Loneliness

Beloved, those who moan of love's brief day
Shall find but little grace with me, I guess,
Who know too well this passion's tenderness
To deem that it shall lightly pass away,
A moment's interlude in life's dull play;
Though many loves have lingered to distress,
So shall not ours, sweet Lady, ne'ertheless,
But deepen with us till both heads be grey.

For perfect love is like a fair green plant,
That fades not with its blossoms, but lives on,
And gentle lovers shall not come to want,
Though fancy with its first mad dream be gone;
Sweet is the flower, whose radiant glory flies,
But sweeter still the green that never dies.

Quand' el ministro de' sospir.


When she who was the source of all my sighs,
        Fled from the world, herself, my straining sight,
        Nature who gave us that unique delight,
        Was sunk in shame, and we had weeping eyes.
Yet shall not vauntful Death enjoy this prize,
        This sun of suns which then he veiled in night;
        For Love hath triumphed, lifting up her light
        On earth and mid the saints in Paradise.
What though remorseless and impiteous doom
        Deemed that the music of her deeds would die,
        And that her splendour would be sunk in gloom,
The poet's page exalts her to the sky
        With life more living in the lifeless tomb,
        And death translates her soul to reign on high.

Behold, my love, the curious gem
    Within this simple ring of gold;
'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them
    Who lived in classic hours of old.

Some fair Athenian girl, perhaps,
    Upon her hand this gem displayed,
Nor thought that time's succeeding lapse
    Should see it grace a lovelier maid.

Look, dearest, what a sweet design!
    The more we gaze, it charms the more;
Come--closer bring that cheek to mine,
    And trace with me its beauties o'er.

Thou seest, it is a simple youth
    By some enamored nymph embraced--
Look, as she leans, and say in sooth
    Is not that hand most fondly placed?

Upon his curled head behind
    It seems in careless play to lie,
Yet presses gently, half inclined
    To bring the truant's ...

Touch my hands with your fingers, yellow wallflower.
Did God use a bluer paint
Painting the sky for the gold sun
Or making the sea about your two black stars?

Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not spread his bluest paint
On a hollow sky or a girl's eye,
But on a topaz chain, from you to me.

Touch my temples with your fingers, scarlet rose.
Did God use a stronger light
When He fashioned and dropped the sun into the sky
Or dropped your black stars into their blue sea?

Treasure the touches of my fingers.
God did not spend His strongest light
On a sun above or a look of love,
But on a round gold ring, from you to me.

Touch my cheeks with your fingers, blue hyacinth.
Did God use a whiter silk
Weaving the veil for your fev...

She loves thee, loves thee not!
That, that is all, my heart.
Why should she take a part
In every selfish blot,
In every greedy spot
That now doth ache and smart
Because she loves thee not--
Not, not at all, poor heart!

Thou art no such dove-cot
Of virtues--no such chart
Of highways, though the dart
Of love be through thee shot!
Why should she not love not
Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?

Is it so, that the sword is broken,
Our sword, that was halfway drawn?
Is it so, that the light was a spark,
That the bird we hailed as the lark
Sang in her sleep in the dark,
And the song we took for a token
Bore false witness of dawn?

Spread in the sight of the lion,
Surely, we said, is the net
Spread but in vain, and the snare
Vain; for the light is aware,
And the common, the chainless air,
Of his coming whom all we cry on;
Surely in vain is it set.

Surely the day is on our side,
And heaven, and the sacred sun;
Surely the stars, and the bright
Immemorial inscrutable night:
Yea, the darkness, because of our light,
Is no darkness, but blooms as a bower-side
When the winter is over and done;

Blooms underfoot with youn...

I'm single yet--I'm single yet!
    And years have flown since I came out!
In vain I sigh--in vain I fret--
    Ye gods! what are the men about?
I vow I'm twenty!--O ye powers!
    A spinster's lot is hard to bear--
On earth alone to pass her hours,
    And afterward lead apes--DOWN THERE!

No offer yet--no offer yet!
    I'm puzzled quite to make it out:
For every beau my cap I set--
    What, what, what ARE the men about?
They don't propose--they WON'T propose,
    For fear, perhaps, I'd not say, "Yes!"
Just let them try--for Heaven knows
    I'm tired of single-blessedness.

Not married yet--not married yet--
    The deuce is in the men, I fear!
I'm like a--something to be let,
    And to be LET ALONE--that's clear.
They say, "...

Spirit, bright spirit! from thy narrow cell
    Answer me! answer me! oh, let me hear
    Thy voice, and know that thou indeed art near!
That from the bonds in which thou'rt forced to dwell
    Thou hast not broken free, thou art not fled,
    Thou hast not pined away, thou art not dead.
Speak to me through thy prison bars; my life
With all things round, is one eternal strife,
'Mid whose wild din I pause to hear thy voice;
    Speak to me, look on me, thou born of light!
That I may know thou'rt with me, and rejoice.
Shall not this weary warfare pass away?
Shall there not come a better, brighter day?
    Shall not thy chain and mine be broken quite,
        And thou to heaven spring,
        With thine immortal wing,
        And I, still following,
       ...

Dear mother, dear mother, the Church is cold;
But the Alehouse is healthy, and pleasant, and warm.
Besides, I can tell where I am used well;
The poor parsons with wind like a blown bladder swell.

But, if at the Church they would give us some ale,
And a pleasant fire our souls to regale,
We'd sing and we'd pray all the livelong day,
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.

Then the Parson might preach, and drink, and sing,
And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring;
And modest Dame Lurch, who is always at church,
Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.

And God, like a father, rejoicing to see
His children as pleasant and happy as he,
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the barrel,
But kiss him, and give him both drink a...

Do not say my love was
A ring or a bracelet.
My love is a siege,
Is the daring and headstrong.
Who, searching sail out to their death.

Do not say my love was
A moon.
My love is a burst of sparks.

        When first I looked upon the face of Pain
    I shrank repelled, as one shrinks from a foe
    Who stands with dagger poised, as for a blow.
        I was in search of Pleasure and of Gain;
        I turned aside to let him pass: in vain;
    He looked straight in my eyes and would not go.
    "Shake hands," he said; "our paths are one, and so
        We must be comrades on the way, 'tis plain."

        I felt the firm clasp of his hand on mine;
    Through all my veins it sent a strengthening glow.
    I straightway linked my arm in his, and lo!
        He led me forth to joys almost divine;
    With God's great truths enriched me in the end:
    And now I hold him as my dearest friend.

A free paraphrase of the German.


To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest Angel gently comes
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And Heavenly Father sends him here.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance,
There 's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father's will.

O thou who mournest on thy way,
With lo...

I

Winter without
    And warmth within;
The winds may shout
    And the storm begin;
The snows may pack
    At the window pane,
And the skies grow black,
    And the sun remain
Hidden away
    The livelong day -
But here - in here is the warmth of May!

II

Swoop your spitefullest
    Up the flue,
    Wild Winds - do!
What in the world do I care for you?
O delightfullest
    Weather of all,
    Howl and squall,
And shake the trees till the last leaves fall!

III

The joy one feels,
    In an easy chair,
Cocking his heels
    In the dancing air
That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove
Whose heat loves better than hearts can love,
Will not permit
    The coldest day
 ...

It is of Corca Dubhne she was, and she had her youth seven times over, and every man that had lived with her died of old age, and her grandsons and great-grandsons were tribes and races. And through a hundred years she wore upon her head the veil Cuimire had blessed. Then age and weakness came upon her and it is what she said:

Ebb-tide to me as to the sea; old age brings me reproach; I used to wear a shift that was always new; to-day, I have not even a cast one.

It is riches you are loving, it is not men; it was men we loved in the time we were living.

There were dear men on whose plains we used to be driving; it is good the time we passed with them; it is little we were broken afterwards.

When my arms are seen it is long and thin they are; once they used to be fondling, they used to be around g...

Thy song has taught my heart to feel
    Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love,
Which o'er the sainted spirits steal
    When listening to the spheres above!

When, tired of life and misery,
    I wish to sigh my latest breath,
Oh, Emma! I will fly to thee,
    And thou shalt sing me into death.

And if along thy lip and cheek
    That smile of heavenly softness play,
Which,--ah! forgive a mind that's weak,--
    So oft has stolen my mind away.

Thou'lt seem an angel of the sky,
    That comes to charm me into bliss:
I'll gaze and die--Who would not die,
    If death were half so sweet as this?

Asleep within the deadest hour of night
And turning with the earth, I was aware
How suddenly the eastern curve was bright,
As when the sun arises from his lair.
But not the sun arose: it was thy hair
Shaken up heaven in tossing leagues of light.

Since then I know that neither night nor day
May I escape thee, O my heavenly hell!
Awake, in dreams, thou springest to waylay;
And should I dare to die, I know full well
Whose voice would mock me in the mourning bell,
Whose face would greet me in hell's fiery way.

The shades of night was fallin’ slow
As through New York a guy did go
And nail on ev’ry barroom door
A card that this here motter bore:
“No beer, no work.”

His brow was sad, his mouth was dry;
It was the first day of July,
And where, all parched and scorched it hung,
These words was stenciled on his tongue:
“No beer, no work.”

“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and sup
This malted milk from this here cup.”
A shudder passed through that there guy,
But with a moan he made reply:
“No beer, no work.”

At break of day, as through the town
The milkman put milk bottles down,
Onto one stoop a sort of snore
Was heard, and then was heard no more,
“No beer, no work.”

The poor old guy plumb dead was found
And planted in the buryi...

Down Wessex way, when spring's a-shine,
The blackbird's "pret-ty de-urr!"
In Wessex accents marked as mine
Is heard afar and near.

He flutes it strong, as if in song
No R's of feebler tone
Than his appear in "pretty dear,"
Have blackbirds ever known.

Yet they pipe "prattie deerh!" I glean,
Beneath a Scottish sky,
And "pehty de-aw!" amid the treen
Of Middlesex or nigh.

While some folk say - perhaps in play -
Who know the Irish isle,
'Tis "purrity dare!" in treeland there
When songsters would beguile.

Well: I'll say what the listening birds
Say, hearing "pret-ty de-urr!" -
However strangers sound such words,
That's how we sound them here.

Yes, in this clime at pairing time,
As soon as eyes can see her
A...