.




A BABY's feet, like sea-shells pink,

Might tempt, should Heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think,

A baby's feet.

A ROUNDEL is wrought as a ring or a star

bright sphere, With craft of delight and with cunning of

sound unsought, That the heart of the hearer may smile if

to pleasure his ear

A roundel is wrought. Its jewel of music is carven of all or of

aught Love, laughter or mourning, remembrance

of rapture or fear That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear

of thought.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat

They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

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Years ago.

make way,

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken,

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, To the low last edge of the long lone “ Look thither," land.

Did he whisper?

“ Look forth from the If a step should sound or a word be

flowers to the sea ; spoken,

For the foam-flowers endure when the roseWould a ghost not rise at the strange

blossoms wither, guest's hand ?

And men that love lightly may die So long have the gray, bare walks lain

but we?guestless,

And the same wind sang and the same Through branches and briers if a man waves whiten'd,

And or ever the garden's last petals He shall find no life but the sea-wind's,

were shed, restless

In the lips that had whisper'd, the eyes Night and day.

that had lighten'd,

Love was dead. The dense, hard passage is blind and stified That crawls by a track none turn to Or they lov'd their life through, and then climb

went whither ? To the strait waste place that the years And were one to the end – but what end have rifled

who knows ? Of all but the thorns that are touch'd Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, not of Time.

As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ;

Shall the dead take thought for the dead The rocks are left when he wastes the

to love them ? plain.

What love was ever as deep as a grave ? The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- They are loveless now as the grass above shaken,

them These remain.

Or the wave.


All are at one now, roses and lovers,

Thou kpowest that here the likeness of the Not known of the cliffs and the fields

best and the sea.

Before thee stands : Not a breath of the time that has been The head most high, the heart found faithhovers

fulest, In the air now soft with a summer to

The purest hands. be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons Above the fume and foam of time that hereafter

flits, Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh

The soul, we know, now or weep,

Now sits on high where Alighieri sits
When, as they that are free now of weeping

With Angelo.
and laughter,
We shall sleep.

Nor his own heavenly tongue hath hea

venly speech Here death may deal not again forever;

Enough to say Here change may come not till all change What this man was, whose praise no end.

thought may reach, From the graves they have made they shall

No words can weigh. rise up never, Who have left nought living to ravage

Since man's first mother brought to mortal and rend.

birth Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild

Her first-born son, ground growing,

Such grace befell not ever man on earth While the sun and the rain live, these

As crowns this One. shall be ; Till a last wind's breath upon all these Of God nor man was ever this thing said : blowing

That he could give
Roll the sea.

Life back to her who gave him, that his

dead Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff

Mother might live. crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs But this man found his mother dead and drink,

slain, Till the strength of the waves of the high

With fast-seal'd eyes, tides humble

And bade the dead rise up and live again, The fields that lessen, the rocks that

And she did rise : shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things And all the world was bright with her falter,

through him : Stretch'd out on the spoils that his own

But dark with strife, hand spread,

Like heaven's own sun that storming clouds As a god self-slain on his own strange


Was all his life.
Death lies dead.

Life and the clouds are vanish'd ; hate and


Have had their span

Of time to hurt and are not : He is here

The sunlike man.
ITALIA, mother of the souls of men,
Mother divine,

City superb, that hadst Columbus first Of all that serv'd thee best with sword or

For sovereign son, pen,

Be prouder that thy breast hath later nurst All sons of thine,

This mightier One.

Glory be his forever, while this land

Lives and is free,
As with controlling breath and sovereign

He bade her be.

Earth shows to heaven the names by thou

sands told

That crown her fame :
But highest of all that heaven and earth

Mazzini's name.

John Papne

We shall see the roses blowing in the

green, I

The pink-lipp'd roses kissing in the golden (MINOR)

summer sheen ;

We shall see the fields flower thick with The ancient memories buried lie,

stars and bells of summer gold, And the olden fancies pass ;

And the poppies burn out red and sweet The old sweet flower-thoughts wither and

across the corn-crown'd wold. fly, And die as the April cowslips die,

The time shall be for pleasure, not for That scatter the bloomy grass.


There shall come no ghost of grieving for All dead, my dear! And the flowers are the past betwixt us twain ; dead, But in the time of roses our lives shall

grow And the happy blossoming spring;

together, The winter comes with its iron tread, And our love be as the love of gods in the The fields with the dying sun are red,

blue Olympic weather. And the birds have ceas'd to sing. I trace the steps on the wasted strand

SIBYL Of the vanish'd springtime's feet: Wither'd and dead is our Fairyland, This is the glamour of the world antique : For Love and Death go hand in hand The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air, Go hand in hand, my sweet !

And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair.

The full brook wanders through the ferns II

to seek

The amber haunts of bees; and on the (MAJOR)

peak Oh, what shall be the burden of our Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged rhyme,

sky, And what shall be our ditty when the blos- She stands, a dream from out the days gone som 's on the lime ?

by. Our lips have fed on winter and on weari- Entreat her not. Indeed, she will not ness too long :

speak! We will hail the royal summer with a Her eyes are full of dreams ; and in her golden-footed song!

There is the rustle of immortal wings; O lady of my summer and my spring, And ever and anon the slow breeze bears We shall hear the blackbird whistle and The mystic murmur of the songs

she the brown sweet tbrostle sing,

sings. And the low clear noise of waters running Entreat her not : she sees thee not, nor softly by our feet,

hears When the sights and sounds of summer in Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone the green clear fields are sweet.



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