Puslapio vaizdai

As a bird's quick song runs round, and the

hearts in us hear Pause answer to pause, and again the same

strain caught, So moves the device whence, round as a

pearl or tear, A roundel is wrought.


In a coign of the cliff between lowland and

highland, At the sea-down's edge between wind

ward and lee,
Wall'd round with rocks as an inland

The ghost of a garden fronts the sea.
A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses
The steep, square slope of the blossom-

less bed
Where the weeds that grew green from

the graves of its roses

Now lie dead.

Not a flower to be press'd of the foot that

falls not ; As the heart of a dead man the seed

plots are dry ; From the thicket of thorns whence the

nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to

reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither

Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song ;
Only the sun and the rain come hither

All year long
The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels
One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless

Only the wind here hovers and revels
In a round where life seems barren as

death. Here there was laughing of old, there was

weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred


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 knowest 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. sball 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, band 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 sery'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.

pain ;

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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For from Death's gate our lives divide ;

His was the Galilean's faith :
Lo, what a golden day it is !

With those that serve the Crucified,
The glad sun rives the sapphire deeps He shar'd the chance of Life and Death.
Down to the dim pearl-floor'd abyss
Where, cold in death, my lover sleeps ; And so my eyes shall never light

Upon his star-soft eyes again ;
Crowns with soft fire his sea-drench'd hair, Nor ever in the day or night,

Kisses with gold his lips death-pale, By hill or valley, wood or plain,
Lets down from heaven a golden stair,
Whose steps methinks his soul doth scale. Our hands shall meet afresh. His voice

Shall never with its silver tone
This is my treasure. White and sweet, The sadness of my soul rejoice,
He lies beneath my ardent eyne,

Nor his breast throb against my own.
With heart that nevermore shall beat,
Nor lips press softly against mine. His sight shall never unto me

Return wbilst heaven and earth remain :
How like a dream it seems to me,

Though Time blend with Eternity,
The time when hand in hand we went Our lives shall never meet again,
By hill and valley, I and he,
Lost in a trance of ravishment !

Never by gray or purple sea,

Never again in heavens of blue, I and my lover here that lies

Never in this old earth — ah me! And sleeps the everlasting sleep,

Never, ah never ! in the new. We walk'd whilere in Paradise ; (Can it be true ?) Our souls drank deep For me, he treads the windless ways

Among the thick star-diamonds, Together of Love's wonder-wine :

Where in the middle æther blaze
We saw the golden days go by,

The Golden City's pearl gate-fronds ;
Unheeding, for we were divine ;
Love had advanced us to the sky.

Sitteth, palm-crown'd and silver-shod,

Where in strange dwellings of the skies
And of that time no traces bin,

The Christians to their Woman-God
Save the still shape that once did hold Cease nevermore from psalmodies.
My lover's soul, that shone therein,
As wine laughs in a vase of gold.

And I, I wait, with haggard eyes

And face grown awful for desire, Cold, cold he lies, and answers not

The coming of that fierce day's rise
my speech ; his mouth is cold

When from the cities of the fire
Whose kiss to mine was sweet and hot
As sunshine to a marigold.

The Wolf shall come with blazing crest,

And many a giant arm’d for war ; And yet his pallid lips I press ;

When from the sanguine-streaming West,
I fold his neck in my embrace ;

Hell-flaming, speedeth Naglfar.
I rain down kisses none the less
Upon his unresponsive face :

I call on him with all the fair

Yes, love, the Spring shall come again, Flower-names that blossom out of love ;

But not as once it came : I knit sea-jewels in his hair ;

Once more in meadow and in lane I weave fair coronals above

The daffodils shall flame,

The cowslips blow, but all in vain ;
The cold, sweet silver of his brow:

Alike, yet not the same.
For this is all of him I have ;
Nor any Future more than now

The roses that we pluck'd of old
Shall give me back what Love once gave.

Were dew'd with heart's delight;


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Yet take these scentless flowers and pale,

The last of all my year :
Be tender to them; they are frail :

But if thou hold them dear,
I'll not their brighter kin bewail,

That now lie cold and sere.


Yet, if it must be so, 't is well :

What part have we in June ? Our hearts have all forgot the spell

That held the summer noon ; We echo back the cuckoo's knell,

And not the linnet's tune. What shall we do with roses now,

Whose cheeks no more are red ? What violets should deck our brow,

Whose hopes long since are fled ? Recalling many a wasted vow

And many a faith struck dead. Bring heath and pimpernel and rue,

The Autumn's sober flowers : At least their scent will not renew

The thought of happy hours, Nor drag sad memory back unto

That lost sweet time of ours.

THE chime of a bell of gold

That flutters across the air, The sound of a singing of old, The end of a tale that is told,

Of a melody strange and fair,

Of a joy that has grown despair : For the things that have been for me

I shall never have them again ;
The skies and the purple sea,
And day like a melody,

And night like a silver rain

Of stars on forest and plain.
They are shut, the gates of the day ;

The night has fallen on me :
My life is a lightless way ;
I sing yet, while as I may !

Some day I shall cease, maybe :
I shall live on yet, you will see.

Faith is no sun of summertide,

Only the pale, calm light That, when the Autumn clouds divide,

Hangs in the watchet height, A lamp, wherewith we may abide

The coming of the night.

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