Sing flutes of harvest Where men rejoice; Sing rounds of reapers,— And my Love's voice. But when comes Winter And ingle warm,— Sing first sad going Of friends that part ; Then sing glad meeting,— And my Love's heart. THE PARADOX OF TIME. (A VARIATION ON RONSARD.) "Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, ma dame! Las! le temps non: mais Nous nous en allons!" IME goes, you say? Ah no! TIME Alas, Time stays, we go; Or else, were this not so, What need to chain the hours, For Youth were always ours? Time goes, you say?—ah no! Ours is the eyes' deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee : Alas, Time stays,-we go! Once in the days of old, Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now, in the self-same stage, Time goes, you say?-ah no! Once, when my voice was strong, I filled the woods with song To praise your "rose" and "snow "; My bird, that sang, is dead; Where are your roses fled? Alas, Time stays,—we go! See, in what traversed ways, The hopes we used to know; How far, how far, O Sweet, Lies in the even-glow! Alas, Time stays,—we go TO A GREEK GIRL. WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, WITH Across the years you seem to come,Across the years with nymph-like head, And wind-blown brows unfilleted; A girlish shape that slips the bud In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood With pulse of Spring, Autonoë! Where'er you pass,-where'er you go, Not wholly dead !-Autonoë! How sweet with you on some green sod N To watch across the stricken chords In vain,—in vain! The years divide: From under-lands of Memory,- |