English

What if some lover in a far-off Spring,
Down the long passage of a hundred years,
Should breathe his longing through the words I sing—
And close the book, dazed by a woman's tears?
Does it mean aught to you that such might be? …
Ah! we far-seekers! … Solely thus were proved
From dream to deed the souls of you and me:—
Thus only were it real that we had loved.
Grey ghosts blown down the desolate moors of time!
Poor wanderers, lost to any hope of rest!
Joined by the measure of a faltering rhyme!

That was the proud woman, Naaman's wife,
Basking at noon under the Syrian fans,
While Naaman, the leprous mighty captain,
Proud glowing flesh now silver-skinned and tainted,
Walked in contagion here and there, apart.
His wife, the unblemished Naaman in her mind,
The man who, coming with the spoils and shouts,
Had made a hundred triumphs hers, when all
The Syrian women courted her for that,
Now saw in the pestilent limbs shame and reproach,
Some treachery that made her, who was mate
Of Syria's pride, bondwoman of a leper.

There are a
Tell me, pretty maiden, Are there any more at home like you?
few, kind sir, But simple girls, and proper too.
Then
Kind sir, their
tell me, pretty maiden, What these very simple girlies do. Then
manner are perfection, And the opposite of mine.
tell me, maiden, what the girlies do. Then take a little
I may love
walk with me, And then I can see What a most particular girl should be.
you too well to let you go And flirt with those at home, you know,
Well,
It's
don't mind, little girl You'll see I'll only want but

I HAVE stood on the brow of a cloud-capped hill
When the god of day passed on,
And have watched with joy while the daylight died,
And the stars of night were born;
And I love the hour when the eve comes on,
Though the glory of sunset is o'er:
But few are the twilights so sweet to my soul
As the twilight on Beverly Shore.

I have rocked on the deep when the billows slept,
And the shadows of evening fell
O'er the wide, wide waste of the waters blue,
Where is heard no vesper bell;

At my threshold stands a guest;
Shall I, dare I, bid him enter?
'T is the very dead of winter;
Snowy roads his feet have pressed;
Inhospitably I wait,
Trembling, still I hesitate.

With his wings he veils his face,
And a glory half divine
Like a nimbus seems to shine
Round him, making bright the place.
Cold the night, and yet I stand,
On the latch a halting hand.

What if I should bid him come,
And with him should enter Woe?
For 't is whispered, well we know,
That the pair together roam;

Behold! a camellia flower
Spilt water when it fell.

Through his might men work their wills.
They have boweled out the hills
For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought;
And they fling him, hour by hour,
Limbs of men to give him power;
Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devour
Children's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought:
He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought.

For about the noisy land,
Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand,
His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in lust of pride

Every mariner of life's sea
Knows of dark sea-wars,
When he can take only blind bearings
Without sun or stars;
When he must set his course
By faith alone—or doubt,
And cling to the helm while ill gales burst
Over him in a flood accurst,
Content to watch unwearied
Till he wears the worst sea out.

Once more the bright blade of a morning breeze
glides almost too easily through me,
and from the scuffle I’ve been sutured to
some flap of me is freed: I am severed
like a simile: an honest tenor
trembling toward the vehicle I mean
to be: a blackbird licking half notes
from the muscled, sap-damp branches
of the sugar maple tree … though I am still
a part of any part of every particle
of me, though I’ll be softly reconstructed
by the white gloves of metonymy,
I grieve: there is no feeling in a cut
that doesn’t heal a bit too much.

Always the poor are with us,
Age-long is their tread.
Anxious or sodden their faces,
Weary and bent their forms,
Heavy, heavy their footsteps,
Shuffling over the earth.
When wild winds are shrieking
And the nights are black,
Do you not hear them shuffling,
Shuffling beneath your window,
Shuffling past your door?
Millions upon millions,
Poor, tired, patient feet,
Shuffling, shuffling, shuffling,
Can you not hear the shuffling,
Heavy tread of the poor?