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Sing flutes of harvest
Where men rejoice ; Sing rounds of reapers, –
And my Love's voice.
But when comes Winter
With hail and storm, And red fire roaring
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 !"
TIME goes, you say?
? Ah no!
Time goes, you say?-ah no !
Ours is the eyes' deceit
Lead through some landscape low;
Alas, Time stays,—we go !
Once in the days of old,
And mine had shamed the crow.
Time goes, you say ?-ah no !
Once, when my voice was strong,
” 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 ;
Time goes, you say?-ah no!
TO A GREEK GIRL.
breath of thyme and bees that hum,
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,
Blithe airs that blow from down and sea ;
Not wholly dead !-Autonoë !
How sweet with you on some green sod
To watch across the stricken chords
Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ; To woo you in soft woodland words,
With woodland pipe, Autonoë !
In vain,-in vain! The
From under-lands of Memory,–
A dream,--a dream, Autonoë !