Puslapio vaizdai
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Where they were gather'd, cold as is my heart!

Oh! if my living lot be bitterness, "T is sweeter than to think, that, if I go Down to the dust, then I shall think no more Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of whom

Are all my being, and shall speak no more, In answer to their voices in my heart,

As though it were mine ear, rewording all Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains, Their infant fondnesses, their little wants, And simple words. Oh! while I am, I dream

Of those who are not; thus my anguish grows

My solace, as the salt surf of the seas

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That heavenly guidance humble sorrow hath,

Had turn'd my feet into that forest-way, Just when His morning light came down the path,

Among the lonely woods at early day.

THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE

As on my bed at dawn I mus'd and pray'd, I saw my lattice prank'd upon the wall, The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal

A sunny phantom interlaced with shade ; "Thanks be to heaven," in happy mood I said,

"What sweeter aid my matins could befall Than the fair glory from the East hath made?

What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,

To bid us feel and see! we are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight
glooms

And, at prime hour, behold! He follows

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ORION

How oft I've watch'd thee from the garden croft,

In silence, when the busy day was done, Shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft, And flickering like a casement 'gainst the sun!

I've seen thee soar from out some snowy cloud,

Which held the frozen breath of land and sea,

Yet broke and sever'd as the wind grew loud

But earth-bound winds could not dismember thee,

Nor shake thy frame of jewels; I have guess'd

At thy strange shape and function, haply felt

The charm of that old myth about thy belt And sword; but, most, my spirit was possess'd

By His great Presence, Who is never far From his light-bearers, whether man or star.

TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT

QUICK gleam, that ridest on the gossamer!

How oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance,
Tilt at the midges in their evening dance,
A gentle joust set on by summer air!
How oft I watch thee from my garden-
chair!

And, failing that, I search the lawns and bowers,

To find thee floating o'er the fruits and flowers,

And doing thy sweet work in silence there.
Thou art the poet's darling, ever sought
In the fair garden or the breezy mead;
The wind dismounts thee not; thy buoyant
thread

is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought, That moves but does not vanish: borne

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Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consum'd with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness?

All things have rest: why should we toil alone,

We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,

Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor never fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,

Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
There is no joy but calm!"

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,

The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,

Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labor be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the
grave

In silence; ripen, fall, and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or
dreamful ease.

V

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,

With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!

To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,

Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;

To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,

To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melan-
choly;

To muse and brood and live again in memory,

With those old faces of our infancy

Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass !

VI

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:

For surely now our household hearths are cold:

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange : And we should come like ghosts to trouble

joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel

sings

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten

things.

Is there confusion in the little isle ?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile :
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,

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