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I rais'd my eyes to heaven; my prayer

went high Into the luminous mystery of the blue ; My thought of God was purer than a

flame, And God it seem'd a little nearer came, Then pass’d ; and greater still the silence

l grew, For all reply. But you! If I can speak before I die, I spoke to you with all my soul, and

when I look at you 't is still my soul you see. Oh, in your heart was there no word for

IF SHE BUT KNEW
IF she but knew that I am weeping

Still for her sake,
That love and sorrow grow with keeping

Till they must break,
My heart that breaking will adore her,

Be hers and die ;
If she might hear me once implore her,

Would she not sigh ?
If she but knew that it would save me

Her voice to hear,
Saying she pitied me, forgave me,

Must she forbear?
If she were told that I was dying,

Would she be dumb ?
Could she content herself with sighing ?

Would she not come ?

me ?

All would have answer'd had you an

swer'd then With even a sigh.

of me,

a

Philip Bourke Marston
A GREETING

On dreaming woods, where nightingales

repine, Rise up, my song ! stretch forth thy wings I would that at such times should come to and fly

thee With no delaying, over shore and deep ! Some thought not quite unmix'd with pain, Be with my lady when she wakes from sleep;

Some little sorrow for a soul's decline. Touch her with kisses softly on each Yea, too, I would that through thy brightest eye ;

times, And say, before she puts her dreaming Like the sweet burden of remember'd by :

rhymes, “Within the palaces of slumber keep That gentle sadness should be with thee, One little niche wherein sometimes to weep

dear ; For one who vainly toils till he shall die !" And when the gates of sleep are on thee Yet say again, a sweeter thing than this :

shut, “ His life is wasted by his love for thee." I would not, even then, it should be Then, looking o'er the fields of memory,

mute, She 'll find perchance, o’ergrown with grief But murmur, shell-like, at thy spirit's ear.

and bliss, Some flower of recollection, pale and fair, That she, through pity, for a day may wear.

LOVE'S MUSIC

LOVE held a harp between his hands, and, A VAIN WISH

lo !

The master hand, upon the harp-strings I WOULD not, could I, make thy life as

laid mine ;

By way of prelude, such a sweet tune Only I would, if such a thing might be,

play'd Thou shouldst not, love, forget me utterly ; As made the heart with happy tears o'erYea, when the sultry stars of summer shine

flow;

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The Rose 'T was dawn when first you came ; and

now the sun Shines brightly and the dews of dawn are

done. 'Tis well you take me so in your embrace ; But lay me back again into my place, For I am worn, perhaps with bliss extreme.

The Wind Nay, you must wake, Love, from this child

ish dream.

The Rose WHEN, think you, comes the Wind, The Wind that kisses me and is so

kind ? Lo, how the Lily sleeps ! her sleep is

light; Would I were like the Lily, pale and

white !
Will the Wind come ?

The Beech
Perchance for you too soon.

The Rose
If not, how could I live until the noon ?
What, think you, Beech-tree, makes the

Wind delay? Why comes he not at breaking of the day?

The Beech Hush, child, and, like the Lily, go to sleep.

The Rose You know I cannot.

The Beech

Nay, then, do not weep.

(After a pause) Your lover comes, be happy now,

O Rose ! He softly through my bending branches

goes. Soon he shall come, and you shall feel his

kiss.

The Rose 'Tis you, Love, who seem changed ; your

laugh is loud, And 'neath your stormy kiss my head is

bow'd. O Love, O Wind, a space will you not spare ?

The Wind Not while your petals are so soft and fair.

The Rose My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot

see, O Love, O Wind, will you not pity me?

EVENING

The Beech O Wind, a word with you before you pass ; What did you to the Rose that on the grass Broken she lies and pale, who lov'd you so ?

The Wind Roses must live and love, and winds must

blow.

may tell

HOW MY SONG OF HER BEGAN Do they know of the change that awaits

them, God made my lady lovely to behold, The sepulchre vast and strange ? Above the painter's dream he set her face, Do they long for the days to go over, And wrought her body in divinest grace ; And bring that miraculous change ? He touch'd the brown hair with a sense of gold ;

Or love they their night with no moonlight, And in the perfect form He did enfold With no starlight, no dawn to its gloom ? What was alone as perfect, the sweet heart ; Do they sigh : “ 'Neath the snow, or the Knowledge most rare to her He did impart ;

bloom And fill'd with love and worship all her Of the wild things that wave from our days.

night, And then God thought Him how it would We are warm, through winter and summer ; be well

We hear the winds rave, and we say : To give her music; and to Love He said, • The storm-wind blows over our heads, “ Bring thou some minstrel now that he But we here are out of its way'? How fair and sweet a thing My hands have Do they mumble low, one to another, made."

With a sense that the waters that thunder Then at Love's call I came, bow'd down Shall ingather them all, draw them under: my head,

“Ah, how long to our moving, my brother ? And at His will my lyre grew audible. How long shall we quietly rest here,

In graves of darkness and ease ?

The waves, even now, may be on us, THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF To draw us down under the seas !" BONCHURCH

Do they think 't will be cold when the waters The churchyard leans to the sea with its That they love not, that neither can love dead,

them, It leans to the sea with its dead so long. Shall eternally thunder above them? Do they hear, I wonder, the first bird's Have they dread of the sea's shining daughsong,

ters,
When the winter's anger is all but fled ; That people the bright sea-regions
The high, sweet voice of the west wind, And play with the young sea-kings?
The fall of the warm, soft rain,

Have they dread of their cold embraces, When the second month of the year And dread of all strange sea-things ? Puts heart in the earth again ?

But their dread or their joy,- it is bootless : Do they hear, through the glad April | They shall pass from the breast of their weather,

mother ; The green grasses waving above them ? They shall lie low, dead brother by brother, Do they think there are none left to love In a place that is radiant and fruitless ; them,

And the folk that sail over their heads
They have lain for so long there together ? In violent weather
Do they hear the note of the cuckoo, Shall come down to them, haply, and all
The cry of gulls on the wing,

They shall lie there together.
The laughter of winds and waters,
The feet of the dancing Spring ?

GARDEN FAIRIES Do they feel the old land slipping sea- KEEN was the air, the sky was very light, ward,

Soft with shed snow my garden was, and The old land, with its hills and its graves,

white, As they gradually slide to the waves, And, walking there, I heard upon the night With the wind blowing on them from lea- Sudden sound of little voices, ward ?

Just the prettiest of noises.

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