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The buds awake at touch of Spring
From Winter's joyless dream ; From many a stone the ouzels sing
By yonder mossy stream.
Lingers, as if to meet
Across the rising wheat
Who led long lives obscure till came the
close When, their calm days being done, their
suns were set Here stands a grave, all monumentless
yet, Wrapped like the others in a deep repose ; But while yon wakeful ocean ebbs and
flows It is a grave the world shall not forget, This grave on which meek violets grow
and thyme, Summer's fair heralds; and a stranger Pauses to see a poet's resting-place, But one of those who will in many a clime On each return of this sad day avow Fond love's regret that ne'er they saw his
The bird whom ancient Solitude
Hath kept forever young, Unaltered since in studious mood
Calm Milton mused and sung. Ah, strange it is, dear heart, to know
Spring's gladsome mystery Was sweet to lovers long ago
Most sweet to such as we
That fresh new leaves and meadow flowers
Bloomed when the south wind came ; While hands of Spring caressed the bowers,
The throstle sang the same.
Unchanged, unchanged the throstle's song,
Unchanged Spring's answering breath, Unchanged, though cruel Time was strong,
And stilled our love in death.
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON SHAKESPEARE, thy legacy of peerless song Reveals mankind in every age and place, In every joy, in every grief and wrong : 'T is England's legacy to all our race. Little we know of all thine inner life, Little of all thy swift, thy wondrous years Years filled with toil, rich years whose days
were rife With strains that bring us mirth, that bring
us tears. Little we know, and yet this much we
know, Sense was thy guiding star sense guided
thee To live in this thy Stratford long ago, To live content in calm simplicity ; Greatest of those who wrought with soul
aflame At honest daily work — then found it fame.
AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE
HERE of a truth the world's extremes are
met : Amid the gray, the moss-grown tombs of
OUR CASUARINA TREE
LIKE a huge Python, winding round and
round The rugged trunk, indented deep with
Up to its very summit near the stars, A creeper climbs, in whose embraces
bound No other tree could live. But gallantly The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are
In crimson clusters all the boughs among, Like the sea breaking on a shingle-beach ? Whereon all day are gathered bird and It is the tree's lament, an eerie speech,
That haply to the unknown land may reach. And oft at nights the garden overflows With one sweet song that seems to have no Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of close,
faith! Sung darkling from our tree, while men Ah, I have heard that wail far, far away repose.
In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay,
When slumbered in his cave the waterWhen first my casement is wide open
And the waves gently kissed the classic At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest;
shore Sometimes, and most in winter,
Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, crest
When earth lay trancèd in a dreamless A gray
baboon sits statue-like alone Watching the sunrise ; while on lower And every time the music rose, – before boughs
Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, His pany offspring leap about and play ; Thy form, 0 Tree, as in my happy prime And far and near kokilas hail the day ; I saw thee, in my own loved native clime. And to their pastures wend our sleepy Cows ;
Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast, Who now in blessed sleep for aye reThe water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed.
Dearer than life to me, alas, were they ! But not because of its magnificence
Mayst thou be numbered when my days Dear is the Casuarina to my soul :
are done Beneath it we have played ; though With deathless trees — like those in Boryears 'may roll,
rowdale, O sweet companions, loved with love in- Under whose awful branches lingered pale tense,
“ Fear, trembling Hope, and Death, the For your sakes, shall the tree be ever skeleton, dear.
And Time the shadow ;” and though weak Blent with your images, it shall arise
the verse In memory, till the hot tears blind mine That would thy beauty fain, oh, fain re
hearse, What is that dirge-like murmur that I May Love defend thee from Oblivion's
SHE sits beneath the elder-tree
No more in silent dawns he'll wait
By still lagoons, and mark the flight Of black swans near : no more elate
Whirl high the boomerang aright Upon some foe. He knows that now
He too must share his race's night He scarce can know the white man's plough Will one day pass above his brow. Last remnant of the Austral race
He sits and stares, with failing breath : The shadow deepens on his face,
For’midst the spectral gums waits death : A dingo's sudden howl swells near
He stares once with a startled gaze,
Her hair is dark as starless night, Her flower-crowned face pale, But oh, her eyes are lit with light Of dread ancestral bale.
She sings an eerie song, so wild
THE COVES OF CRAIL The moon-white waters wash and leap,
The dark tide floods the Coves of Crail ; Sound, sound he lies in dreamless sleep,
Nor hears the sea-wind wail.
And oft she cries an eldritch scream,
Or shrinks, when some swift tide of tears -
The pale gold of his oozy
locks Doth hither drift and thither wave ; His thin hands plash against the rocks,
His white lips nothing crave.
For hours beneath the elder-tree She broods beside the stream ; Her dark eyes filled with mystery, Her dark soul rapt in dream.
Afar away she laughs and sings –
A song he loved, a wild sea-strain Of how the mermen weave their rings
Upon the reef-set main.
The lapsing flow she heedeth not Through deepest depths she scans :
BREATH o' the grass, Ripple of wandering wind, Murmur of tremulous leaves : A moonbeam moving white Like a ghost across the plain : A shadow on the road : And high up, high, From the cypress-bough, A long sweet melancholy note. Silence. And the topmost spray Of the cypress-bough is still As a wavelet in a pool : The road lies duskily bare : The plain is a misty gloom : Still are the tremulous leaves ; Scarce a last ripple of wind, Scarce a breath i' the grass. Hush : the tired wind sleeps : Is it the wind's breath, or Breath o' the grass ?
HERE where the sunlight
IN THE SABINE VALLEYS NEAR ROME
THROUGH the seeding grass,
Here, as the breath, as the soul of this
beauty, White as a cloud through the heats of the
noontide Moves the White Peacock.
beauty Moveth in silence, and dreamlike, and
slowly, White as a snow-drift in mountain valleys When softly upon it the gold light lingers : White as the foam o' the sea that is driven O'er billows of azure agleam with sun
yellow : Cream-white and soft as the breasts of a
girl, Moves the White Peacock, as though
through the noon-tide A dream of the moonlight were real for a
moment. Dim on the beautiful fan that he spreadeth, Foldeth and spreadeth abroad in the sun
light, Dim on the cream-white are blue adum
brations, Shadows so pale in their delicate blueness That visions they seem as of vanishing vio
lets, The fragrant white violets veined with
azure, Pale, pale as the breath of blue smoke in
Love in my heart : oh, heart of me, heart
of me! Love is my tyrant, Love is supreme. What if he passeth, oh, heart of me, heart
of me! Love is a phantom, and Life is a dream ! What if he changeth, oh, heart of me, heart
of me ! Oh, can the waters be void of the wind ? What if he wendeth afar and apart from
me, What if he leave me to perish behind ?