Puslapio vaizdai
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Again I meet the ardent beams.

Queen of things! I dare not die
In Being's deeps past ear and eye,

Lest there I find the same deceiver,

And be the sport of Fate forever.

Dread

power, but dear! if God thou be,

Unmake me quite, or give thyself to me.

GIVE ALL TO LOVE.

GIVE all to love;

Obey thy heart;

Friends, kindred, days,

Estate, good fame,

Plans, credit, and the muse;

Nothing refuse.

"Tis a brave master,

Let it have scope,

Follow it utterly,

Hope beyond hope;

High and more high,

It dives into noon,

With wing unspent,

Untold intent;

But 'tis a god,

Knows its own path,

And the outlets of the sky.

"Tis not for the mean,

It requireth courage stout,

Souls above doubt,

Valour unbending;

Such 'twill reward,

They shall return

More than they were,

And ever ascending.

Leave all for love;—

Yet, hear me, yet,

One word more thy heart behoved,

One pulse more of firm endeavour,

Keep thee to day,

To-morrow, for ever,

Free as an Arab

Of thy beloved.

Cling with life to the maid;

But when the surprise,

Vague shadow of surmise

Flits across her bosom young

Of a joy apart from thee,
Free be she, fancy-free,

Do not thou detain a hem,

Nor the palest rose she flung

From her summer diadem.

Though thou loved her as thyself,

As a self of purer clay,

Tho' her parting dims the day,

Stealing grace from all alive,

Heartily know,

When half-gods go,

The gods arrive.

TO ELLEN, AT THE SOUTH.

THE green grass is growing,

The morning wind is in it,

'Tis a tune worth the knowing,

Though it change every minute.

"Tis a tune of the spring,
Every year plays it over,
To the robin on the wing,
To the pausing lover.

O'er ten thousand thousand acres

Goes light the nimble zephyr,

The flowers, tiny feet of shakers,

Worship him ever.

Hark to the winning sound!

They summon thee, dearest,

Saying; 'We have drest for thee the ground, Nor yet thou appearest.

O hasten, 'tis our time,

Ere yet the red summer

Scorch our delicate prime,

Loved of bee, the tawny hummer.

O pride of thy race!

Sad in sooth it were to ours,

If our brief tribe miss thy face,—
We pour New England flowers.

Fairest choose the fairest members

Of our lithe society;

June's glories and September's

Show our love and piety.

Thou shalt command us all,

April's cowslip, summer's clover,

To the gentian in the fall,
Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.

O come, then, quickly come,
We are budding, we are blowing,

And the wind which we perfume

Sings a tune that's worth thy knowing.'

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