Heartbreak

Se nel volto per gli occhi


If through the eyes the heart speaks clear and true,
        I have no stronger sureties than these eyes
        For my pure love. Prithee let them suffice,
        Lord of my soul, pity to gain from you.
More tenderly perchance than is my due,
        Your spirit sees into my heart, where rise
        The flames of holy worship, nor denies
        The grace reserved for those who humbly sue.
Oh, blesséd day when you at last are mine!
        Let time stand still, and let noon's chariot stay;
        Fixed be that moment on the dial of heaven!
That I may clasp and keep, by grace divine,
        Clasp in these yearning arms and keep for aye
        My heart's loved lord to me desertless given!

My mouth doth water, and my breast doth swell,
My tongue doth itch, my thoughts in labour be:
Listen then, lordings, with good ear to me,
For of my life I must a riddle tell.
Toward Auroras Court a nymph doth dwell,
Rich in all beauties which mans eye can see;
Beauties so farre from reach of words that we
Abase her praise saying she doth excell;
Rich in the treasure of deseru'd renowne,
Rich in the riches of a royall heart,
Rich in those gifts which giue th'eternall crowne;
Who, though most rich in these and eu'ry part
Which make the patents of true worldy blisse,
Hath no misfortune but that Rich she is.

La vita del mie amor.


This heart of flesh feeds not with life my love:
        The love wherewith I love thee hath no heart;
        Nor harbours it in any mortal part,
        Where erring thought or ill desire may move.
When first Love sent our souls from God above,
        He fashioned me to see thee as thou art--
        Pure light; and thus I find God's counterpart
        In thy fair face, and feel the sting thereof.
As heat from fire, from loveliness divine
        The mind that worships what recalls the sun
        From whence she sprang, can be divided never:
And since thine eyes all Paradise enshrine,
        Burning unto those orbs of light I run,
        There where I loved thee first to dwell for ever.

She lay asleep, and her face shone white
As under a snowy veil,
And the waxen hands clasped on her breast
Were full of snowdrops pale;
But a holy calm touched the baby lips,
The brow, and the sleeping eyes,
The look of an angel pitying us
From the peace of Paradise.

And now though she lies 'neath the coffin-lid,
We cannot think her dead;
But we think of her as of some delicate bird
To a milder country fled.
'Twas a long, dark flight for our gentle dove,
Our bird so tender and fair;
But we know she has reached the summer land
And folded her white wings there.

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I know where the fossils abound,
Where the footprints of Aves declare
The birds that once walked on the ground.
Oh, come, and in technical speech
We’ll walk this Devonian shore,
Or on some Silurian beach
We’ll wander, my love, evermore.

I will show thee the sinuous track
By the slow-moving Annelid made,
Or the Trilobite that, farther back,
In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,
The Plesiosaurus embalmed;
In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,
Iguanodon safe and unharmed.

You wished I remember it well,
And I loved you the more for that wish
For a perfect cystedian shell
And a whole holocephalic fish.
And oh, if Earth’s strata contains
In its lowest Silur...

Avenge O lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old
When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groanes
Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold
Slayn by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
Mother with Infant down the Rocks.    Their moans
The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they
To Heav'n.    Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O're all th'Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

Hide not Thy face, - and though the road
Be dark and long and rough,
With cheerfulness I'll bear my load,
Thy smile will be enough.
All other helps I can forego,
If with Faith's eye I trace,
Through earthly clouds of grief and woe,
The presence of Thy face.

Hide not Thy face; - weak, worn and
Oppressed with doubt and fear;
Still will I utter no complaint, -
Content if Thou art near.
Thy loving hand my steps shall guide,
And set my doubts at rest;
In loving trust, whate'er betide,
For Thou, Lord, knowest best.

Hide not Thy face; - the tempter's wiles
Around my feet are spread;
The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles,
Beset the path I tread.
Alone, too weak to fight the host
Of Pleasure's vicious train,
'Tis then I nee...

"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"
"I don't know what part of the pasture you mean."
"You know where they cut off the woods, let me see,
It was two years ago, or no!, can it be
No longer than that?, and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall."
"Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the...

The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song - the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me - come and follow - and follow."

A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the ten...

The street sounds to the soldiers' tread,
And out we troop to see:
A single redcoat turns his head,
He turns and looks at me.

My man, from sky to sky's so far,
We never crossed before;
Such leagues apart the world's ends are,
We're like to meet no more;

What thoughts at heart have you and I
We cannot stop to tell;
But dead or living, drunk or dry,
Soldier, I wish you well.

Spring with the lark, most comely bride, and meet
Your eager bridegroom with auspicious feet.
The morn's far spent, and the immortal sun
Corals his cheek to see those rites not done.
Fie, lovely maid! indeed you are too slow,
When to the temple Love should run, not go.
Dispatch your dressing then, and quickly wed;
Then feast, and coy't a little, then to bed.
This day is Love's day, and this busy night
Is yours, in which you challenged are to fight
With such an arm'd, but such an easy foe,
As will, if you yield, lie down conquer'd too.
The field is pitch'd, but such must be your wars,
As that your kisses must outvie the stars.
Fall down together vanquished both, and lie
Drown'd in the blood of rubies there, not die.

Wild nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!

Futile the winds
To a heart in port, --
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!

There's been a death in the opposite house
As lately as to-day.
I know it by the numb look
Such houses have alway.

The neighbors rustle in and out,
The doctor drives away.
A window opens like a pod,
Abrupt, mechanically;

Somebody flings a mattress out, --
The children hurry by;
They wonder if It died on that, --
I used to when a boy.

The minister goes stiffly in
As if the house were his,
And he owned all the mourners now,
And little boys besides;

And then the milliner, and the man
Of the appalling trade,
To take the measure of the house.
There'll be that dark parade

Of tassels and of coaches soon;
It's easy as a sign, --
The intuition of the news
In just a country town.

Died at Portland, Connecticut, January 1st, 1861.


I think of her unfolding prime,
    Her childhood bright and fair,
The speaking eye, the earnest smile,
    The dark and lustrous hair,

The fondness by a Mother's side
    To cling with docile mind,
Fast in the only sister's hand
    Her own forever twined,

The candor of her trustful youth,
    The heart that freshly wove
Sweet garlands even from thorn-clad bowers,
    Because it dwelt in love,

The stainless life, whose truth and grace
    Made each beholder see
The gladness of a spirit tuned
    To heavenly harmony.

But when this fair New-Year looked forth
    Over the old one's grave,
While bridal pleasures neath her roof
    Their bright infusion gave,<...

In St. Luke's Gospel we are told
How Peter in the days of old
        Was sifted;
And now, though ages intervene,
Sin is the same, while time and scene
        Are shifted.

Satan desires us, great and small,
As wheat to sift us, and we all
        Are tempted;
Not one, however rich or great,
Is by his station or estate
        Exempted.

No house so safely guarded is
But he, by some device of his,
        Can enter;
No heart hath armor so complete
But he can pierce with arrows fleet
        Its centre.

For all at last the cock will crow,
Who hear the warning voice, but go
        Unheeding,
Till thrice and more they have denied
The Man of Sorrows, crucified
        And bleeding.

One look of that pa...

Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!
Thy sleep is sound, and still and sweet,
Framed in the pale gold of thy hair,
Thy face is like an angel's fair,
    Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Tender curves of cheek and lips--
Sweet eyes hid in long eclipse--
Pale robes flowing to thy feet--
Folded hands that lightly meet,--
    Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Sleep'st thou still?--the world awakes,--
Still the echo swells and breaks,--
Over field, and wood, and street
Easter anthems throb and beat,--
    Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

Christ the Lord is risen again,--
Hear'st thou not the glad refrain,--
Have those gentle lips no breath,
Smiling in the trance of death?--
    Marguerite,--oh Marguerite!

In the grave from whence He rose,
La...

Two flowers upon one parent stem
Together bloomed for many days.
At length a storm arose, and one
Was blighted, and cut down at noon.

The other hath transplanted been,
And flowers fair as herself hath borne;
She too has felt the withering storm,
Her strength's decayed, wasted her form.

May he who hears the mourner's prayer,
Renew her strength for years to come;
Long may He our Lilly spare,
Long delay to call her home.

But when the summons shall arrive
To bear this lovely flower away,
Again may she transplanted be
To blossom in eternity.

There may these sisters meet again,
Both freed from sorrow, sin, and pain;
There with united voices raise,
In sweet accord their hymns of praise;
Eternally his na...

    Sun on the eiderdown
    breaks tiny corners off the bedspread, declares green plants its bidding
    before summoning Fragonard's maiden
    off her swing - so richly dressed
    in picture from the sunlit wall.

    Expensive tabac from an imported humidor
    etches tiny leaves
    their stems as faces against the glass,
    rich aroma, trèsor, like the Jolly Tupper print
    preparing his bowl,
    drawing on the clay stem
    as if from a height watching ships come in.

    Smoke cold as blue fungus over outside buildings
    follows horses with hooves to split cobblestones
    stuck in the city's eye,
    more than mountains around
    the stone filled ravines
    of the rich man's heart.