Life

How strange are dreams.    Last night I dreamed about you.
    All that old bitterness of loss and pain,
The desolation of my lot without you,
    The keen regret, all, all came back again.

Again I faced that terrible old sorrow;
    Too numb to weep, too cowardly to pray.
Again the blankness of a dread to-morrow
    Filled me with sickly terror and dismay.

I woke in tears; but lo! a moment after,
    When every vestige of my dream was fled,
I broke the silence of my room with laughter,
    To think sleep had revived a thing so dead.

Thank God, that only in the realms of fancy
    Can that old sorrow wake again to strife.
No fate is strong enough -no necromancy -
    To make it stir one pulse of my calm life.

My heart is light, my lot i...

THE POET SINGS TO HER POET

O poet of the time to be,
    My conqueror, I began for thee.
Enter into thy poet's pain,
    And take the riches of the rain,
And make the perfect year for me.

Thou unto whom my lyre shall fall,
Whene'er thou comest, hear my call.
    O, keep the promise of my lays,
    Take the sweet parable of my days;
I trust thee with the aim of all.

And if thy thoughts unfold from me,
Know that I too have hints of thee,
    Dim hopes that come across my mind
    In the rare days of warmer wind,
And tones of summer in the sea.

And I have set thy paths, I guide
Thy blossoms on the wild hillside.
    And I, thy bygone poet, share
    The flowers that throng thy feet where
I led thy feet before I died.

I dreamt last night; and in that dream
My boyhood's heart was mine again;
These latter years did nothing seem
With all their mingled joy and pain,
Their thousand deeds of good and ill,
Their hopes which time did not fulfil,
Their glorious moments of success,
Their love that closed in bitterness,
Their hate that grew with growing strength,
Their darling projects, dropped at length,
And higher aims that still prevail,
For I must perish ere they fail,
That crowning object of my life,
The end of all my toil and strife,
Source of my virtues and my crimes,
For which I've toiled and striven in vain,
But, if I fail a thousand times,
Still I will toil and strive again:
Yet even this was then forgot;
My present heart and soul were not:
All the rough ...

Was, Is, and Yet-to-Be
Were chatting over a cup of tea.

In tarnished finery smelling of must,
Was talked of people long turned to dust;

Of titles and honours and high estate,
All forgotten or out of date;

Of wonderful feasts in the long ago,
Of pride that perished with nothing to show.

"I loathe the present," said Was, with a groan;
"I live in pleasures that I HAVE known."

The Yet-to-be, in a gown of gauze,
Looked over the head of musty Was,

And gazed far off into misty space
With a wrapt expression upon her face.

"Such wonderful pleasures are coming to me,
Such glory, such honour," said Yet-to-be.

"No one dreamed, in the vast Has-Been,
Of such successes as I shall win.

"The past, the present -why...

    Ah, well can I the day recall, when first
    The conflict fierce of love I felt, and said:
    If this be love, how hard it is to bear!

    With eyes still fixed intent upon the ground,
    I saw but her, whose artless innocence,
    Triumphant took possession of this heart.

    Ah, Love, how badly hast thou governed me!
    Why should affection so sincere and pure,
    Bring with it such desire, such suffering?

    Why not serene, and full, and free from guile
    But sorrow-laden, and lamenting sore,
    Should joy so great into my heart descend?

    O tell me, tender heart, that sufferest so,
    Why with that thought such anguish should be blent,
    Compared with which, all other thoughts were naught?

    That t...

Lady, life's sweetest lesson wouldst thou learn,
Come thou with me to Love's enchanted bower
High overhead the trellised roses burn;
Beneath thy feet behold the feathery fern, -
A leaf without a flower.

What though the rose leaves fall? They still are sweet,
And have been lovely in their beauteous prime,
While the bare frond seems ever to repeat,
"For us no bud, no blossom, wakes to greet
The joyous flowering time!"

Heed thou the lesson. Life has leaves to tread
And flowers to cherish; summer round thee glows;
Wait not till autumn's fading robes are shed,
But while its petals still are burning red
Gather life's full-blown rose!

I.

Give me the patches on my pants, the freckles on my face--
The happy heart where cankering care had never found a place--
And let my bare feet walk again that dirt road down the hill
That led me to the river's brink, beyond the old Mock Mill!


II.

Give me the youthful friends I knew, now scattered far and wide--
The loved ones who have passed beyond the bounds of time and tide--
And let me see the rose's hue that mantled every cheek
When we were run-aways from school, a-fishing in the creek.


III.

Give me the stone-bruise on my heel, the hat without a crown--
The unkempt suit of yellow hair the sun had burnt to brown--
And let me go and soak myself, just where we used to walk,
In that old swimmin' pool we had, up on the Hanging...

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames! that other bards may see
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
O glide, fair stream! for ever so,
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
Till all our minds for ever flow
As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! Yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such as did once the Poet bless,
Who murmuring here a later ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress
But in the milder grief of pity.

Now let us, as we float along,
For 'him' suspend the dashing oar;
And pray that never child of song
May know that Poet's sorrows more.
How calm! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar...

I walked with Maisie long years back
The streets of Camden Town,
I splendid in my suit of black,
And she divine in brown.

Hers was a proud and noble face,
A secret heart, and eyes
Like water in a lonely place
Beneath unclouded skies.

A bed, a chest, a faded mat,
And broken chairs a few,
Were all we had to grace our flat
In Hazel Avenue.

But I could walk to Hampstead Heath,
And crown her head with daisies,
And watch the streaming world beneath,
And men with other Maisies.

When I was ill and she was pale
And empty stood our store,
She left the latchkey on its nail,
And saw me nevermore.

Perhaps she cast herself away
Lest both of us should drown:
Perhaps she feared to die, as they
Who die in Camden ...

Thou with the dark blue eye upturned to heaven,
And cheek now pale, now warm with radiant glow,
                    Daughter of God,--most dear,--
                    Come with thy quivering tear,
And tresses wild, and robes of loosened flow,--
To thy lone votaress let one look be given!

Come Poesy! nor like some just-formed maid,
With heart as yet unswoln by bliss or woe;--
                    But of such age be seen
                    As Egypt's glowing queen,
When her brave Roman learned to love her so
That death and loss of fame, were, by a smile, repaid.

Or as thy Sappho, when too fierce assailed
By stern ingratitude her tender breast:--
                    Her love by scorn repaid
                    Her friendship true betrayed,
Sick of the...

I

Last night I dreamed this dream: That I was dead;
And as I slept, forgot of man and God,
That other dreamless sleep of rest,
I heard a footstep on the sod,
As of one passing overhead,
And lo, thou, Dear, didst touch me on the breast,
Saying: "What shall I write against thy name
That men should see?"
Then quick the answer came,
"I was beloved of thee."


II

Dear Giver of Thyself when at thy side,
I see the path beyond divide,
Where we must walk alone a little space,
I say: "Now am I strong indeed
To wait with only memory awhile,
Content, until I see thy face, "
Yet turn, as one in sorest need,
To ask once more thy giving grace,
So, at the last
Of all our partings, when the night
Has hidden from my failing si...

Scented herbage of my breast,
Leaves from you I yield, I write, to be perused best afterwards,
Tomb-leaves, body-leaves, growing up above me, above death,
Perennial roots, tall leaves O the winter shall not freeze you, delicate leaves,
Every year shall you bloom again out from where you retired, you shall emerge again;
O I do not know whether many, passing by, will discover you, or inhale your faint odor but I believe a few will;
O slender leaves! O blossoms of my blood! I permit you to tell, in your own way, of the heart that is under you;
O burning and throbbing surely all will one day be accomplish'd;
O I do not know what you mean, there underneath yourselves you are not happiness,
You are often more bitter than I can bear you burn and sting me,
Yet you are very beautiful to me, you fai...

Last evening's huge lax clouds of turbid white
Grew dark and louring, burthened with the rain
Which that long wind monotonous all night
Swept clashing loud through Dreamland's still domain,

Until my spirit in fatigue's despite
Was driven to weary wakefulness again:
With such wild dirge and ceaseless streaming tears
Died out the last of all my ill-used years.

The morn his risen pure and fresh and keen;
Its perfect vault of bright blue heaven spreads bare
Above the earth's wide laughter twinkling green.
The sun, long climbing up with lurid glare
Athwart the storm-rack's rent and hurrying screen,
Leapt forth at dawn to breathe this stainless air;
The strong west wind still streams on full and high,
Inspiring fresher life through earth and sky.

Y...

        Only a few more years!
        Weary years!
        Only a few more tears!
        Bitter tears!
And then -- and then -- like other men,
I cease to wander, cease to weep,
Dim shadows o'er my way shall creep;
And out of the day and into the night,
Into the dark and out of the bright
I go, and Death shall veil my face,
The feet of the years shall fast efface
My very name, and every trace
I leave on earth; for the stern years tread --
Tread out the names of the gone and dead!
And then, ah! then, like other men,
I close my eyes and go to sleep,
Only a few, one hour, shall weep:
Ah! me, the grave is dark and deep!

        Alas!    Alas!
        How soon we pass!
        And ah! we go
        So far away;
When go we must,<...

How sweet it is, when mother Fancy rocks
The wayward brain, to saunter through a wood!
An old place, full of many a lovely brood,
Tall trees, green arbours, and ground-flowers in flocks;
And wild rose tip-toe upon hawthorn stocks,
Like a bold Girl, who plays her agile pranks
At Wakes and Fairs with wandering Mountebanks,
When she stands cresting the Clown's head, and mocks
The crowd beneath her. Verily I think,
Such place to me is sometimes like a dream
Or map of the whole world: thoughts, link by link,
Enter through ears and eyesight, with such gleam
Of all things, that at last in fear I shrink,
And leap at once from the delicious stream.

Sometimes my idle heart would roam
    Far from its quiet happy nest,
To seek some other newer home,
    Some unaccustomed Best:
But ere it spreads its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

Sometimes my idle heart would sail
    From out its quiet sheltered bay,
To tempt a less pacific gale,
    And oceans far away:
But ere it shakes its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

Sometimes my idle heart would fly,
    Mothlike, to reach some shining sin,
It seems so sweet to burn and die
    That wondrous light within:
But ere it burns its foolish wings,
'Heart, stay at home, be wise!' Love's wisdom sings.

There was a girl that lost things--
    Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed--why, most things,
    As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them,
    And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
    I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble,
    It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
    But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
    Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
    But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
    With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
    Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
    Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and--bob in--
    Hopped bob in...

THERE IS NO WORK, NOR DEVICE, NOR KNOWLEDGE, NOR WISDOM, IN THE GRAVE, WHITHER THOU GOEST. - Ecclesiastes.

The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone.

O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day,
Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.

This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow
To a brain unenco...