English

All is divine.
which the Highest has made,
Through the days that he wrought,
till the day when He stay'd;
Above and below,
within and around,
From the centre of space,
to its uttermost bound.

In beauty surpassing
the Universe smiled,
On the morn of its birth,
like an innocent child,
Or like the rich bloom,
of some delicate flower
And the Father rejoiced
in the work of His power.

Yet worlds brighter still,
and a brighter than those,
And a brighter again,
He had made, had he chose;

None but a Tuscan hand could fix ye here
In rigidness of sober coloring.
Pale are ye, mighty Triad, not with fear,
But the most awful knowledge, that the spring
Is in you of all birth, and act, and sense.
I sorrow to behold ye: pain is blent
With your aloof and loveless permanence,
And your high princedom seems a punishment.
The cunning limner could not personate
Your blind control, save in th' aspect of grief;
So does the thought repugn of sovran fate.
Let him gaze here who trusts not in the love

So quietly, so gently the Dunai's waters flow
A maiden combs her hair, and sees reflected far below
A wealth of silken tresses the breeze blows to and fro.

So quietly, so gently the loose hair drifts adown—
“Float there!” she cries, “float onward through vale and busy town,
But wait for me a moment, wait, ere I leap to drown!

“You know the veiling willow upon the river brim?
Wait there—and my sore heart shall come to tell the tale of him—
No end there is to Dunai; no eyes for me shall dim.

Must you dance ev'ry dance
With the same fortunate man?
You have danced with him since the music began,
Won't you change partners and dance with me?
Must you dance quite so close
With your lips touching his face?
Can't you see I'm longing to be in his place?
Won't you change partners and dance with me?
Ask him to sit this one out, and while you're alone
I'll tell the waiter to tell him he's wanted on the telephone.
You've been locked in his arms
Ever since heaven knows when,
Won't you change partners, and then

Painted and enamelled, on the air he shook
Scented flaxen ringlets from his wide peruke,
And his treble quavered: “Lo, the stage whereon
A Bracegirdle hath been, sir, and alike a Woffington!”

Queried I: “And do you know the stage as now for us?”
“Truth, I know”, cried Cibber, “and oh truth, 'tis marvellous!
Yet my heart hangs after the little mellow ring
Where Barry fired with love, sir, and where Betterton was king.

“Rays have brought you riches. Fathomed lies the sea.
Deep may call to deep and world to world at your decree.

She came and went as comes and goes
A fragrance in the morning air,
Where lay the shadowy shapes of those
Who died in her sweet care.

Some doubted, when her face had flown,
Whether it was or only seemed,—
Whether one saw what he had known
Or something he had dreamed.

And near a trampled field at night
Wan eyes, still following her afar,
Saw round that head a saintlier light
Than came from moon or star.

The wreck, the roar, the murk, the glare
Were nought to her; she simply knew

When to my house you come, dear Dean,
Your humble friend to entertain,
Through dirt and mire along the street,
You find no scraper for you feet:
At this, you storm and stamp and swell,
Which serves to clean your feet as well:
By steps ascending to the hall,
All torn to rags, with boys and ball.
Fragments of lime about the floor,
A sad, uneasy parlor door,
Besmeared with chalk, and nicked with knives
(A pox upon all careless wives!)
Are the next sights you must expect;
But do not think they're my neglect.

The rock-like mud unfroze a little and rills
Ran and sparkled down each side of the road
Under the catkins wagging in the hedge.
But earth would have her sleep out, spite of the sun;
Nor did I value that thin gilding beam
More than a pretty February thing
Till I came down to the old Manor Farm,
And church and yew-tree opposite, in age
Its equals and in size. Small church, great yew,
And farmhouse slept in a Sunday silentness:
The air raised not a straw. The steep farm roof,
With tiles duskily glowing, entertained

A Boston man an ulster had,
An ulster with a cape that fluttered:
It smacked his face, and made him mad,
And polyglot remarks he uttered:
“I bought it at a bargain,” said he,
“I'm tired of the thing already.”

The wind that chanced to blow that day
Was easterly, and rather strong, too:
It loved to see the galling way
That clothes vex those whom they belong to:
“Now watch me,” cried this spell of weather,
“I'll rid him of it altogether.”

It whirled the man across the street,

Today I want the sky,
The tops of the high hills,
Above the last man's house,
His hedges, and his cows,
Where, if I will, I look
Down even on sheep and rook,
And of all things that move
See buzzards only above:—
Past all trees, past furze
And thorn, where naught deters
The desire of the eye
For sky, nothing but sky.
I sicken of the woods
And all the multitudes
Of hedge-trees. They are no more
Than weeds upon this floor
Of the river of air
Leagues deep, leagues wide, where
I am like a fish that lives