My heart forgot its God for love of you,
    And you forgot me, other loves to learn;
Now through a wilderness of thorn and rue
    Back to my God I turn.

And just because my God forgets the past,
    And in forgetting does not ask to know
Why I once left His arms for yours, at last
    Back to my God I go.

    Perhaps the sky once was shadows,
    the moon lisped 'mongst April's song.
    Now, those warm lips ease
    departing sorrow
    like pressed flowers
    emptied from hallowed ground.

I.

When from the tower, like some sweet flower,
The bell drops petals of the hour,
That says the world is homing,
My heart puts off its garb of care
And clothes itself in gold and vair,
And hurries forth to meet her there
Within the purple gloaming.

It's Oh! how slow the hours go,
How dull the moments move!
Till soft and clear the bells I hear,
That say, like music, in my ear,
"Go meet the one you love."

II.
When curved and white, a bugle bright,
The moon blows glamour through the night,
That sets the world a-dreaming,
My heart, where gladness late was guest,
Puts off its joy, as to my breast
At parting her dear form is pressed,
Within the moon's faint gleaming.

It's Oh! how fast the hours passed!
They were...

Oh lend me thy hand in the darkness,
Lead me once more to the light,
Bear with my folly and weakness,
Point me the way to do right.
Long have I groped in the shadow
Of error, temptation and doubt,
In the maze I've strayed hither and thither,
Vainly seeking to find a way out.

When I grasp thy firm hand in the darkness,
Courage takes place of my fear;
No more do I shudder and tremble,
When I know that my loved one is near.
From sorrow and trouble, oh, lead me; -
From dangers that sorely affright,
Till at last every terror shall leave me,
And I rest in thine own loving light.

Rest! Aye, rest! If I have thy forgiveness,
If thy strong arm about me is twined;
Let the past, like a horrible vision,
Be for ever cast out of thy mind.
When...

Sweet stranger! tho' the merc'less storm
Here sternly cast thy fainting form,
What tho' no kindred hand was near
To wipe away Affliction's tear,

Yet shall thy gentle spirit own,
Amidst these sea-girt shores unknown,
That Pity pour'd her balmy store,
And kindred hands could do no more.

Ne'er shall that pang disturb thy rest,
That moves the parted mother's breast;
The object of thy dying fear
Shall want no father's fondness here.

Oft shall his little lips proclaim,
With April-tears, thy treasur'd name;
His little hands, when summers bloom,
Shall gather flow'rs to deck thy tomb.

Tenderly, day that I have loved, I close your eyes,
And smooth your quiet brow, and fold your thin dead hands.
The grey veils of the half-light deepen; colour dies.
I bear you, a light burden, to the shrouded sands,

Where lies your waiting boat, by wreaths of the sea's making
Mist-garlanded, with all grey weeds of the water crowned.
There you'll be laid, past fear of sleep or hope of waking;
And over the unmoving sea, without a sound,

Faint hands will row you outward, out beyond our sight,
Us with stretched arms and empty eyes on the far-gleaming
And marble sand. . . .
Beyond the shifting cold twilight,
Further than laughter goes, or tears, further than dreaming,
There'll be no port, no dawn-lit islands! But the drear
Waste darkening, and, at length, flame u...

    I

Do you remember once, in Paris of glad faces,
The night we wandered off under the third moon's rays
And, leaving far behind bright streets and busy places,
Stood where the Seine flowed down between its quiet quais?

The city's voice was hushed; the placid, lustrous waters
Mirrored the walls across where orange windows burned.
Out of the starry south provoking rumors brought us
Far promise of the spring already northward turned.

And breast drew near to breast, and round its soft desire
My arm uncertain stole and clung there unrepelled.
I thought that nevermore my heart would hover nigher
To the last flower of bliss that Nature's garden held.

There, in your beauty's sweet abandonment to pleasure,
The mute, half-open lips and tender, wondering ...

Once agean welcome! oh, what is ther grander,
When years have rolled by sin' yo left an old friend?
An what cheers yor heart, when yo far away wander,
As mich as the thowts ov a welcome at th' end?
Yo may goa an be lucky, an win lots o' riches;
Yo may gain fresh acquaintance as onward yo rooam;
But tho' wealth may be temptin, an honor bewitches,
Yet they're nowt when compared to a welcome back hooam.

Pray, who hasn't felt as they've sat sad an lonely,
They'd give all they possessed for the wings ov a dove,
To fly far away, just to catch a seet only
Ov th' friends o' ther childhood, the friends 'at they love.
Hope may fill the breast when some old spot we're leavin,
Bright prospects may lure us throo th' dear land away,
But it's joy o' returnin at sets one's breast...

The Desert sands are heated, parched and dreary,
    The tigers rend alive their quivering prey
In the near Jungle; here the kites rise, weary,
    Too gorged with living food to fly away.

All night the hungry jackals howl together
    Over the carrion in the river bed,
Or seize some small soft thing of fur or feather
    Whose dying shrieks on the night air are shed.

I hear from yonder Temple in the distance
    Whose roof with obscene carven Gods is piled,
Reiterated with a sad insistence
    Sobs of, perhaps, some immolated child.

Strange rites here, where the archway's shade is deeper,
    Are consummated in the river bed;
Parias steal the rotten railway sleeper
    To burn the bodies of their cholera dead.

But yet, their lust, thei...

I said, "I have shut my heart
As one shuts an open door,
That Love may starve therein
And trouble me no more."

But over the roofs there came
The wet new wind of May,
And a tune blew up from the curb
Where the street-pianos play.

My room was white with the sun
And Love cried out in me,
"I am strong, I will break your heart
Unless you set me free."

It was a sultry day of summer time.
The sun pour'd down upon the ripen'd grain
With quivering heat, and the suspended leaves
Hung motionless. The cattle on the hills
Stood still, and the divided flock were all
Laying their nostrils to the cooling roots,
And the sky look'd like silver, and it seem'd
As if the air had fainted, and the pulse
Of nature had run down, and ceas'd to beat.

'Haste thee, my child!' the Syrian mother said,
'Thy father is athirst' - and from the depths
Of the cool well under the leaning tree,
She drew refreshing water, and with thoughts
Of God's sweet goodness stirring at her heart,
She bless'd her beautiful boy, and to his way
Committed him. And he went lightly on,
With his soft hands press'd closely to the cool
Stone vessel, ...

    Parted cruelly from thee,
    What, Oh! what is life to me?

    'Tis the morn without the lark;
    It is wine without its spark.

    Christmas time without its glee;
    Music without harmony.

    New Year's eve devoid of mirth;
    Winter night without the hearth.

    'Tis a day without the light;
    'Tis a moonless, starless night.

    Thorn-bush, barren of its leaf;
    Weeping, without its relief.

    'Tis a fire, but unconsuming;
    Poisonous plant, but never blooming.

    Ship becalmed, without its peace;
    Death, without its sweet release.

Just as a little olive offshoot grows
Beneath its orchard elders' shady rows,
No budding leaf as yet, no branching limb,
Only a rod uprising, virgin-slim -
Then if the busy gardener, weeding out
Sharp thorns and nettles, cuts the little sprout,
It fades and, losing all its living hue,
Drops by the mother from whose roots it grew:
So was it with my Ursula, my dear;
A little space she grew beside us here,
Then Death came, breathing pestilence, and she
Fell, stricken lifeless, by her parent tree.
Persephone, Persephone, this flow
Of barren tears! How couldst thou will it so?

This girl gave her heart to me,
And this, and this.
This one looked at me as if she loved me,
And silently walked away.
This one I saw once and loved, and never saw her again.
Shall I count them for you upon my fingers?
Or like a priest solemnly sliding beads?
Or pretend they are roses, pale pink, yellow, and white,
And arrange them for you in a wide bowl
To be set in sunlight?
See how nicely it sounds as I count them for you
‘This girl gave her heart to me
And this, and this, . . . !
And nevertheless, my heart breaks when I think of them,
When I think their names,
And how, like leaves, they have changed and blown
And will lie, at last, forgotten,
Under the snow.

When sycamore leaves wer a-spreaden
Green-ruddy in hedges,
Bezide the red doust o' the ridges,
A-dried at Woak Hill;

I packed up my goods, all a-sheenen
Wi' long years o' handlen,
On dousty red wheels ov a waggon,
To ride at Woak Hill.

The brown thatchen ruf o' the dwellen
I then wer a-leaven,
Had sheltered the sleek head o' Meary,
My bride at Woak Hill.

But now vor zome years, her light voot-vall
'S a-lost vrom the vlooren.
To soon vor my jay an' my childern
She died at Woak Hill.

But still I do think that, in soul,
She do hover about us;
To ho vor her motherless childern,
Her pride at Woak Hill.

Zoo -lest she should tell me hereafter
I stole off 'ithout her,
An' left her, uncalled at house-ridden,

She sped through the door
And, following in haste,
And stirred to the core,
I entered hot-faced;
But I could not find her,
No sign was behind her.
"Where is she?" I said:
- "Who?" they asked that sat there;
"Not a soul's come in sight."
- "A maid with red hair."
- "Ah." They paled. "She is dead.
People see her at night,
But you are the first
On whom she has burst
In the keen common light."

It was ages ago,
When I was quite strong:
I have waited since, - O,
I have waited so long!
- Yea, I set me to own
The house, where now lone
I dwell in void rooms
Booming hollow as tombs!
But I never come near her,
Though nightly I hear her.
And my cheek has grown thin
And my hair has grown gray
With this waiting th...

PART I

Away up on the River aux Lievres,
    That is foaming and surging always,
And from rock to rock leaping through rapids,
    Which are curtained by showers of spray;

That is eddying, whirling and chasing
    All the white swells that break on the shore;
And then dashing and thundering onward,
    With the sound of a cataract's roar.

And up here is the Buckingham village,
    Which is built on these waters of strife,
It was here that the minister Babin,
    Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,

Of the message of love and of mercy,
    The glad tidings of freedom and peace,
Of help for the hopeless and helpless,
    For all weary ones rest and relief.

Was his message all noise like the rapids?
    Was it empty an...

For some forty years, and over,
Poets had with me their way;
And they made me think that Sorrow
Owned the Night and owned the Day;
And the corpse beneath the clover
Had a hopeful word to say.

And they made me think that Sorrow
Was the Shadow in the Sun;
And they made me think To-morrow
Was a gift to everyone:
And the days I used to borrow,
Till my credit now is done.

And they told me softly, sweetly,
That, when Life had lost its glee,
I could be consoled completely

By the Forest or the Sea;
And they wrote their rhymes so neatly
That they quite deluded me.

But when Sorrow is at sorest,
And the heart weeps silently,
Is there healing in the Forest?
Is there solace in the Sea?
And the God whom thou adorest