Restless, to-night, and ill at ease,
And finding every place too strait,
I leave the porch shut in with trees,
And wander through the garden-gate.
So dark at first, I have to feel
My way before me with my hands;
But soul-like fragrances reveal
My virgin Daphne, where she stands.
Her stars of blossom breathe aloft...
I waked; the sun was in the sky,
The face of heaven was fair;
The silence all about me lay,
Of morning in the air.
I said, Where hast thou been, my soul,
Since the moon set in the west?
I know not where thy feet have trod,
Nor what has been thy quest.
Where wast thou when Orion past
Below the dark-blue sea?...
Ay! unto thee belong
The pipe and song,
Theocritus,—
Loved by the satyr and the faun!
To thee the olive and the vine,
To thee the Mediterranean pine,
And the soft lapping sea!
Thine, Bacchus,
Thine, the blood-red revels,
Thine, the bearded goat!
Soft valleys unto thee,
And Aphrodite’s shrine,
And...
“when queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench.”
LOVE’S LABOUR ’S LOST
The bright sea washed beneath her feet,
As it had done of yore,
The well-remembered odor sweet
Came through her opening door.
Again the grass his ripened head
Bowed where her raiment swept;
Again the fog-bell told of dread,
And all the landscape wept.
Again beside the woodland bars
She found the wilding rose...
“behold another singer!” Criton said,
And sneered, and in his sneering turned the leaf:
“Who reads the poets now? They are past and dead:
Give me for their vain work unrhymed relief.”
A laugh went round. Meanwhile the last ripe sheaf
Of corn was garnered, and the summer birds
Stilled their dear notes, while autumn’s voice of grief
Rang...
Speechless sorrow sat with me;
I was sighing wearily;
Lamp and fire were out; the rain
Wildly beat the window-pane.
In the dark I heard a knock,
And a hand was on the lock;
One in waiting spake to me,
Saying sweetly,
“I am come to sup with thee.”
All my room was dark and damp:
“Sorrow,” said I, “trim the lamp,...
The day is ended. Ere I sink to sleep,
My weary spirit seeks repose in Thine.
Father! forgive my trespasses, and keep
This little life of mine.
With loving-kindness curtain Thou my bed,
And cool in rest my burning pilgrim-feet;
Thy pardon be the pillow for my head;
So shall my sleep be sweet.
At peace with all the...
Azaleas—whitest of white!
White as the drifted snow
Fresh-fallen out of the night,
Before the coming glow
Tinges the morning light;
When the light is like the snow,
White,
And the silence is like the light:
Light, and silence, and snow,—
All—white!
White! not a hint
Of the creamy tint...
The bees in the clover are making honey, and I am making my hay:
The air is fresh, I seem to draw a young man’s breath to-day.
The bees and I are alone in the grass: the air is so very still
I hear the dam, so loud, that shines beyond the sullen mill.
Yes, the air is so still that I hear almost the sounds I cannot hear—
That, when no other sound is...
