Bright starre of Beauty, on whose eye-lids sit
A thousand Nimph-like and inamor'd Graces,
The Goddesses of Memory and Wit,
Which there in order take their severall places,
In whose deare Bosome, sweet delicious Love
Layes downe his Quiver, which he once did beare:
Since he that blessed Paradise did prove,
And leaves his Mothers lap to sport him there,
Let others strive to entertaine with Words,
My Soule is of a braver Mettle made,
I hold that vile, which Vulgar wit affords;
In Me's that Faith which Time cannot invade.

Taking my Penne, with Words to cast my Woe,
Duely to count the summe of all my cares,
I finde, my Griefes innumerable growe,
The reck'nings rise to millions of Despaires,
And thus dividing of my fatall Houres,
The paiments of my Love, I read, and crosse,
Substracting, set my Sweets unto my Sowres,
My Joyes arrerage leades me to my losse;
And thus mine Eies a debtor to thine Eye,
Which by Extortion gaineth all their lookes,
My heart hath paid such grievous Usurie,
That all their Wealth lies in thy beauties Bookes,

My Heart was slaine, and none but you and I:
Who should I thinke the Murther should commit?
Since, but your selfe, there was no Creature by,
But onely I, guiltlesse of murth'ring it.
It slew it selfe; the Verdict on the view
Doe quit the dead, and me not accessarie:
Well, well, I feare it will be prov'd by you,
Th' evidence so great a proofe doth carrie.
But O, see, see, we need inquire no further,
Upon your Lips the scarlet drops are found,
And in your Eye, the Boy that did the Murther,
Your Cheekes yet pale, since first he gave the Wound.

Like an adventurous Sea-farer am I,
Who hath some long and dang'rous Voyage beene,
And call'd to tell of his Discoverie,
How farre he sayl'd, what Countries he had seene,
Proceeding from the Port whence he put forth,
Shewes by his Compasse, how his Course he steer'd,
When East, when West, when South, and when by North,
As how the Pole to ev'ry place was rear'd,
What Capes he doubled, of what Continent,
The Gulphes and Straits, that strangely he had past,
Where most becalm'd, where with foule Weather spent,
And on what Rocks in perill to be cast?

The earth has fallen from its old estate
Of understanding between fay and faun,
Dryad and mortal are not intimate;
A classic gate is locked, a key is gone.
And yet, to some, on any west wind blown
Comes reminiscent fragrance of white phlox
There is a race whose foreign eyes have known
The quiet that a garden gate unlocks.
Now dreamers go on melancholy ways
Who those sequestered paths no more may tread;
Grave exiles from an avatistic maze
From leisure of the enviable dead,
While sea-fog hides away fantastic coasts

Who says
That it's by my desire,
This separation, this living so far from you?
My dress still smells of the lavender you gave:
My hand still holds the letter that you sent.
Round my waist I wear a double sash:
I dream that it binds us both with a same-heart knot.
Did not you know that people hide their love,
Like a flower that seems too precious to be picked?

Toward what island-home am I moving,
not wanting to marry, not wanting
too much of that emptiness at evening,
as when I walked though a field at dusk
and felt wide in the night.
And it was again the evening that drew me
back to the field where I was most alone,
compassed by stems and ruts,
no light of the fixed stars, no flashing in the eyes,
only heather pared by dry air, shedding
a small feathered radiance when I looked away,
an expanse whose deep sleep seemed an unending
warren I had been given, to carry out such tasks—

Seven thousand men lay bleeding on these heights,
When Beresford in strenuous conflict strove
Against a foe whom all the accidents
Of battle favored, and who knew full well
To seize all offers that occasion gave.
Wounded or dead, seven thousand here were stretch'd,
And on the plain around a myriad more,
Spaniard, and Briton, and true Portuguese,
Alike approved that day; and in the cause
Of France, with her flagitious sons compelled,
Pole and Italian, German, Hollander,
Men of all climes and countries, hither brought,

Remember the promise, Dakotah,
Remember Messiah has said:
“I come on the morrow, my children,
And with me the numberless dead.
Again will the sunlight on lances
Shiver and break at the morn—

On the lances of warriors, Dakotah,
The bright eagle feathers adorn.
Again will the buffalo fatten,
Again will the swift hunters roam;
Dance the ghost-dance, O Dakotah!
For to-morrow thy people come home.”

Once in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man:—and WHO was HE?
—Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That Man resembled Thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,
The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perish'd from the earth;
This truth survives alone:—

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe,—a smile, a tear!
—Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirits' rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.