A breath can fan love’s flame to burning,—
Make firm resolve of trembling doubt.
But, strange! at fickle fancy’s turning,
The selfsame breath can blow it out.
-
-
The wind of Hampstead Heath still burns my cheek
As, home returned, I muse, and see arise
Those rounded hills beneath the low, gray skies,
With gleams of haze-lapped cities far to seek.
These can I picture, but how fitly speak
Of what might not be seen with searching eyes,
And all beyond the listening ear that lies,
Best known to bards... -
Softly woo away her breath,
Gentle death!
Let her leave thee with no strife,
Tender, mournful, murmuring life!
She hath seen her happy day,—
She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Earth, into thy gentle bosom!She hath done her bidding here,
Angels dear!
Bear her perfect soul... -
For this — accepted Breath —
Through it — compete with Death —
The fellow cannot touch this Crown —
By it — my title take —
Ah, what a royal sake
To my necessity — stooped down!
No Wilderness — can be
Where this attendeth me —
No Desert Noon —
No fear of frost to...Three times — we parted — Breath — and I —
Three times — He would not go —
But strove to stir the lifeless Fan
The Waters — strove to stay.
Three Times — the Billows tossed me up —
Then caught me — like a Ball —
Then made Blue faces in my face —
And pushed away a sail
...