ONE WORD MORE. Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, What, there's nothing in the moon note-worthy? Nay, for if that moon could love a mortal, Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy) All her magic ('t is the old sweet mythos) . Blind to Galileo on his turret, Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats, — him, even ! Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved-work, What were seen? Only this is sure, None knows, none ever shall know. Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, 95 This I say of me, but think of you, Love! Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, — O, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Wrote one song and in my brain I sing it, Drew one angel - borne, see, on my bosom! THE And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, R PARTING AT MORNING. OUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun looked over the mountain's rim, · And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me. PROSPICE. EAR death? to feel the fog in my throat, FEAR The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote The power of the night, the press of the storm, Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, For the journey is done and the summit attained, Though a battle 's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, I was ever a fighter, so, —one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, MAY AND DEATH. And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, I MAY AND DEATH. WISH that when you died last May, Charles, there had died along with you Three parts of spring's delightful things; Ay, and, for me, the fourth part too. A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps ! So, for their sakes, be May still May! Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between, That, they might spare; a certain wood Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. 99 |