Family

The twilight's inner flame grows blue and deep,
And in my Lesbos, over leagues of sea,
The temples glimmer moon-wise in the trees.
Twilight has veiled the little flower-face
Here on my heart, but still the night is kind
And leaves her warm sweet weight against my breast.
Am I that Sappho who would run at dusk
Along the surges creeping up the shore
When tides came in to ease the hungry beach,
And running, running till the night was black,
Would fall forespent upon the chilly sand
And quiver with the winds from off the sea?
Ah quietly the shingle waits the tides
Whose waves are stinging kisses, but to me
Love brought no peace, nor darkness any rest.
I crept and touched the foam with fevered hands
And cried to love, from whom the sea is sweet,
From whom the ...

My little joys went by me
As little children run
Across the fields at sunset
When playing time is done.

And now alone at twilight
What is there may content
The heart that loved their laughter
And frolic merriment?

Ah well, who knows but still may dawn
Another fairer day
Wherein my little joys may come
A-dancing out to play.

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your doll, I know;
And your tea-set blue,
And your play-house too,
Are things of the long ago;
But childish troubles will soon pass by.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your slate, I know;
And the glad, wild ways
Of your school-girl days
Are things of the long ago;
But life and love will soon come by.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

There! Little girl; don't cry!
They have broken your heart, I know;
And the rainbow gleams
Of your youthful dreams
Are things of the long ago;
But heaven holds all for which you sigh.
There! Little girl; don't cry!

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent:
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
For miles, as far as eyes can go;
Thou hast not seen a summer's night
When maids could sew by a worm's light;
Nor the North Sea in spring send out
Bright hues that like birds flit about
In solid cages of white ice,
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.
Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
White cotton when the bloom is thick,
Nor heard black throats in harmony;
Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
Flat on the earth, that once did rise
To hide proud kings from common eyes,
Thou has...

1.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

2.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies...

Children of earth are we,
Lovers of land and sea,
Of hill, of brook, of tree,
    Of all things fair;
Of all things dark or bright,
Born of the day and night,
Red rose and lily white
    And dusky hair.

Yet not alone from earth
Do we derive our birth.
What were our singing worth
    Were this the whole?
Somewhere from heaven afar
Hath dropped a fiery star,
Which makes us what we are,
    Which is our soul.

A twangling harp for Mary,
    A silvery flute for John,
And now we'll play the livelong day,
    'The Miller and his Son.'

'The Miller went a-walking
    All in the forest high,
He sees three doves a-flitting
    Against the dark blue sky:

'Says he, "My son, now follow
    These doves so white and free,
That cry above the forest,
    And surely cry to thee."

"I go, my dearest Father,
    But O! I sadly fear,
These doves so white will lead me far,
    But never bring me near."

'He kisses the Miller,
    He cries, "Awhoop to ye!"
And straightway through the forest
    Follows the wood-doves three.

'There came a sound of weeping
    To the Miller in his Mill;
Red roses in a thicket
    Bloomed over...

A song in a cornfield
    Where corn begins to fall,
Where reapers are reaping,
    Reaping one, reaping all.
Sing pretty Lettice,
    Sing Rachel, sing May;
Only Marian cannot sing
    While her sweetheart's away.

Where is he gone to
    And why does he stay?
He came across the green sea
    But for a day,
Across the deep green sea
    To help with the hay.

His hair was curly yellow
    And his eyes were grey,
He laughed a merry laugh
    And said a sweet say.
Where is he gone to
    That he comes not home?
To-day or to-morrow
    He surely will come.
Let him haste to joy
    Lest he lag for sorrow,
For one weeps to-day
    Who'll not weep to-morrow:
To-day she must weep
    For gnawing sorrow...

“Where shall we go for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year,
When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad,
When the boughs are yellow and sere?
Where are the old ones that once we had,
And when are the new ones near?
What shall we do for our garlands glad
At the falling of the year?”

“Child! can I tell where the garlands go?
Can I say where the lost leaves veer
On the brown-burnt banks, when the wild winds blow,
When they drift through the dead-wood drear?
Girl! when the garlands of next year glow,
You may gather again, my dear,
But I go where the last year’s lost leaves go
At the falling of the year.”

Some act of Love's bound to reherse,
I thought to bind him, in my verse:
Which when he felt, Away (quoth he)
Can Poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough, they once did get
Mars, and my Mother, in their net:
I weare not these my wings in vaine.
With which he fled me: and againe,
Into my rimes could ne're be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That since, my numbers are so cold,
When Love is fled, and I grow old.

Brother, my thought of you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Goes up about you
As her own scent
Goes up about the rose.

The bracelets on my arms
Have grown too large
Because you went away.

I think the sun of love
Melted the snow of parting,
For the white river of tears has overflowed.

But though I am sad
I am still beautiful,
The girl that you desired
In April.

Brother, my love for you
In this letter on a palm-leaf
Brightens about you
As her own rays
Brighten about the moon.

Love Poem of Cambodia.

It was the pleasant season yet,
When the stones at cottage doors
Dry quickly, while the roads are wet,
After the silver showers.

The green leaves they looked greener still,
And the thrush, renewing his tune,
Shook a loud note from his gladsome bill
Into the bright blue noon.

Robin Hood's mother looked out, and said
"It were a shame and a sin
For fear of getting a wet head
To keep such a day within,
Nor welcome up from his sick bed
Your uncle Gamelyn."

And Robin leaped, and thought so too;
And so he has grasped her gown,
And now looking back, they have lost the view
Of merry sweet Locksley town.

Robin was a gentle boy,
And therewithal as bold;
To say he was his mother's joy,
It were a phrase too cold.

...

The sunburnt face in the willow shade
To the face in the water-mirror said,

"O deep mysterious face in the stream,
Art thou myself or am I thy dream?"

And the face deep down in the water's side
To the face in the upper air replied,

"I am thy dream, them poor worn face,
And this is thy heart's abiding place.

"Too much in the world, come back and be
Once more my dream-fellow with me,

"In the far-off untarnished years
Before thy furrows were washed with tears,

"Or ever thy serious creature eyes
Were aged with a mist of memories.

"Hast thou forgotten the long ago
In the garden where I used to flow,

"Among the hills, with the maple tree
And the roses blowing over me?--

"I who am now but a wraith of thi...

    Margaret! my Cousin!--nay, you must not smile;
    I love the homely and familiar phrase;
    And I will call thee Cousin Margaret,
    However quaint amid the measured line
    The good old term appears. Oh! it looks ill
    When delicate tongues disclaim old terms of kin,
    Sirring and Madaming as civilly
    As if the road between the heart and lips
    Were such a weary and Laplandish way
    That the poor travellers came to the red gates
    Half frozen. Trust me Cousin Margaret,
    For many a day my Memory has played
    The creditor with me on your account,
    And made me shame to think that I should owe
    So long the debt of kindness. But in truth,
    Like Christian on his pilgrimage, I bear
    So heavy a pack of business, that albeit
...

Seest thou not, in clearest days,
Oft thick fogs cloud Heaven's rays?
And that vapours which do breathe
From the Earth's gross womb beneath,
Seem unto us with black steams
To pollute the Sun's bright beams,
And yet vanish into air,
Leaving it unblemished fair?
So, my Willy, shall it be
With Detraction's breath on thee:
It shall never rise so high
As to stain thy poesy.
As that sun doth oft exhale
Vapours from each rotten vale,
Poesy so sometime drains
Gross conceits from muddy brains;
Mists of envy, fogs of spite,
Twixt men's judgments and her light;
But so much her power may do,
That she can dissolve them too.
If thy verse do bravely tower,
As she makes wing she gets power;
Yet the higher she doth soar,
She's affronted still...

    Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,
    Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,
    Save, when in visions of the night revealed,
    Or seen in daydreams bright,
    When all the fields are filled with light,
    And Nature's smile is sweet,
    Say, hast thou blessed
    Some golden age of innocence,
    And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?
    Or hath Fate's envious doom
    Reserved thee for some happier day to come?

    To see thee e'er alive,
    No hope remains to me;
    Unless perchance, when from this body free,
    My wandering spirit, lone,
    O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.
    E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn
    Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,
    Sought thee, to guide me on my...

1.

One morn before me were three figures seen,
I With bowed necks, and joined hands, side-faced;
And one behind the other stepp'd serene,
In placid sandals, and in white robes graced;
They pass'd, like figures on a marble urn,
When shifted round to see the other side;
They came again; as when the urn once more
Is shifted round, the first seen shades return;
And they were strange to me, as may betide
With vases, to one deep in Phidian lore.

2.

How is it, Shadows! that I knew ye not?
How came ye muffled in so hush a masque?
Was it a silent deep-disguised plot
To steal away, and leave without a task
My idle days? Ripe was the drowsy hour;
The blissful cloud of summer-indolence
Benumb'd my eyes; my pulse grew less and less;
Pain ha...

Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
That for young Lycid form'd a wat'ry grave;
Oh! many wept to see his fainting form
Unaided sink beneath th' o'erwhelming wave.

Ah! hapless youth! yet, tho' the billowy waste
Has thus, with ruthless fury, snatch'd away
Thy various charms, thy genius, wit, and taste,
From those who fondly watch'd their rich display, -

Their cherish'd, lov'd, impression still shall last;
Mem'ry shall ride triumphant o'er the storm,
Shall shield thy gen'rous virtues from the blast,
And Fancy animate again thy form.

Yes, gentle youth! to her, tho' little known,
Save by the rich effusions of thy lyre,
Th' admiring Muse shall breathe a mournful tone,
And sounds of grief shall o'er the floods expire.

But, far more g...