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 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 And, at prime hour, behold! He follows 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, 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. is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought, That moves but does not vanish: borne 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, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 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 Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Death is the end of life; ah, why Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. In silence; ripen, fall, and cease: V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem 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; To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 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 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 ? |