Heartbreak

Not for me marring or making,
Not for me giving or taking;
I love my Love and he loves not me,
I love my Love and my heart is breaking.

Sweet is Spring in its lovely showing,
Sweet the violet veiled in blowing,
Sweet it is to love and be loved;
Ah, sweet knowledge beyond my knowing!

Who sighs for love sighs but for pleasure,
Who wastes for love hoards up a treasure;
Sweet to be loved and take no count,
Sweet it is to love without measure.

Sweet my Love whom I loved to try for,
Sweet my Love whom I love and sigh for,
Will you once love me and sigh for me,
You my Love whom I love and die for?

'Tis time, I feel, to leave thee now,
    While yet my soul is something free;
While yet those dangerous eyes allow
    One minute's thought to stray from thee.

Oh! thou becom'st each moment dearer;
    Every chance that brings me nigh thee
Brings my ruin nearer, nearer,--
    I am lost, unless I fly thee.

Nay, if thou dost not scorn and hate me,
    Doom me not thus so soon to fall
Duties, fame, and hopes await me,--
    But that eye would blast them all!

For, thou hast heart as false and cold
    As ever yet allured and swayed,
And couldst, without a sigh, behold
    The ruin which thyself had made.

Yet,--could I think that, truly fond,
    That eye but once would smile on me,
Even as thou art, how far beyond
   ...

If gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains,
And racks of subtle torture, if the pains
Of shame, of fiery Hell's tempestuous wave,
Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave,
Hurling the damned into the murky air
While the meek blest sit smiling; if Despair
And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with which Terror
Hunts through the world the homeless steps of Error,
Are the true secrets of the commonweal
To make men wise and just;...
And not the sophisms of revenge and fear,
Bloodier than is revenge...
Then send the priests to every hearth and home
To preach the burning wrath which is to come,
In words like flakes of sulphur, such as thaw
The frozen tears...
If Satire's scourge could wake the slumbering hounds
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds,
The le...

It was in the early morning
    Of life, and of hope to me,
I sat on a grassy hillside
    Of the Isle beyond the sea,
Erin's skies of changeful beauty
    Were bending over me.

The landscape, emerald tinted,
    Lying smiling in the sun,
The grass with daisies sprinkled,
    And with shamrocks over run,
The Maine water flashed and dimpled,
    Still flowing softly on.

The lark in the blue above me,
    A tiny speck in the sky,
Rained down from its bosom's fulness
    A shower of melody,
Dropping through the golden sunlight,
    And sweetly rippling by

Afar in the sunny distance,
    O'er the river's further brim,
Like a stern old Norman warder,
    Stood the castle tall and grim,
And, nearer a grassy ruin,
...

O Joy of creation
To be!
O rapture to fly
And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love, the one
Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands,
All alone,
With the power in his hands
Not o’erthrown;
I shall know him by his face,
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space,
All my own!

It is he O my love!
So bold!
It is I all thy love
Foretold!
It is I. O love! what bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! what is this
Lieth there so cold?

    Gently the petals fall as the tree gently sways
    That has known many springs and many petals fall
    Year after year to strew the green deserted ways
    And the statue and the pond and the low, broken wall.

    Faded is the memory of old things done,
    Peace floats on the ruins of ancient festival;
    They lie and forget in the warmth of the sun,
    And a sky silver-blue arches over all.

    O softly, O tenderly, the heart now stirs
    With desires faint and formless; and, seeking not, I find
    Quiet thoughts that flash like azure kingfishers
    Across the luminous, tranquil mirror of the mind.

(For Kenton)



An iron hand has stilled the throats
    That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee
And dammed the flood of silver notes
    That drenched the world in melody.
The blosmy apple boughs are yearning
For their wild choristers' returning,
    But no swift wings flash through the tree.

Ye that were glad and fleet and strong,
    Shall Silence take you in her net?
And shall Death quell that radiant song
    Whose echo thrills the meadow yet?
Burst the frail web about you clinging
And charm Death's cruel heart with singing
    Till with strange tears his eyes are wet.

The scented morning of the year
    Is old and stale now ye are gone.
No friendly songs the children hear
    Among the bushes on the lawn.
When ...

Meseemed that while she played, while lightly yet
Her fingers fell, as roses bloom by bloom,
I listened dead within a mighty room
Of some old palace where great casements let
Gaunt moonlight in, that glimpsed a parapet
Of statued marble: in the arrased gloom
Majestic pictures towered, dim as doom,
The dreams of Titian and of Tintoret.
And then, it seemed, along a corridor,
A mile of oak, a stricken footstep came,
Hurrying, yet slow … I thought long centuries
Passed ere she entered she, I loved of yore,
For whom I died, who wildly wailed my name
And bent and kissed me on the mouth and eyes.

I wad I were where Helen lies;
Night and day on me she cries;
O that I were where Helen lies,
On fair Kirkconnell lea!

Curst be the heart that thought the thought,
And curst the hand that fired the shot,
When in my arms burd Helen dropt,
And died to succour me!

O think na but my heart was sair
When my Love dropt and spak nae mair!
I laid her down wi' meikle care,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

As I went down the water side,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,
Nane but my foe to be my guide,
On fair Kirkconnell lea.

I lighted down my sword to draw,
I hacked him in pieces sma',
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my ...

They never saw my lover’s face,
They only know our love was brief,
Wearing awhile a windy grace
And passing like an autumn leaf.

They wonder why I do not weep,
They think it strange that I can sing,
They say, “Her love was scarcely deep
Since it has left so slight a sting.”

They never saw my love, nor knew
That in my heart’s most secret place
I pity them as angels do

Men who have never seen God’s face.

There were two sons of Ashur at work in the field,
And one to the other his passion revealed--
As the white barley bowed to the stroke of his scythe,
He burst out in accents exultingly blithe--

    "I have wooed a young maid!--I have wooed and I've won,
On a lovelier face never glanced yon bright sun;
To the tall stately cedar my love I'll compare,
With her eyes' shaded glory, her long raven hair,
And her bosom as white as the snow when it gleams
On Lebanon's heights, ere washed down by the streams.
She has ravished and filled my rapt soul with delight;
She's more dear to my heart than yon heavens to my sight."--

    "And who is the chosen?" his comrade replied,
Whilst the deepest of crimson his swarthy cheek dyed,
His severed lips trembled, his eagle eye fe...

Must I believe this beauty wholly gone
    That in her picture here so deathless seems,
And must I henceforth speak of her as one
    Tells of some face of legend or of dreams,
Still here and there remembered - scarce believed,
Or held the fancy of a heart bereaved.

So beautiful she - was; ah! "was," say I,
    Yet doubt her dead - I did not see her die.
Only by others borne across the sea
Came the incredible wild blasphemy
They called her death - as though it could be true
Of such an immortality as you!

True of these eyes that from her picture gaze,
    Serene, star-steadfast, as the heaven's own eyes;
Of that deep bosom, white as hawthorn sprays,
    Where my world-weary head forever lies;
True of these quiet hands, so marble-cool,
Still on ...

When May is painting with her colours gay
The landscape sketched by April her sweet twin...

The cold green rocks and lapping waves
Are all my world as here I sit
With downcast eye and heart that craves
The bush and blue sky over it.

The tide of years is washing by,
The misty water drifts between
A soul with wings that may not fly
And shadowy realms that might have been.

Too late, too late, alas, I know
The track that winds by shining leaves
From where the flood reflects, below,
The greyness of the heart that grieves.

Another yet may tread the way,
And offer at that hidden shrine
His gift of rolled and twisted clay,
And set his lips to holy wine.

Another yet may tinge the flame
Upon that altar blue or red,
And freely call upon Her name,
And taste at will the blessed bread.

The waves are grey about the ...

"A'a Mary aw'm glad 'at that's thee!
Aw need thy advice, lass, aw'm sure; -
Aw'm all ov a mooild tha can see,
Aw wor nivver i' this way afoor.
Aw've net slept a wink all th' neet throo;
Aw've been twirlin abaat like a worm,
An' th' blankets gate felter'd, lass, too -
Tha nivver saw cloas i' sich form.
Aw'll tell thee what 't all wor abaght -
But promise tha'll keep it reight squat;
For aw wod'nt for th' world let it aght,
But aw can't keep it in - tha knows that.
We'd a meetin at th' schooil yesterneet,
An Jimmy wor thear, - tha's seen Jim?
An he hutch'd cloise to me in a bit,
To ax me for th' number o'th' hymn;
Aw thowt 't wor a gaumless trick,
For he heeard it geen aght th' same as me;
An he just did th' same thing tother wick, -
It made fowk ...

I list your prattle, baby boy,
    And hear your pattering feet
With feelings more of pain than joy
    And thoughts of bitter-sweet.

While touching your soft hands in play
    Such passionate longings rise
For my wee boy who strayed away
    So soon to Paradise.

You win me with your infant art;
    But when our play is o'er,
The empty cradle in my heart
    Seems lonelier than before.

Sweet baby boy, you do not guess
    How oft mine eyes are dim,
Or that my lingering caress
    Is sometimes meant for HIM.

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight
    Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
    The sword two-handed and the shining shield
    Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
    Of tourney or adventure in the field
    Came over him, and tears but half concealed
    Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
    My ornaments and arms of other days;
    Not wholly useless, though no longer used,
For they remind me of my other self,
    Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways
    In which I walked, now clouded and confused.

Dolci ire, dolci sdegni e dolci paci.

HE CONSOLES HIMSELF WITH THE THOUGHT THAT HE WILL BE ENVIED BY POSTERITY.


    Sweet scorn, sweet anger, and sweet misery,
Forgiveness sweet, sweet burden, and sweet ill;
Sweet accents that mine ear so sweetly thrill,
That sweetly bland, now sweetly fierce can be.
Mourn not, my soul, but suffer silently;
And those embitter'd sweets thy cup that fill
With the sweet honour blend of loving still
Her whom I told: "Thou only pleasest me."
Hereafter, moved with envy, some may say:
"For that high-boasted beauty of his day
Enough the bard has borne!" then heave a sigh.
Others: "Oh! why, most hostile Fortune, why
Could not these eyes that lovely form survey?
Why was she early born, or wherefore late was I?"
...