The world IS MINE FOR me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark’s transport fine, I know the fountain’s way ward yearning; I love, and the world is mine! I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free. For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine, My clouds arise all flushed with glory; I love, and the world is mine! TO-MORROW THE ROBIN chants when the thrush is dumb, Snow smooths a bed for the clover, Life flames anew, and days to come Are sweet as the days that are over. The tide that ebbs by the moon flows back, Faith builds on the ruins of sorrow, The halcyon flutters in winter’s track, And night makes way for the morrow. And ever a strain, of joys the sum, Sings on in the heart of the lover— In death sings on—that days to come Are sweet as the days that are over!
Songs
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The world IS MINE FOR me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bough returning, I share the skylark’s transport fine, I know the fountain’s way ward yearning; I...
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How beautiful to live as thou didst live! How beautiful to die as thou didst die,— In moonlight of the night, without a sigh, At rest in all the best that love could give! How excellent to bear into old age The poet’s ardor and the heart of youth,— To keep to the last sleep the vow of...
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Silent amidst unbroken silence deep Of dateless years, in loneliness supreme, She pondered patiently one mighty theme, And let the hours, uncounted, by her creep The motionless Himalayas, the broad sweep Of glacial cataracts, great Ganges’ stream,— All these to her were but as things that seem,...
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The knell that dooms the voiceless and obscure Stills Memnon’s music with its ghostly chime; Strength is as weakness in the clasp of Time, And for the things that were there is no cure. The vineyard with its fair investiture, The mountain summit with its hoary rime, The throne of Cæsar, Cheops’...
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she dances, And I seem to be In primrose vales of Sicily, Beside the streams once looked upon By Thyrsis and by Corydon: The sunlight laughs as she advances, Shyly the zephyrs kiss her hair, And she seems to me as the wood-fawn, free, And as the wild rose, fair. Dance...