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--
And it must be decided.
It must be decided,
And it must be decided.
It must be decided,
And it must be considered.
It will be decided,
Though the hill be steep,
And the dale and forest
Hold the land of sheep.
And it must be decided,
There's a jolt above,
And its paths are narrow,
And its paths are long.
Yes, it is decided,
And it is completely.
All the hills are covered
With grey snowdrifts,
Shaded with a shimmer of misty veils,
And the hills have a shimmer of hills between,
And the valleys are covered with misty veils,
And there lie a vast, grey land, like a queen,
And they are not, in truth, but many and many streams,
O'er the purple-grey sea whose waves are white
As the limbs of a child of ten.  And there
The river stands, like a garden-fair
In the valleys of the north, the valleys of the west,
Blue and green in the summer, and runneth softly forth
To the blue far upland beyond the sea;
And over the high white upland far away
Floats a white and tender water, and wearily
Through the trees the rosiest water-lilies play
In the sun, and rise and fall--the purple and red
Of the streams.  The waters are hidden in their bed
By the stone o'er the darkling hills.  The waters run
Like a ringlet under the stone.  The water flows
Through the rocks like a river, and the stream
Is a ribbon of gold spun by the sun.  It gleams
Like a gold sunbeam shining through the gleam
Of a sudden silver, and silently falls
On the pool, and is lost in the darkling deeps--
Sink, sink in the shadows, ere it flee
Into the darkling depths.  And the waters sleep
In the light of the moon and the silver of dawn,
And silently float past the mountains of heaven.
As we gazed the city fades into the clouds
Of the sky, and we are above the roofs.
And suddenly as the moon, flurrying,
Dazzles the sea with her swan-throated song,
And there is a faint far singing of birds,
And a sound from the land, as of swarming seas,
The grey sea, and the land that hideth rest,
And the sky that hides the lovely green of God.
So we are caught, like the moving sea,
That calleth unto its sleeping
Soft and still, like the moon that calleth
In the twilight depths vast and hoary--
Till we see the City changing toward the dark,
And its changing towers in the distance darken.
In the city is a calm and quiet street,
Full of sunlight, and a smell of rain,
That falls from unseen towers like soft white feet
On sleeping city's rue and misty pane.
There is peace, and a vague peace over death,
And a far-off singing in the city's breath.
And all fair cities must go to dust,
And every body be one tomb--
And all white houses dwindle and grow dull,
And the city's breath is a dull death-blow.
But this place is a place of peace and trust,
And it is but a little street,
Whose idle heads and sunken faces
Are bright with light that makes them bright.
Then it is not alone fair Town that lies,
With open pillared streets beneath a sun,
And many a weary world and dusty town,
And a sunflowers and a great tide onward run
In the blue of the heavens that are not gray,
But only blue and pale, like tender wings
Sailing with wide-spread, languid, luminous eyes.
This place is the very heart of it,
Whose quiet hours with its peace throng
The silent nights and the perpetual sea.
The City slept with her silent towers,
A stream that ran in an idle stream,
And a mist hung at the windows of the tower.
And it was a street--a sunlit dream,
A dream of a world that lay
Open in the summer morning,
And in its heart a joy all gay.
For its sunshines and palaces were there,
Till a wind came softly here.
And it was a new, new city,
A city that arose in the early morning;
That opened its gates on June morning,
With a sunset and a moonrise sweet.
The city was a cathedral;
And out of the sound of the bells and t
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 of the world
The best, that, when once dead, is found again.
And what is this?  Where can we find a place,
Save in the solitude, where he may be
The friend of all beneath the sun, and be
An unseen presence, if the traveller's eye
Can follow where he cannot:  there he stands
Dark in majestic pomp, like those whom owls
Could once have told down with a lion's maw.
His form is like his fathers, and the crown
Of all his race:  the very colours are
As his to-day, which we must see and bear;
The only parent is the creature's he.
His face, where we have marked it, is but veiled
In twilight, when we see, and he appears
Himself in all his nature--where, if man
Can recollect, he saw it in the frame:
'Tis clay wherever found--and so is called,
When nature gives him back her clay.  It means
That clay was form'd; but clay is form'd elsewhere;
He needs must feel through all this frame, and, lo,
The horse he rears, is human in his mind.
So too, his nature is a thing apart
From the great Nature, which has made him thus
A likeness of himself:  and he beholds
The creatures that he knows, and not intends
To visit them, and only in their hearts
Deserts them; and if they come indeed,
And if the sea doth bring them, then the man
Is still a child of theirs.  He can recall
His mother's features and the father's look.
And often he has said that he foresaw
The sea, the winds, that he may all at will
Be sea.  In short, the man is all he sees.
He fears the sea may hurt him.
Lashed to the helm,
The ship was in the sea, and, on its moor
And the sails furled, in silence sat the maid
Motionless, like a star; no sound was heard
Save of the distant ocean's fitful hum;
The sounds of tempest came to him, his ears
Mercurially listless, and his heart
Disturbed like a distempered sea; he stood,
And gazed from heaven in an unblest thought;
He had not heard his mother's voice; he gazed;
The mother's look was of a loftier mood;
He had not heard his own; he had not heard
What ever was, where his own heart has been;
He had not understood the very thought
Of his own heart, where life could find no shore.
The sea beats on:  the vessel's bell strikes six:
Dive down, O death! to earth, to heaven! to heaven!
And it is sweet thus to be two souls alone:
Dive down for home, and to the air renounce
The galling bonds of everlasting life
In some lone bark, that, dying, to the last
Are still as death without her:  so to him,
The mother's voice, still sweeter, spoke of home;
And as the young man fell upon her breast,
The mother's oracle, the words of death,
Even as he spoke, a living death arose:
He feels his heart rise, and ascend the sky.
The wreck shall surely reach the sea; he dies,
A mortal change, as earth, in which it was;
And God, though dead, had still a dying man.
But when they parted, he can never die.
There are thousands, yes, there are thousands who,
Without a mother, could not die unheard
Of by a hand unseen:  yet some are sad,
Lonely and wretched here, without a mate;
Or if the grave touch, the great hearts' light
Have no soft touch, even of a brother's grief
Scarce suffered, they shall each a new life yield;
And one, once more on earth, to heaven, or God,
Shall meet his father's face, or bless his grave.
Not vainly on these mocking thoughts he breathes;
They sink to nothing when he sinks to rise:
The tears of fatherly compassion reach
The mother's eyelids, her, but not her eyes.
And now a voice was heard by the wild bird,
With words of comfort from the infant boy.
Oh, had it stayed the angel's birth, and then
Those tresses streaming, would have felt the strain
For the bright star, and for a glorious man.
It is a noble deed:  and, through the world,
Doth woman triumph, though she suffer loss
And poverty and pain, and,
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 the word _toucan_ from the son of the
Schuoucan, and the other works of Otho with such rare
And excellent skill was shown to make the whole thing square.
Ondes and Olenos he showed so kind in their variety,
That many could tell how the work went on together.
And then the oldest monk of the house, the Reverend Friar,
He took with him his Latin; he used all the words of his
own thoughts.
And then there was one more quarrelsome, discordant, and
grim, and savage.
Then there was a hurry of made wings, and a slight
creature took refuge in the forms of foreign and
others.
And now, O my Lord, the years are coming and gone,
And on my bare bones in this life of mine they lie;
I have lived too long and have gladly served wrong, and
with my own hand helped to lift the burden from my
grave.
Last, Lord of the Tabard, I stand upon this height,
With hands together clasped, as is meet for a little night.
Who says the weather is fair as new-mown wheat,
Or the fields as bright as a bride, for her sake we mourn?
Or who seeth the houses of old, in the brisk old manner
and comforting kind?
Or what is the use of us here, for the grass it is dry,
and the skies above?
Or who sayeth "The neighbors shall change the weather by and by,"
And the neighbors--of course not one is free--by and by!
Or who sayeth it down to the roof, and they will
not be found in the way.
When the old bell clacks, and the blind blind comes in with a
soundless tread,
When the last shriek of the unseen is the squeak and the
stifled scream of the dead;
When the house is full of the voice of the homeless and
silent sea,
When the doors are wide with a weary world--and the
little neighbours come.
I long for the ways in which I long to ride, for the
whole-lit woods below;
I long for that quiet air where the restless water
wanders in and out;
I long for those winds where the ocean's breast is a
sheaf of golden thread,
And the soft sweet kisses that fall on the rushes and
seeded scum at my head.
Come down to me, O ye who have no dwelling,
Come down and tell me of my haven, bright and wide,
Of the little garrets that have opened over us,
Of the fragrant ferns that sleep on the slumbrous side;
That ye have nigh forgotten, O ye who fare
For a little season out in the cold and heat,
That ye have nigh forgotten the joy that filled those
glimmerings sweet.
And yet ye shall not forget, O ye who fare
For a little season out in the cold and heat,
That ye have nigh forgotten the bliss that thrilled
you into life.
Come down to me, O ye who have no dwelling,
Hear the story of a house, a lover's home,
A friend who knew that he was all his own,
He loved his father, and he made his name
The founder of his race and held the land in fee,
And knew his heart--He named the house of his
So spake he, and his name it thrilled the more
The wonder in his eyes, and he loved his Master
And worshipped in a place apart from men,
And laid the stones of long ago at birth,
And worshipped when a little child, and then
He heard the well-beloved, the happy cry
That filled his soul with rapture, and he knew
His God was in His wisdom, and His love
And loveliness that made his heart to beat
For a little while, and far away he knew
His God was in His wisdom, and His face
Was full of light and living and his life
As the full tide is in the running stream,
And in the light on golden strand and shore
And leafy island--all that he possessed.
He passed away--the birds made holiday,
And all the wandering things that he had made
The very heart within him woke within him,
And his soul came back to him and said, "Come in,
Come in;" and he said, "Come, now that I forgive him,
Come in"--and at the door he flung himself
Into the dim and silent room that led
In into street and mart and corridor
To his own heart. There they met that day in bed
But they went out together to bed alone,
And
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, _The Deefal-darry_, etc.
_Stor._ Then ye wanner, try it once more,
And when wilt thou find that _Stock_ again,
(Which makes me _ exceedingly sorry_,)
May it be a _Dung-hill_ or _Mate_,
And _Sturger_ of a _Brury_ make,
And may I, in a word, strike on _thee_,
And thou wilt, with yourself, _prejudice_!
_Mephistopheles_. And now, my kindest friend,
I shall at once inform this you,
How, when you see that _Stock_ again,
Thou can'st _still_ give the _husbands_ pain;
And not five steps beyond all comprehension,
Will I warrant that you will not _really_ stare.
_Sturger_, a name whate'er the words are found
When in America thou find'st them,
And thou'lt see before the latter eighty,
I am sure thou'lt feel _within_ the right.
_Hogg_, a name whate'er the word may be,
_Hogg_, father, mother, all these things,
Be thou both helpful, both commanding,
For in this case I _am willing_,
And so will I as well as you.
_Spring-Nile, Fall-Nile_, all things.
_Hush-a-bye, Spring-Nile_.
_My little boy, thy father's good,
And he shall love you to a day,
And thou shalt be my loving boy
When thou art grown to man full dear;
Be this my blessing, that I sing,
My song, my counsel, my adieu!
And as to-day, so with my singing,
My pretty maids, so joy be with us.
But if to-day, when thou art fled,
And comest home for more, thy father
Shall hearken to the raven huzzas
That crows upon the _Ascaurus_,--
Then shalt thou see how in thy wishes
The _Aurora_ loves her _husband_.
_Meli consummate_.
_Hull._ All present days, and future years,
My lovely _Ausora_ will not miss thee.
Thou seest a poor, neglected maiden,
Her beauty is a waste of cares.
But still my _Ausora_ loves her _Ausora_--
And she in time must yield to thee:
For she is but a child of thine own mother,
A child of thine own mother's mother.
_Spir._ O dearest _Meli_, for another--
Thy sister's beauty's only pride!
_Meli_. O, dearest Meli, do not so;
Take not her heart for such a crime.
She is so fair and full of beauty,
That like thine own will be her heart;
Thy portion is in all things so,
And she will soon be hers by part.
_Mephistopheles_. My heart is hard and full of woes,
And yet I know of few, not one,
But, if I did, I would bequeath her
Unto thy mistress from the sin;
And if she needs must be betrayed
That she is jealous as a maid
At home, thy duty to fulfil,
And 'tis the custom of the will.
_Mephistopheles_. Since, maid, it must be right divine
I had before my _Ausora_ thine.
'Tis but a word that is expos'd
To give her heart the rest it can,
But yet it is the gift I seek,
Which I will give her heart to speak.
_Mephistopheles_. A man is not a servant here
To bear the task to my dear relative,
And yet I was forbid to speak so brave,
To ask her for a favor at her hand.
No, she is wrong; she needs a groupe of heart:
I feel it now, and must now, when she dies.
_Enter_ FAUST _in enters, in accents hoarse with _a long formal
introduction_.
_Mephistopheles_. We all have made a little effort, Sir,
to render this young stalwart gentleman
As welcome as a servant worthy to be
The very thing we have.
And to accomplish this I will proceed.
Now I will give him thanks for such sweet words.
_Mephistopheles_. I would give this to thee; no one denies.
He
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,
The good Natura, the chaste Penelope.
Who in her presence, and with loving eyes,
Saw the pure face of health, and how that shine
Seemed changed to beauty; and where, with the light
Of heaven's own glory, she had ceased to be
From the loud tumult of her blinded sight,
Caught the divine, and taught to be divine.
Thence, gentle boy, now gone, I left my home,
And with these friends have left my devious ways,
And to a lonely, dreary woodlands come.
I go the first to offer ever begs
A simple prayer for your ungentle mays;
So have your tears and prayers of love and love,
Unchanged for love of me; and so forget
The sorrows I must bear, that like as yet,
Like yet unpitied, I will mourn above.
There is a little pathway that would lead
For pilgrims safe upon the dusty way;
The way is narrow, but the way is steep,
And we may tread the rocks, as erst at play,
Unharmed,--without a guide,--if anything.
The sun, as erst, was shining on the sea;
But only the red sun, as it rose
And fell again in mist, was lost to me.
We sat there on the hillside by the sea,
The night across the sea, and saw afar
The shore, white with a sandy plain below,
And the white sands, with crumbling capitals,
Where the tall masts like armies perished; saw
The boats, that moved to row in the cold flood,
And the dark armies flying like the clouds
That filled the heaven; and heard the sudden cry
Of peoples hurrying through the desolate sky,
Like waves that rise above the wrecks of ships
That leave their ancient lodges dark and high.
To-night along the road, I miss these things;
The rain, the rain, the wind; still runs the gull;
The mottled lightning flashes on the trees;
The mill below; the masts, that all day long
Crests the brown masts, and towers among the clouds;
The rain and sun; I look, but see no more
The rain, the rain, the wind, the wind above;
The mottled lightning flashes through the air;
The masts are gone; their sails are strewn with green;
And round me round the world, the sun and moon.
"How can I leave you, ye poor honest folk,
For one brief, happy moment? nor regret
The briefer bliss that I possess to-night?
O, I can leave you, every wretched joke
Upon this present life, since you despise
The present joys, and grieve that ye abound
So wretched as to leave one little hoard
Of senseless wealth, one little hoard of joys,
To be sent back again, to be sent forth.
But leave the rest to Fate, or rather live
A little lane in Heaven's sunshine, where
Some day we two may meet, and learn to know
What endless mirth-inspiring choristers
Are like the soothing song of one sweet child.
I am no king; yet all men's hearts are brave
Against the great and mighty odds that hurt
Our single lives, and we may well turn back
To the long roads we came from. Many a time
We've drunk to Heaven of Heaven's peace; nor faint
After long years of patient wandering on,
And always yearning, still in mind for home.
If we could leave the world, O, very soon
We'd die, unless the world went back to us,
And all the evil days of life go by.
And then, perhaps, we'd die; for we could leave
This world of sorrows, and at last a world
Of little pleasures, and a single heart,
And the tired head, the weary head, the weary form.
Then, that we'd live together for a year,
And live apart from all our world would seem;
That we would have a joy apart from all
The troubles of the world, and one regret
For what we were,--a tear would hold us back,
And one regret grow into perfect joys.
As one who has been glad, and knows not how
That he must leave his home, nor if he come
And his old country, he must see the past
And future years, and his fair name too fair.
But now he must behold another scene,
Such as he sees before him as he turns
The gleaming globe of nature in the sky,
Or in the sky alone, but makes it dim.
So, through the world, O
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._ Why, it's quite clear what do you think?
If I were up next week in Regent Street--
_The Townshelf_ should be busy pretty soon--
All the next week, I think, I'll see the job.
_S'posing S. loosins._ And I'll take the place,
We'll see what lets me have to say the least.
_State Spirits._ I'm sure I don't understand!
The way I take is not so delicate.
_Cor._ You'd better look at it yourself.
_Cor._ No doubt! Most likely. _S. W. T._
How? I'm not sure; I guess 't would be too quick
To make such guys at all in Sixty-three.
I've never seen the beat since Regent Street!
_State Spirits._ Why, this was why they didn't know.
The only writer who can write, without
The greatest pain of life, is writing _The Poet_.
_Cor._ To do the same instead of writing _The Bookworm_, do.
We are in Lincolnshire at nine o'clock
And have done as many sorts of scholars
As I think it is right to call a Mayor
That didn't notice much of Dean Swift's Odes.
With Mr. Gaunt he writes so,
That, without the least encouragement,
It is all one way wrong to speak for.
At any rate, we can't afford to boast,
This era calls us to try an action
So noble, with the slowest steps to earth
That ever travelled at St. Martin's.
So, I don't object to style it right,
For I am ready to essay it.
_State Spirits._ I'm not prepared to say a word,
And I am not prepared to say,
But I am willing to essay
What I can ne'er accomplish.
_State Spirits._ To attain admission!
The power of the author must then be sought.
It is his power that forms the word:
He will not be found dead who has written "The Book,"
With as much guile as he could find
As you would his true genius know.
His works, however, he's delighted to spoil,
And is delighted to know what a master he will
To do at the publication of any new volume.
Then you can tell it, I pray,
For I am ready to essay it.
I have done the work for the true poetic style.
_Mephistopheles._ The original. Now, pray, what have I to fear?
_Eld. Bro._                                                       
CLOT.
_John._ And the devil has left no devil himself!
_John._ How say you?
_F. Bro._                                                      G.
_John._ I have heard your story
And I believe you true to the truth,
At a certain price, as the devil did.
_John._ If the devil has left no devil himself
You must have a task for it.
_Count._ But I would it were easy to deny,
If the devil has left no devil to do it.
_Mephistopheles._ If the world has a devil with him
You must work for a good end.
_John._                                                    G.
_John._ There's an example of this,
That is, what we sometimes call it,
An adventure against the devil.
_John._ This is a man's method, though;
And the devil knows an other,
That is, what is, and what was,
What the devil knows of the other.
_John._ Well, I see so, too, so lately.
The devil can't do it.
_Mephistopheles._ Othere, in whose face I see nothing!
Do you think it is hell?
_John._ Never mind that. You mean to say nothing.
I'm a devil indeed.
_John._ I'll not have it so.
_Appius and Titius! Oh, no!

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, at
last, by having a short excursion to the city, he has been
supposed to find his punishment.
(continued)
(continued)
(b)
(b)
The next is to be considered for the second occident; for the
season, which follows, however, points to the end of the book, not
(absconding)
(b)
"There are many persons in this book certain whom I have mentioned,
who are in the first place, I think, have arrived late at
blanch, I see, in this country to be in succession a separate
minister. On this grain (which I have brought from the seas
of the east) they are making their attack.
(c)
(ab) I note in what is said to be certain of them that is
charging with shot; whereas I intend to see how the men do
proceed, according to three orders. The second is also
another; on the other, a moredirect and subtle enemy of the
(e) awaits the destruction of the southern land.
(b) Heark, hark!
(c) Heark, heark, I have heard huzzaing of huzzaing and of blows. In
this country [near the]
(b) Heark, hark!
(c) Heark, hark !
(da) 'I am not to be shot after this.'
(a) Deirdre, a famous general, and I know, have yet fled before
them, and in plain terms they agree, I fear, with incredible
understanding of those who were to come to the aid of the
(e) Thrale, in some small sense of decency.
(e) Recollect, then, what I shall now publish; for I think it
generous to both the subject and to the reader, when the
reader is satisfied.]
But it came into my power to remember, how one day I first
(e) returning from the sea had led my barque into the ocean.
"And I sat down before the sea, and with many a sigh
And oft-times thought to leave off, as one who was confused with
me. I could not help but laugh, knowing it was the sea which
drives and devour'd my vessel in such wise as I was at that
point. Thereafter I was gone about in my ship and was left
behind, and I came to my own country, as was the custom of the
kingdom, when, with the wind's aid, it cut the water through
out among the rocks, and the waves broke up all the vessels,
and the ship was moreover voyaging over the wastes of the sea.
Then came to my own country a certain warrior, a man good, well
speaking, but a very bold hero, Cteatus, who was not of the
following family; whereupon I told them all my history and
thirty-six times told them me; that with his vaunt they
might have been less dared to stand against the whole in the
against the will of the ships, and I had my eye upon the
wicked ship. My men, therefore, soon as they reach'd the land,
reached Ithaca, but came to them disguised and insolent,
stout Eurymachus, who, disguised as a skilled chevalier,
following his lord, whom he gave me when he took me to his
obstacles, and he was very rich and very wise. As we
passed the [surrounded by mountains], so great the virtue was
when we came to the place where the ship was first named, and
roamed in an inner court, and the people all crowded into a
place. The men of the ship drew in my sail, and stood by my side,
staunch of limb he well knew, that my vessel was lost, and
was carried back in the deep by a long sandal. He said that
he would go back to his own country, and that he should
fall into the deep, and leave his son behind him, to gaze at
the time of his death. He too promised in my house the gods
to let him, so he promised that whatever should be his, should
have his way home. As for these things, he showed no favour at
his hands, but sat with his own eyes, expecting the gods'
desire. Thus I say, and thus I tell thee what answer the
father of gods and men went on from the land, and spoke the word
beware lest thou hear it, and it shall soon be foretold,
that the gods all perished in the sea.
(ll. 577- hesitant) As for the returning of Od
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.
This night as of the year I think of her,
But as the day of April weather
A full and loving look she gave me,
And, on my knees, I felt her fingers,
As of a tune the harmony suspended,
Shed light and hope and odors from her
That o'er the chords responsive came.
And so, as that night came, as before,
I think of her, and, as I think of her,
Love's lightest pulse within me responds
To that blest assurance and assurance,
Which now, with all its store of rapture,
I see, in the long night of rapture,
My blissful spirit will assume.
The night hath fallen, the moon is setting,
The stars are high above my head;
The earth is wet with morning dew;
The shadows on the meadows o'er it
Are drawn as by a passing wraith.
The stars are beauteous, and all the stars are
The heralds of a nuptial bed;
But, oh, my soul, how full of dearest
Is thy long-lost, sweet maidenhead!
I know a maiden fair and free,
Who is not fair to outward view
In any land: no, no, her face
Her eyes are dim to earthly joy,
And all the hopes of love she trace
In her deep heart are well employ'd;
I know a maiden bright and blest,
By slumber never chain'd or press'd,
Who walks where nought are chill and cold,
And looks not on the earth with love.
Who to the holy virgin's breast
Her holy limbs and virgin breast
Has drawn and taught the way of rest;
I know a maiden pure and true;[U]
And every childless hour she knew
Is taught the way to purest joy,
And all their dearer joys below
To sanctify the vow which is
The blessed boon of maidenhood.
The nightingale is heard no more
To lure her lover from her nest:
The nightingale is left no more
To circle down an earthly nest:
I know a maid so wildly blest,
Though every day some cruel foe
Had stung her with his darting dart;
And she will love, and she will do,
And she will cherish fond desire,
As mother once caress'd a dove;
And I will follow, though afar,
On wings of love, and songs of joy,
And follow still, along the star,
The lonely maiden's path of fire,
To hear the thrilling whispers say;
I know a maid so wildly blest,
Who is not fair to outward view
In any land: no, no, her heart
Is innocent and innocent:
I know a maid who loves not me,
Who loves not me, nor loves indeed:
I know a maid who lives not free,
Who loves not me, nor loves indeed:
I know a maid whose love is free--
A shepherd's life on sunny days,
A maiden's lot who early vows,
And vows of love just warm and sure;
Who has no peer, who loves not me,
Yet I will wed whom I approve.
A maid who loves, but hath not heard
A lover's vows, a soldier's word;
Who hath no peer, who loves not me,
Yet I will wed whom I approve.
Be shepherds' mistress, so divinely bright,
Come when the dawn of rapture calls you by;
And let not even a cloud of care,
Nor sorrow's dark disheart'ring gloom,
Your dear eyes be your only star;
Oh, come when morning holds the sway,
And every sorrow wears an easy crown;
And come when lust of conquest stains
The sleeping rose of conquest, and her crown.
The roses of thy lips grow there
With every virtue dear;
And like the breath of Spring is thine,
Sweet odors from the lovely vine,
That bend life's journey while they shine,
And guard it as 't were cold and dead,
If pure and white they bloom not red.
The rose of beauty, for that thy lips
Resemble sweet its scentless fire
From pearly stone to amber fair,
And, lip to cheek, its soul unite
In one long syllable of love,
Which speaks the hour of maidenhood.
Oh! come to me, and tell me so
Of all sweet things that Love hath done;
Of all Love's words, and of his bow,
And of his arrows and his sun;
And of his storm, and of his smile;
And of his sighs, and of his kiss
Blent both in thee
======================================== SAMPLE 9 
========================================

But _he_ will _not_ be ever,
If he is faithful;
_She_ will be faithful.
If any man will trust his friend,
Give him a helping hand, I say,
And tell him he's my friend,
For he'll be honest.
The little girl on the old house there,
Was not long in appearance;
She was not fit to be the smallest flower
That curled up in the wood from the crush,
Nor yet was she far from well;
She was not cross, nor yet disheartened,
But still in her early youth,
And the high grace that graces a woman
Comes back to her as in the clover
Athwart the year's nocturnal sun;
No shape can be so lovely, no face so sweet
As the dark eyes that never meet,
Nor the step so slow, as the step that touches
The heart or the mind with its silken feet.
But, oh! they were happy, the tears were a-plenty,
The lashes a-dance on the cheeks of a boy,
And the boy's mirth a-tinkle and clover-bell;
His mirth was as sweet as the voice of a rill,
When summer is over and summer is over
And summer is lost in the gladsome gold of the hill.
There is always a song where the roses are glowing,
There is always a hint in the warm summer air,
There is always a wistful note in the song growing,
And the lilt of the lark as it rises and goes,
While the sun of his life and the sky of his soul
Are as hot to his heart as his breath to his hair.
Why do you ever try to match the wild air?
Why do you ever stop and look at the sky?
Why do you ever think of the sky
And go away so soon?
O! do you ever feel the sun
And go away so soon?
O! when the flowers of green
Are lost in the evening breeze;
And in one spot to-day
The air is heavy with bees--
The heaven is bitter with bees;
Ah! it was a cruel world
And we were never free:
We were born within a world
Of wilders and degree;
And where we went we know
What we have learned to be.
When the sun has laid his gold
Dew upon the flowers,
And the days are long and cold
Where the shadows slumber,
Then my soul will stray away
To the quiet village,
Where the children play;
And my tears will fall like rain
On the stones that over it
Stood in the early spring,
When the early summer's past,
With the sun a-dancing,
And the days were long
As the sun and the sky and the sun of the days!
Do you ever think of the sky
And its quiet splendour?
O! there is no place like this
Where our hands have conquered
Time and place can never be
That is better than the sky,
And is better than the sea.
Where the trees are snapping
Their boughs of clover,
And the birds are trilling
Their notes of lover.
Where the snow is whitest,
And the wind is most cruel,
There's no place like this
Where my heart can live;
Is not there the heaven
Where one face could live?
Do you ever know the sky
Or its glories only,
When the grass grows green
And the leaves are seen
Singing blithe and cheery
And kisses light as they?
Do you ever feel the dew
Where one face could meet
When the sun and the wind and the rain are glad
That it brings the happy rain?
Do you ever feel his kiss
Sweeter than the swallow
That in April's bowers is spilled
On the hills or the meadows -
Where the rose is red
And the lilies are blest,
Than in summer's heat
And love is the dream of the sun at his set.
Do you ever breathe low
As though he were kneeling,
As though he were seeking
For one face to meet our eyes,
Do you ever feel the dew
That makes tears from the eyes of the sun at his set?
As though his hands were strong to hold
The flowers that round his feet
Shall live when the days are young,
And he lives not for you and me,
O! do not leave your heart a-throb
When summer is over and gone,
For your heart is young with love
And your love to know;
Do not leave your heart a-flame
When summer is over and gone
======================================== SAMPLE 10 
========================================
.  The first edition of this poem is identical with the
the second, as it is manifest in the _AEgæ_ of Iülus, which
is said to have been written at the bottom of the river Peneus,
as Eurydiclus and the father of the sons of Autos, which was a
good place.
"But now again, when the moon is at full,
And no stars brighten, and no moon is near,
Why do we fear, lest everything that is so fair
Should some strange trouble on the world begin?
What, then, is famine, pestilence, or pain
To us, that have the generations yet?
See, see, the birds that build their nests again
About the bed of some old man and beast!
A thousand years are coming in thy mood,
And man is weary of his tedious toil,
And what his friends of old have done, are good."
--On the same night Flood and Pharisee were playing in the streets,
And with the same bright torch, the same light,
And the same sun, and she brought up one day
A long black settle in the river near,
And dropped a bitter tear in greeting there,
And she said, "I shall stay there for a year
But these three ships are coming home again,
And there is one that lives a thousand years;
And he that is a man must stay at home,
And he shall not stay long, and I have gone
And left them to another."
'Odysse' had come to Pindus on the twelfth day of the voyage of
"The third time that your lips touched," replied she
"Then you should have spoken with my mother so
That I myself might have offended you,
And when the waves beat at their break you would say,
'You are not here--you are not there, you say.'
"There is a new thing growing in your heart--
To live with you in company, you and I."
--For the third time she looked up, and when she
Found you most lonely she said, "How are you?"
But when the fourth time, "All the questions ended
Our long talk was the same as to the three;
So for all we could answer, she answered, 'Yes;
My mother says that there is nothing wrong
But God in heaven, and God, in the Heaven,
Give you a strong hold on our strong hands, for I
A strong hold on it.'
And this one day, O woman, when you cried
To her that had no name, she held the key
Of her heart and went about her way.
How could she ask her heart what I had done?
And who absorbed her heart, and who had been
In my house, what could I have said to her,
If she had never loved?"
"Yes, it is true," said Una, "and I knew
That there were many times a little home
To hear you tell so often, and a child,
You would have called it harmless." He replied
That it was foolish. And her speech indeed
Was but the tongue which all unstrange things show
Beneath the moon and stars. And so she said,
'I will be true to you, and then to you.'
And she looked farther up, and saw in dreams
Her father sitting still upon his bed;
And heard him say, 'When death comes, and can life
Be only what the dead love is, and then,
Why do you make your children desolate
And go away again? That was not you,
Not I who had no children?' "You were kind,
And I know sorrow may not be again.
But now I know he is unhappy now.
We should be happy, yet no heart-felt pangs
Tore out my heart, and made me think of things.
And I have had my play with books and flowers,
And I have known sweet thoughts, which of their own
Hath power to drown the anguish of the dead.
You do but come in April, after all,
When blossoms are upon us, and the sun,
With all the world's best hopes in the long hours,
But we are sick and weary, and we run
As we who run.
I have some fears, for, when the strong sun sets,
There came a day when birds were singing, and
The rose-tree by the road led thro' the wood,
And the brown meadow over all the grass
Was healed with dew.
With every morn the dew had disappeared,
And the whole wood grew bright, not even the ferns,
And yet no birds were singing in the wood,
Only
======================================== SAMPLE 11 
========================================
, on her hands; and the
soul of the mother. There are many ways of saying these
things in the tongue. When I was alone, and knew you were only
your nurse, I called on you and said, "My dear, how do you know
what I have to say?" and you answered, "My dear, how do I know
you?" and I went on with you--every night we learned of you.
It is not the hour of dawn, the little birds still sing through
the dusk, and the sweet grey light of morning plays on the
sea-beach. It is the hour of the meeting of many hands.
I was alone here; I had no word to give you.  You were so
wonderful that I never said anything to you of you. You spoke
from your depth of longing to-morrow, and I came to you to
whisper that you might not be afraid--that I might not be afraid.
I was alone here in the night, and my prayers could not reach
you in my waking. I was weary of light and I had no strength
to raise my eyes, and my eyes were heavy with tears. I was hungry
with thirst; my body had no strength, nor yet I knew you.
Where you went I was alone, tired, and sitting among the
shepherds.
The night passed out of the sky and I found you at your feet
and bending among the reeds. You had tired me of the long
sway of the reeds, and tired of the long hunger that
throws all hunger into slumber.
Your feet were tired, hungry, tired of the long hunger that
throws all hunger into perfect rest. The long hours you
harked for were worn out with all that loneliness after
and had your hour of sleep. It was long, long before you had
passed from us.
I lay still and strove to wake you to weep, but always you
laid your head on my hands and took up my prayers. It was
time for you to go back to Phoenicia, where your father
left me but a month ago, and you had nine months been away.
There is a wall which has no crevice and narrow not a single
vice in the way.
At last the wind sweeps through the trees and cuts them down,
and cuts them sheer across the marsh. The water breaks
into tatters and makes a splash in the water, and the reeds
tumble in and out to the shore.
You can see the reeds all fringed with crimson and yellow,
half in front, and half back to the shore.
When your watchman comes back from the water in the dead of night,
and all the doors are closed before you, and the cold and
weary soil is moist beneath your feet, you will find the
fountain sweet with water.
When the stars are shining, and the sky is clear above,
and the sky and the marsh are sprinkled with white water,
and the water carries you along its white breast, through the
hills and the great hills, and the warm sand flows over the
passing plains; and the sky is like a blue sky that has no
visions of any sky.
When the dusk is done, and the earth, deep churning in sleep
with the ancient ocean, bursts upward into flame, like a
sword at the wind's great smouldering. Then, when the sun
comes in the east, and the hills are strewn with light,
when the land is all still and deep with shadows, and
the marsh is like a white face pressed to the edge of the
countryside, the marsh rears its crest and pushes its
flanks in the wind in the east.
O my heart! my heart! my heart! when we two meet no more, and
meet no more, I am so old that life will seem a long while
forgotten at last.
You never knew a more divine or divine being, and you never
taken from it its happy and immortal youth. It is like a
Song, with thy strings around my heart, thy myriad
fluttering garments, O my heart, I love, you are like
this, I love thee evermore.
O my heart! my heart! I feel thy wings in my body. O my
love, my heart!
O my heart! my heart! where hast thou been? O my love, my
love, my love, my love, I am in the arms of men.
Thou art my heaven, my soul, my body, my body, my
love, my love, I am in the arms of God.
The earth-shaking God through his golden fingers beckoned into
her, through his magic hand
======================================== SAMPLE 12 
========================================
, etc.
When I have given above the heads
Of these my works I'll have a show,
And though they be to thee a store,
Send them here o'er the world to thee,
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that would not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go,
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Slight Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Mysterious Spirits! that will not stay
Till they have gathered many a lay,
Sweet breathing from thy native air;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
Proud Spirits! that will not go;
Proud Spirits! that will not stay;
A voice I hear this passing night,--
In the deeps of the dark--there's a lonely spot in the dark.
The day is cold and grey,
As on our paths we stay;
But who is there to say
That night will be to-morrow?
Our hearts grow light and lighter as they bear us along,
And, on our watch-fires' light,
No other thought we keep
But to look back upon the weary watches of the night.
"How long, O Lord! how long
Since thou, with labor and pain,
Hast suffered and laboured and paid thy servant's wages."
All that is worthless and base,
And false, and false, and true,
From those dull chambers of chantry, shame, and shame,
Toil, and reproach, and sin!
The watch-fires' feeble light
We must not even pace,
But follow their watch-fires on every Sabbath night.
Through them we march to-day,
Or sometimes through thy holy ways
May all thy children pray
That they would stay and pray,
Till the darkness fell, and the daylight vanished away.
Till through them come the sins
Of earth's deep-hidden ills,
And all the travail of frail souls
Great mourning fills.
But, at the last and least,
The people pray around
That the scourge of the just be cast
From out the hands of the Lord.
Their prayers for the Lord in prayer
That He still rule the day,
And still the watch-fires brightly burn and light the way.
Till, at the last, the light
Of light, in darkness lost,
Shall shine, O Father! upon all thy children's light.
No longer the bells toll
Above the cottage roof;
No longer the children weep
In sorrow's ancient gloom;
No longer the watchmen raise
Their hands from the lonely tomb;
No more let in the gloom
The firefly firemen's warnings come;
The day hath dawned;--the long, long night is past,
The day hath come and gone,
And like the last smile of the dawn
The city sinks at last.
What is that tranquil brow,
Gleaning with joy and pleasure?
What is its soft light now?
Is it the light of summer?
Is it the fragrant glow
Of opening heaven's doors?
What is the dear delight
That follows after?
And can it be the last
Of all the splendor and gladness
That fills the earth and sky,--
These innocent eyes, these lips of hers,--
Those innocent eyes?
The moon, serene and still,
Looks o'er the city's wall;
But she looks up to the tower,
And hush'd is the mother's heart,
And she will see her children's smiles,
As the white folds of a robe,
Are clasping their mother's arms,
And she will feel, as the midnight hour,

======================================== SAMPLE 13 
========================================
,
The day arrived, the hour that brings surcease.
He saw the matin bell peal forth its message,
And, with his soul in danger, spoke the message:
"Dost thou not hear it, O my trembling heart?"
He turned, and as he spoke, the bells were sounding,
Held fast the door and opened with a clang.
The dead man's voice, like music, on the gable
Was like the voice of one, ten thousand fathoms:
"Dost thou not hear the death-bell's iron chime?"
"The arabes of the villeggi' moil," said Bofe,
"O, let me breathe on the dead man's corse."
But the wild cries of the accursed Monarch,
When the last trumpet sounded from the tomb,
Fierce anger in the look of Whittington
Gaped as he answered, "Blessings for thy home!"
"It is not the dead man's hour," quoth Earl Hugh,
"I, only the king's man, wot if this is true.
O, it is not the young king's birthday hour,"
Said Camden; "'tis the good man's birthday hour!"
Then, with a rush of words, he vanished,
Leaving the slumberer in a swoon
Before the step of the pale King, who muttered;
"Yes, it is time, then, O my friend, my man!"
"I have a father," whimpered Camden;
"A brother, if a sire slew not his son
I give him an ancestral name."
"Ay, but my father," answered Camden,
"He hath a noble name.
The lord that called him forth was a brother
"Good! my father, I will go with thee,
Take me upon thy knee."
"Go, little one, go!" he cried, "but stay,
There is no death," said Camden;
"But thou, whose name shall all the world be,
Hast thou no name for me?"
The pale King screamed, his great heart breaking,
Forth through the iron town he swept
Beside a cold hearth-stone.
"God, let me bear thy name," said Camden,
"Ever my name to me."
"Nay, I shall name thee, O my friend, my friend!"
"Nay, I did wrong thy child," said Camden;
"All day, for truth, I would go with thee."
"But then the thought came, thou shalt be dead."
"Nay, I have wronged thee" ... Charles began.
Sudden, before his face, the stones
Shattered their wraps and tossed about;
And, like a thought in the brain that cloys,
From a live man, that bodily doubt,
Whispered that soul-red light in his,
"Give me my name for life, I pray thee,
For death's dark valley after my own name."
"Then let thy name be an echo
Of every word I speak about," said Camden;
"And let thy name be a dream on me,
A hope, a hope.
"O give me name for love," said Camden;
"The name of girlhood, the name of truth."
"Nay, what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
"And what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
"Nay, no name!" said Camden;
"Nay, nothing. It is Love," said Camden.
Sudden and still, like a clamour
The silence came and went.
No sound came out of the shadows,
And no sound of the long-gone days.
"Now, what is the name?" said Camden;
"The name I speak of is Death," said Camden.
A thousand years ... still more and more
Rolled down and vanished into gloom.
The shadows were worn with a deeper weariness,
And they crept to the couch, and crept, and crept;
It is over, the years have piled the corses
And covered the grass with a summer's heaped.
And where should the lad sit and rest his bones,
Not a chair would move, and no boy would talk?
And one would smile, in the gloom of a room,
But one would go blind with a hundred eyes.
For life has been one day, a thousand years,
And the sun rose and walked on the hills,
And the wind went whirling like a flail;
The leaves broke and fell like the pennons;
And the yellow leaves fell like flakes of dust;
======================================== SAMPLE 14 
========================================
 on the bank--
Hawk--Bayard--the bat that flew!
And the big-bellied frog, Bill Owl,
Heard their speech, and went to graze,
Till he nearly killed himself,
And, with holes in his ugly eyes,
Looked at poor fighting flies!
But in vain; for pigs, I guess,
Are not cunning enough
To take counsel of me to break
The silence that lies below,
My boots and his pipe I know,
Being one that's but ill at ease,
And the other--but see him, please,
I can't catch a squeak alive,
And they're both so sharp and sharp, Will't,
Very much better than his teeth!
How the big-bellied frog, Bill Owl,
Heard them say that he was dead,
And when he awoke, how bold
And how full of fear he was,
How his eyes were wild and bright
With a gleam of sunny light!
Now he is all black and white.
It's only our little ball
That holds his legs and all
This long day under the ground!
He is stretched on the log at the foot of the hill!
And, after a while, I'm sitting still,
With the weight of the shade on his heavy arm,
Upon the mud-hued ridge of the hill--
Oh, there is the quiet, you hear, of the sea!
And the big red sun is a-shining down,
As he journeys down to the fairies' town,
Leaving his pipe behind him;
And there's the sort of talk, at the edge of the town,
Of the men and the talk of the cattle and ships,
When he's moving along like a wink in his eye,
And you see they have business to try and fly.
You're a-shouting, and I'm thinking now,
Of the men and the talk of the cattle and ships
That I am in league with the folks to be,
When they come to the store with the things you see.
I'm sure they all don't look like those days,
And you'll think that the men who don't know.
The little boys and the little girls
Have just turned wrinkled and wise,
And more like the big fat-faced girls
That only the children can see.
So here is the end of you, Bill;
Let it be as it may please you,
For we cannot be happy now
In the ways of the olden scenes.
The man who thinks and the woman who dreads
Has only a care to make good his days.
The man who thinks and the woman who dreads
Has only a thought for a while,
While the brown cow follows her, day and night
That is only a moment of fright.
And the little old man in the lumber-bed,
For something has happened to be,
Has noticed the woman, and noticed her face
Was freshest, and freshest, and best,
As it seemed, till the moment it passed,
Looking just how red it was; so he thought
He had seen her last Summer come
With a vision of her, the tall rooster's crow,
That trims his eyes and his elbows is blue and bright,
As she looks with a look of delight
On the great sleek building that made him so glad,
When in school he was reading aloud
The Man in the Moon so young;
That made a most elegant remark
On the monkey in pink and black.
This picture of dirt, and of mud, and of clay--
He had seen it before!  And he felt sure
He had seen it before!  And his boyish glee
Compelled him to think he had never been there
Till some picture of dirt it was set on.
The monkey he rose at the woman, and said
That the picture was real, and behaved like a bird;
And he said, "It is quite absurd!"
Then he made himself known to her so by his word:--
"This picture of dirt, and of rubbish--oh, hush!
It was good in this world, that you did, when it gave
Me your beauty, you took it with you and me,
And we made it a beautiful prize, you and I."
Then his mother, his sister, his own boy, who bore
To what use of the world, said, "That's more than you know;
Take and use it and use it; as glad as before,
It will take the old age of my beauties, and grow
To a beauty that others would choose for a while,
And a sweet little beauty, though ugly, to smile.
But the monkey, he spoke
======================================== SAMPLE 15 
========================================
 of the best clothes to appear.
The most suitable to the costume, and the more beautiful, too,
As it was, in the last year, I met it with a Mr. appearance, in
It was then, "Miss Meoney," that I had my pocket's turned over;
And I can't remember what it was when I went out to the water, with
the water, from which I had just discovered it, I found it by no
In the next year, however, it was my prospects of getting back on
I have been all those years in which I had to keep my temper in
turtle, and the next, but by the way, the same way; and I have
been to get the first big party, and had to kill the master
whom I had killed among half my families, or in which some
biscuit, and now that I am a little old, can only be remembered,
again I find them anyway, and I will not have them take the
presents to me or take the kind of wormwood out of me, or
go about into the public streets to learn their names from me.
It would be equally engaging for me if I had had my head first
But to return to the first and the proper kind of people, the
I will not have no time to practise any more than that.
I will be a kind of connecting link between the gentlemen and the
I do not know what to think and what to think, or whether to
observe this ignorance.
I can only leave my own opinion on men and women, or to leave
them untranslated, and to be an edifying gab and a pipe.
I do not like being always jealous; I have to-night, at any rate,
for having one's judgment of the irremediable injury.
You look superinticerently at your two fine eyes; you look at my
propped upon a stool; you see I am naturally wrapt in my cap;
I do not like being enraged at the idea that I am a man; I
make no exception to my habitual opinion of the more diaphanous
The fact which you conceive is this: that I mean more than I do.
You seem surprised to say: if you are not prevented, you will
never be surprised, for I've a thousand tongues as well as any
truthful person.  To my wish I cannot be permitted to use a
If I do not wish to see my friend, you needn't make him, like
wedding; I hope him well will excuse you; and if he succeeds
into your knowledge and makes you consider the more as the
more anything.
I will find the proof that you believe was the motive I have learned
to complete in speaking of the different principles in life; but
by your coaxing, I say to you, I see a man either alive or not.
You don't want to hear the story of a man--a man whose work is
quite important; you never know how far he goes, nor how long he
gives a poor one's credit.  He will, in the taking in, say all he
possessions of his master and of his mistress are yours.  If you
take a flute of music you have the right to find a flute of
newly cut, and if you have a flute of sweet metheglin--a piece of
imperishable oakwood and a white flute, and unless you die of
blinding that you have done aught to make the thing look stale--
even before you die of casting a flute can and will, I think
you are a man of great concern.  If you play at evening and
can play at night, you will find that you are a poet, and there
are no great deal like him.  You look at your own songs, and
see what is there to tell you.  If you play at evening and go
on the heave of the tune, you will find that you have seen
"A good night and a fair day for you, lady."
The door of the parlour and the rustling fountain stopped
greeting her; she was so beautiful and kind, she had
heard all that had happened; her eyes were all blue and bright,
and her hair was all free when she was asking of the company
who had just come to visit.  She found her lover lingering
close by; they found her all neglected, but it seems that
he had not been there.
They took their seats and sat down by the water in further
drunkenness.  She was so overcome with grief, that her
eyes were filled with tears and so wasted that she turned
to the wall, and called for her father; but he
======================================== SAMPLE 16 
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,
You've not the time to lose
When the door has cried at you!
But you may remember well,
It was in the days of old,
A-many merry meetings
That they took in to take the air,
And I--I had a dream
That the little room
Was a place in which they spoke,
And the room had room
For an old man out to seek.
Then the old man saw and knew
Though he said at once
That his heart was never in
Where the shadows now are dim
And it was but a thought;
And he said: "There is no place
Where I'd not my face,
There are no friends to share with me,
And only friendship there.
There's a room in which I'll meet
And my friends I'll make at home,
And my friends I'll travel in,
Will understand and love
When they talk about my name."
So he climbed up on that floor,
And he pushed me off with a roar,
But he couldn't see me again
Till I turned and was glad again.
Then he cried: "He'll come to us!"
But he couldn't see me now.
For the door was open wide,
And I knew he was alone.
Then the old man made a call,
But he looked and he did not fall;
When he got up he stood appalled.
Then he cried again and cried:
"What a mess to go to see!
There's that house in here. They're there."
And that was on the kitchen door
Then he shook his head and cried,
And he don't think I am asleep
Though the little boys are wise.
But I'm sure they never had
Such a chance as that. They sent
For us to see the baby there.
And we were told that both of us
Had at first no need of care,
And I knew we'd got no estate
After that. But I did not
Sit and kiss my little hand,
If I had no heart to say,
Though I was so young and gay,
Though I'd put away my pride,
And find out that I have died,
Too late for the world to know
It is only when we know,
The spring is coming slow,
This only thing
That I know.
And yet I know
This is the thing,
And I like to go
Where my dear one stays
Without a fear.
The frost has pierced my breast
And burned across my face;
The heat has left my cheek,
And turned my lips to stone;
Yet still my kisses lie
As he could kiss them, one by one.
When you come home again to me,
Come with your soft grey eyes;
For oh, how beautiful
These faces are, alas!
With your brown hands and white teeth,
Your lips curled black and red;
You are more beautiful
Than his own eyes and his,
But not the mouth that speaks.
He was singing a song of Springtime
When a wild, glad, amorous breeze
Caught from his yellow locks,
And swept like an Indian sea-bird,
Dropped on the swaying trees,
And fluttered like a bird,
And drifted away
Into the rosy deeps.
Out across the dreaming sunlight
He went as one who dreams;
Sighed a song he can not sing.
"Spring is over,
And Summer will be over,"
He said. But his dream was light.
Blooms covered his hands
And his face was hidden under
The shadow of his dreams.
But now the storm goes on,
The wind blows cold and loud;
Blooms covered his hands
And his face was all a-stone,
Blue-green, blue-green,
With great big brown arms and pale blue eyes.
"There is only a name for you, Dear," he said.
"I am tired of talking," he said, "or a line.
I want to be a lover with a kiss, Dear," she said.
In love we parted yester-year, long ago.
I thought a happy thing upon my poet's lips
To stay forever for a little while,
And think, a moment on that careless bliss,
I hardly dreamed that I coud see again, Dear,
I knew myself, Dear, since the world grew so old,
And the baby that I loved with a laugh could hold, Dear.
I have forgotten how far off, dear, I know--
Love grew upon me, Dear,
Like a great, red, gold serpent
That sucks my heart,
And draws it and it--
And so I am alone.
The wind has left the roses
======================================== SAMPLE 17 
========================================
 of our lives!
They are not what they were,
We, who have left so good,
Save when among us, while
Between us, on the flood
They wandered, for a while,
Amid the storm they lay,--
Their little ones and they
Lived, and are gone away!
Their little ones and they
Lived with us, and are dead,
The peace of God doth pass
That mocks their idle reed;
They have not met the blast
That swept those gentle wings,
Or swept those gentle wings,
Nor visited the light
Of those dear feet of ours;
But perished in the night
In hopes that they might see
Some brighter planet rise,
To meet their promised skies;
And we must sigh and faint
For that they died so soon;
Must seek a brighter morn
And lose those gentle shapes
That bloomed for us, but we
Have farther been unfurled
In the bright track called Heaven.
God's love had taken place
No more on earth to dwell;
The angel of that grace
Had crushed the soul in hell;
And, though the angels shrieked
And wept, the sinless child
Forced out its silly cry,
And knew its frailty well.
The child was given to earth,
And we will seek again
Those shining angel bands
That in the happy lands
Of Paradise were born,
And learn the blessed Word
That still doth hide the strife
Of fiendish souls and strife--
And win eternal life.
God's love was not unfinished,
But it must be done
Ere joy or sorrow burst
From out the clasp of one.
A flower was plucked at evening,
A garland on the hill;
A star was on the heaven,--
A fire upon the hill;
A star that led the morning
And left the night still;
A star whose light enfolds us,
A star that never dies;
And love, and faith, and courage,
In sunshine and in rain;
And faith, and hope, and courage--
And hope, and hope, and faith,
In sunshine and in darkness,
And love, and hope, and faith,
In the endless march of years.
Oh, to be hailed at evening!
Oh, to be hailed at night!
When the star of love is beaming,
When the light of truth is light.
My spirit is bewailing,
And seeks to understand
The words of a love that's pleading,
As all the world may understand.
With words of passion spoken,
With whispers of a sigh,
With kisses that bring the morning
And kisses that bring the day;
With sighs that seem to hover
And murmurs ever new,
With silent lips that seem to say,
"Love sees no day of sorrow;
And dies with joy alone,
And lives to its own deep own deep own deep own worth."
I've heard, at times, a father say,
"Dear mother, bid me go away:
Your words are bitter,--truly, indeed,
Seldom at all,--but so were best.
"For now, dear mother, if you must
With mother and with mother starve,
You can't go in that way, at least;
And no one else would care to have you;
Not carrying weight at all, my friend,
And cheering words,--but giving, and giving,
And knowing always that life must end."
And so, dear mother, when you have done
This sad task of my life, and tired
With all the penitential ways
That touch the souls, a-smiling lay
Your lesson, mother, on my heart.
As other children, I might go
Along your banks, through woods, and cocks,
Or fields that rip the golden corn,
Or some small mountain that uprears
Its head above your darkest rocks,
And knows itself, and not at last
A gleam of all my human years.
And when you go, and when you come
To any man's great house of God,
God's own high room a place will have,
Your shrine the altar. There shall He
Grin for you, follow, saith, and you
Shall love your little house and sheep,
And all their lineal rings, and He
Grin for you, follow, saith, and you
Shall drink the golden cup of love.
For me, I have not any gift
To offer to my mother dear;
My heart has been so full of thought,
I know it by my mother's hearth.
Her love, my mother, never scorned
The cost of that dear debt
======================================== SAMPLE 18 
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 from the
The following description of Dr. Watts's Poem:
He who would thence by his own chariot ride,
Shall bear a lighter yoke, and bear it on:
And, having mends and accidents, shall ride
Upon the light fantastic joy:
Nor let him languish in the dusty shade,
By no ignoble action made.
The sun, emerging from the sea,
Shall with his flaming shafts to Heaven up-turn
In his meridian height:
Nor shall he sink, till his last fiery glow
Is quite forgot, and all is dark below.
The sun, emerging from the sea,
Shall with his flaming shafts to Heaven ascend,
But shall be blinded in his noon-day rage,
By no astonishment,
While each atom rises in his own dear age.
The year's young days are past: the new begun
Perform their whole; and every hour is theirs;
For God sees armies in their ranks to run,
And all must equal to the hopes they are:
And Day descries them, in his golden car,
With thousand lesser lights; and on his throne
The great Tri corresponds;
And the great quire of Heaven suspends his car.
The glorious host of heaven descends,
And greets their joyful rays with joyful shouts;
The glowing Seraphim obey,
And meet their Angel on their downward ways.
Such glorious sight, and such celestial rays,
One hour hath made all heaven alear, and Hell
Glow double! and the next of his descends
In heavenly colloquy.                                     G.
_Quicquid agunt hominis, quae vidit unquam,
Aut aliudque ahat: securi vidit aevi._
In what sort hast thou come?                         CR.
_Quicquid agunt hominis, quae vidit unquam._
I am come to tell you things as strange,
And find thee in a strange, sad state.
I fear thy presence, awful Form!
I fear thy awful, awful Form.
I fear the terror of thy looks,
And the bold indignation of thy looks:
I fear thy awful wrath, which marred the wise,
That gave me courage not to speak, nor durst,
Nor couldst, nor couldst, nor couldst, nor errest,
At the first moment of thine anger curst.
Thy look is mockery, and on earth
I tremble, as I hear thee not.
In thy mysterious transports, I see many
All that are better known of thee,--the Good,
That dwells in Heaven, and on Earth, and under
The Eternal everlasting seal of God.
I fear thy mighty wrath; thy hate; thy pride;
Thy scorn with which I madden, as I mused;
And though my words are weak, yet I replied
With calm and easy expectation bold,
And made thee lord of thy realities.
For, without thy almighty power, I feared
The wrath of the offended Deity.                          G.
_In dieis petit morbi; vestras iterum._ Joan. xiii. 8.
Vulnera vinctus per vestri, sexne fidelis
Dissimulis, atque novum habes invectus
Molus, nec jactare gemmam siccula; neque ipsa
Pervideas hanc, satis adhuc quibus iris:
Atque novum vento jussit tenebrasque secutos.
_To the thirsty soul the cooling juice assign'd._
O thou stern Lord, that seest this land,
As if thy name already here
Had never and never been
A witness of a new dispute;
That men may dread the Lord to see
The dwellers in the forest dank,
The forest dank, that doth not poll,
The living waters--that doth drink
The living waters.
O would I were as thou art now
In this high place by nature shown,
That one day they would hold thee fast,
As thou dost hold thy self in scorn.                R. WI.
Haec ec risueret;
======================================== SAMPLE 19 
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 and
_Echo_, _a song full of cheer_,
_The city of London, where are they born?_
And the _espers and the belleons_ of the _Blair_,
And her boy he has gone to the fields and the corn.
And they who sell ale at the inn and buy bread at the inn,
And they know where their bread is, they know it is divine.
But they pray in their despair, and their longing for bread
In the hunger and thirst, for the love of the Lord they fed.
And they think there may be no hope that they will return --
The hope they might have for a little of joy that it may return,
In the darkness and heat, and the dearth, and the Lord they do mourn.
They know how the Lord is good -- or they should be sore afraid
Of what the great Judge had made for them this day --
That the children of God are the men oppressed and made poor
Of the babes they are born to suffer, and Lord is their price.
And they pray in their fear, and they think who starve and die
They know who it is that makes life good and give.
Though the Master keep the door, yet the Lord keeps the key,
Though the Lord be no more, and the Lord be no more.
A little house on the mountain side
Where a man may come to live,
And he may come to be the bride
When all that is sad shall give;
And the long road winds from the land away
And the good house stands alone,
Awaiting a sweeter bride,
And a better one none.
A little house on the mountain side --
A castle fair to see,
But lo, the door shows seven ways wide --
A palace full of thee.
The little house on the hillside,
And all the rest at home,
And the little house on the hillside,
And all the rest on the hill,
And all the rest on the hill-side --
All the wan winter's day,
And the faint autumn's snows,
Will die before they close.
A little house on the mountain side,
And all the rest on the hill.
And little house on the mountain side
And all the rest on the hill.
It is well for the little house that has died
In the darkness and cold and the snow,
For a spirit cometh through the land
And a spirit cometh down,
And all the thoughts of the little house
Sprinkle the icy firths about,
And a soul cometh through the land,
And a soul cometh to the earth,
And a soul cometh forth.
A little house on the mountain side,
And all the rest on the hill.
"He is the King and is little his bride:
Follow him, and he will bring thee rest
Under his mantle of snow,
For the voice of the hand of the fairy
Is calling thee, and thou shalt go
Wherever thou wishest."
Thither the fairy went, and they went
And lay in the mould a lovelier head,
And the tiny hands of the fairy drew
Hands folded under a fairy's bed,
And under the mantle the fairy wove
A coronal round the sleeping love.
When the morning star went up the hill,
Pale grew the east and wan;
The sun went down the western sky
And died into the dappled grass.
"God give thee sleep, good fairy-star!
For the little souls thou keepest here,
That sleep the sleep of a weary world,
And God from out His care:
"They neither wake nor work, they neither roam,
But out upon the unknown sea!"
He left a gift to mortals on the ocean wave,
And gave it not its music and its mystery.
Then swiftly flew the bugle on the shore
And sang a war-song wild and shrill:
"O whither dost thou ride, whither dost thou ride?
And what dost thou desire and what to do?"
"I am a knight of England, born of olden days,
Well read in knightly honor of my birth,"
"My father used to say, 'Where speedest thou then?
Where stayest thou now, good knight?  What wouldst thou have?"
"On foot thou goest, a very little thing,
And nothing else, O knight-at-arms, is thine."
"I wander by the forest where thou dwellest:
It is the mountain echo that I hear;
And it is pleasant sounds that I myself repeat
To hear the merry voices that I see.
"O gentle knight and gentle, say
======================================== SAMPLE 20 
========================================
ing the creeks and the great rocks,
They are but shapes of the soul.
But, ah! that face, those eyes are dim,
With its glare of the lurid light,
That is only as yonder swim
Of waters that, in a cloudy night,
Cloudward, in a cloudy void,
Toward infinity,
Then, again, the eternal gleam
Of the spirit that moves in quest
Of that heart we knew
With its all-transcending skill--
The soul of the soul, that holds us thrall
With the powers of light and love,
That are only as phantoms small.
Ah! but is it not for each lovely sight
That from the trance of the soul has fled?
'Tis a symbol and type of the universe-
Life's work-triumphal, which the soul
Walks through, and through its whole,
Escheambic and infinite
Is life, the lifeless ageless soul
Which overcometh day, and night, and noon,
Maketh the heart to leap,
And the head to bow.
And hence, oh! life is beautiful
To the soul that, in such holy calm,
Is waiting with indifferent gaze
For a spirit's calm.
It is like a calm that flows
From the heart to the body, and no words
That are known to be spoken, these silent years
Of the spirit, like minutes in silver, or tears.
And, as a sudden sun
Comes from his clouded pathway all the day,
It gleams like a golden bird
Above in the gloom,--
So the sun falls in on my life's dark track,
So comes the sound of its breath
From these heart-searchings of life and death,
Which are uttered and whispered and uttered just
As a song by the soul's long sighing.
And the light glitters, and far and near
Its own sun doth the shadow cast over it,
As a song by the singer sung,
So comes the light from the soul's divine
And floats it with life, and the memory
Of the words of the soul is like a kiss,
And the music comes in the voice of the soul,
In the soul's high atmosphere,
And mingles, and mingles, and trembles.
Then the heart that is moved by the music,
The soul that is moved by the music,
Is rocked by one in the sacred words
That the soul's love-song reveals,
And we are acquainted, and know each other,
Not as one, but as one, with each other.
"I wish I was dead!" said the voice so close,
It waned into a sweet and tender mist,
It shone so bright on my fevered eyes,
It made my soul to cry its own grief mad,
And my heart to bring its tears to an end;
"I wish I was dead," said every voice
In the music of the soul, and in each
Sighing, each whispering instrument
Had a meaning, a secret of joy and grief:
Yet in the singer was nothing worth;
He was dead ere he was aware of us;
He came back to the past and its pain,
And its sorrows, and its ecstacies,
A song that has power to pierce belief,
To stir its heart like a bird's soul in spite;
While his own harp in the strings would toss,
And his quivering finger prints a smile,
Or his own breath would tremble and fail,
And his lips would catch a song from his finger.
In my lady's chamber I stand,
Gazing with strained eyes:
Fantastic ivy, and pale yew mixt,
And a violin's flute.
In the soft light gleams the light,
In the yellow gleam the light,
In the green light glow the lips,
And a moment's dreamy gleams.
As I gaze on the dark boughs of my love
In the dark tower's shadow.
They are passing with magic power,
And a secret hearts are beating
At the meeting of the lips.
I can hear in the dark tower,
And the dark forest and the stream
Leap up to the sun-bleached low,
And the white moon shines.
In the bright tower' I see waves
Drift their dark-hollowed waves below
And dash their foamy beds against the sky;
While to my sight the sweet heavens seem,
And down along the green waves lie
With stars and daffodil waves,
And silver lights, like gems from the shrine.
And on the dark tower, high aloft,
There in the soft sun-gl
======================================== SAMPLE 21 
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.
"Cursed be the King, and cursed be his reign!
No more to vex me, now I am his foe;
Hate his command, or else usurp the throne."
"The face of heaven! what can I assume?
Darkness, and dolor! This would seem to all
A stupid tempest, born to rage and flame
For love, for service,--all that war can name.
How is this nature? and the human soul
Could dwarf an eddy, when with form erect
She stands, and seems to rise, erect and free;
Her looks, her thoughts, her ways, are not their own.
Nothing can e'er arrest the form she holds:
A moment's silence is too stern for her
Whose glance would scorch her, when with wing outspread,
The creatures in her flight from her should shun.
That is her heart, her thoughts, her thoughts. To him
She means to hold the hope she seeks; to win,
To gratify his will, the power to please;
The power to triumph, and to prove it less.
To curb his pride he now must yield his throne!
"How shall I meet him, from my secret springs?
When he is there, who gave me life, to take
His name from me, the power to rule, the joy
To live and die, and teach the world to die?"
She sighed inwardly, her thoughts turned to the sun.
"I see him, as thou art, yet am I not
Sensible of joy, that he should quit my throne!"
"Thy blood, my sister, for my realm shall pay,
And every day shall find its honors all,
Thee, too, my sisters, and thy brothers more."
"I have no more to say, O maid, but let
To thee my wishes and my wishes call,
Whatever passes, to illumine thy lot."
Thus by her heart those words did she recall.
And he, with smiling countenance, replied:
"The joy, O maid, to conquer life were sweeter than
To follow the bright path which leads to God.
Thou comest with me,--on this path dost see
My mother first, she after thee will be;
And on those pleasant paths thy footsteps will I guide."
To whom, in brief, the aged mother said:
"I love thee; and in love I trust thy love
For ever and for ever. I do love
My God the King; and that reminds me I
Have passed in pain, beyond my hope to die;
And that my love is all that is to be.
It is not for my grief to tell His cause,
But for His wisdom, to my deepest root
I bear the sorrows of so wild a fate.
Not for my love thy hope of Him to wait,
Who sent me forth to show my heart how great
Is wealth, wealth is, thou hast owned,--and have no fear,"
"Oh, thou hast come, fair queen!" The queen began,
"My lord, my king, my subjects to adorn!
Thy kingdom has, as God most holy is,
A curse to God and to His people sworn,
The solemn thing which makes thee sad and proud."
"My lord," the monarch said, "I ask of thee
No more; I am a king,--and then I go
To take thee to the waiting court in Rome.
But take the message to the queen--her fate
Is sealed, and she is lost. To be a queen
I am prepared, because thou, king of men,
Upon the way dost make my fame thy foe."
"That is, thou heedest all that thou hast said;
And if they should, thou canst not in my death
Be found a victim on a foreign shore."
"Ah, that is true," the good king said, "for so
Thou shouldst,--to such as thee no shame should show!
To be thy king was but to find deceit,
Of cowardice in soul and subtle guile.
Yet I will go, a child, to be thy guide
Through all the world, and thou from day to day
Shalt not have come; and if a child thou be,
No power shall know of this base life of ours.
Thou farest not; and yet, if but to find
A mother's love, or step that must not break,
Thou'lt see thy love in every heart set free,
By giving death to her, one limb to thee."
"Who is this foolish youth?"
"Ask of the man,"
"Ask of the maiden, king of men and truth.
Forgive me if
======================================== SAMPLE 22 
========================================
, as has been said,
By young and old, of hunger and despair,
He was the first and most enamoured by
The prince, his country and dear mother's love.
The Emperor of the world was not appeased
By an appearance, nor a voice to stir,
As his Imperial strength had said enough
To stir, and not to take of him the power
Of thundering cannon, or the iron mace
Of his great engines, but his mighty soul
Shrank sick and useless.