English

O THOU who sendest dewdrops to the garden,
Until each fragrant bud receives its own,
Canst Thou not look on human hearts and pardon
To waiting loneliness its bitter moan?

The flowers can drink the dawn,—it hastens to them;
But hearts athirst wait sadly for their hour,
For the sweet gift that may, perchance, undo them,—
Too fatal sweet a dew for human flower.

Miranda! dreaming through the starry night,
Thine, the far innocence of dead Elaine,
Thine, the rapt beauty of Cecilia's face,
Thine, the white fire of Mary's last embrace,
Thine, life's mad phantasy of love-in-pain,
Till, seraph-winged, our wedded soul takes flight.

Thine, the far innocence of dead Elaine,
When thirsty boyhood knelt beside the spring
Of life, and drank her crystal beauty there:
Not dead—but vanished from the noontide glare,
In the deep blue her soul is quivering—
In thy great tears she'll come to me again.

I long to speak the deepest words I have to say to you;
but I dare not, for fear you should laugh.
That is why I laugh at myself and shatter my secret in jest.
I make light of my pain, afraid you should do so.

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you;
but I dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.
That is why I disguise them in untruth,
saying the contrary of what I mean.
I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

I long to use the most precious words I have for you;

When the dawn comes
With the flicker flicker
Of sunrise,
How sad the helping each other to put on our clothes!

A thing which fades
With no outward sign—
Is the flower
Of the heart of man
In this world!

Since I heard
Faintly the voice
Of the first wild-goose,
Upon mid sky alone
My thoughts have been fixed.

O cuckoo,
Because the villages where you sing
Are so many,
I am estranged from you, even
In the midst of my love!

You are unworthy any man's desires.
I do suspect you of a thousand ills—
For little moths setting your little fires—
Haughty to high, servient to baser wills.
Rank! that the meanest prancer in your train
Can stir with languid love of lure your mood.
Is it your weak pleasure, or his weaker pain,
That gives sweet sustenance in this poor food?
You have seen visions of high luminous dawn
Coming to work a mircle in your heart:—
But now are veils across your watching drawn
Lest faith in viewless wonders plague your art. . . .

I REVERENCE these old masters—men who sung
Or painted, not for love of praise or fame;
Who heeded not the popular eye or tongue,
And craved no present honors for their name;
Who toil'd because they sorrow'd! In their hearts
The secret of their inspiration lay;—
When these were by the oppressor's minions wrung,
The terrible pang to utterance forced its way.
And hence it is, their passionate song imparts,
To him who listens, a like sensible woe,
That moves him much to turn aside and pray

All over I'm in Love with Thee,
As Thou all over lovely art;
There's not a Part but pleases Me,
Except thy proud ungentle Heart.

Your Beauty's Light is evident,
Tho' where, or how, we cannot say;
Thus unseen Stars i' th' Ee ment,
United, make the Milky Way.

Whoever loves your Eyes alone,
A kind Look only should be his;
And he, whose Lips but dwell upon
The Praise of Yours, should lose his Kiss.

I love each Charm, each Grace alike,
And to them All give all my Heart: