We ’ll not weep for summer over,—
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,—
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he ’s lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered...
Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold
From “Pearls of the Faith”
He made life—and He takes it—but instead
Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu’hid!
HE who dies at Azan 1 sends
This to comfort faithful friends:—
Faithful friends! it lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye says, “Abdullah ’s dead!”
Weeping at...
He is gone! beyond the skies,
A cloud receives him from our eyes:
Gone beyond the highest height
Of mortal gaze or angel’s flight:
Through the veils of time and space,
Passed into the holiest place:
All the toil, the sorrow done,
All the battle fought and won.
He is gone; and we return,
And our hearts within us burn;...
The Rain has ceased, and in my room
The sunshine pours an airy flood;
And on the church’s dizzy vane
The ancient Cross is bathed in blood.
From out the dripping ivy-leaves,
Antiquely carven, gray and high,
A dormer, facing westward, looks
Upon the village like an eye.
And now it glimmers in the sun,
A square of gold, a...
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? Shall mine eyes behold thy glory?
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze breaks at last upon thy story?
When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, as a sweet new sister hail thee,
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, that have known but to bewail thee?
Shall the ear...
A Huy and Cry after Sir John Barlycorn,
A base Rebel denounc'd at the Horn,
Fled from the Country where he was bred and Born,
We all the Drunkards of the Nation,
5 Issue Our Royal Proclamation
To...
Our little Kinsmen — after Rain
In plenty may be seen,
A Pink and Pulpy multitude
The tepid Ground upon.
A needless life, it seemed to me
Until a little Bird
As to a Hospitality
Advanced and breakfasted.
As I of He, so God of Me
I pondered, may have judged...
That after Horror — that 'twas us —
That passed the mouldering Pier —
Just as the Granite Crumb let go —
Our Savior, by a Hair —
A second more, had dropped too deep
For Fisherman to plumb —
The very profile of the Thought
Puts Recollection numb —
The possibility — to...
The Morning after Woe —
'Tis frequently the Way —
Surpasses all that rose before —
For utter Jubilee —
As Nature did not care —
And piled her Blossoms on —
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon —
The Birds declaim their Tunes —
Pronouncing...
To make One's Toilette — after Death
Has made the Toilette cool
Of only Taste we cared to please
Is difficult, and still —
That's easier — than Braid the Hair —
And make the Bodice gay —
When eyes that fondled it are wrenched
By Decalogues — away —
