English

In Blois Cathedral, shunning care's restraint,
In twilight hours I oft have sighed, alas!
When gazing on its wondrous colored glass,
Emblazoned with bright forms of god and saint.

When, pensive, through the lofty aisles I pass,
I seem to see a subtle life-tint faint
Steal o'er their cheeks whene'er the solemn plaint
Of claustral voices chants the vesper mass.

And the strange thought will cling unto my mind,
How the dead artists, who their charms have made,
Live in those panes before me, side by side;

Glory of the eternal Heaven,
Blessed Hope to mortals given,
Of the Almighty Only Son,
And the Virgin's Holy One;
Raise us, Lord, and we shall rise
In a sober mood,
And a zeal, which glorifies
Thee from gratitude.

Now the day-star, keenly glancing,
Tells us of the Sun's advancing;
While the unhealthy shades decline,
Rise within us, Light Divine!
Rise, and, risen, go not hence,
Stay and make us bright,
Streaming through each cleansèd sense,
On the outward night.

Over the hill I have watched the dawning,
I have watched the dawn of morning light,
Because I cannot well sleep by night,
Every day I have watched the dawning
And to-day very early my window shook
With the cold wind fresh from the ghastly brook,
And I left my bed to watch the dawning.
Very cold was the light, very pale, very still,
And the wind blew great clouds over the hill
Towards the wet place of the dying dawning;
It blew them over towards the east
In heavier charge as the light increased,

When genius, graced with lineal splendour, glows,
When title shines, with ambient virtues crown'd,
Like some fair almond's flowery pomp it shows,
The pride, the perfume, of the regions round.

Then learn, ye Fair! to soften splendour's ray;
Endure the swain, the youth of low degree;
Let meekness join'd its temp'rate beam display;
'Tis the mild verdure that endears the tree.

Pity the sandall'd swain, the shepherd's boy;
He sighs to brighten a neglected name;
Foe to the dull applause of vulgar joy,

Come , God the Father, for our hands have reared
This sacred shrine to Thy almighty name;
Come, as, of old, the solemn cloud appeared,
When to the temple veil Thy presence came.

Come, God the Son, display Thy healing power;
Accept our gift, and here set up Thy throne;
Our refuge Thou, our hope, our only tower,
Thy blood our ransom, reign in us alone.

Come, God the Spirit, teach our hearts to bring
Words of true prayer; our human lips inspire;
Thine is the temple, Thine the psalms we sing;

You are at least a Man, of men a King.
You have a heart, and with that heart you love
The race you come from is not gendered of
The filthy sty whose latest litter cling
Round England's flesh-pots, gorged hogs gluttoning.
No, but on flaming battlefields, in courts
Of honour and of danger old resorts,
The name of Hohen-Zollern clear doth ring
O Father William, you, not falsely weak,
Who never spared the rod to spoil the child,
Our mighty Germany, we only speak
To bless you with a blessing sweet and mild,

Christ, dear Christ, were the wood-ways sweet
By the long, white highway bare,
Where the hot road dust made grey Thy feet?
Ay,—but the woman's hair!

Brother, my Christ, when thou camest down
The cup of water to give,
Did a poet die on the mount's cool crown?
Ay,—and for that dost thou live!

Child of my many thoughts and soul-wrapt nights
And intricate researches unconfined!
Child of my many fancies and delights,
Hopes, fears, and retrospections of the mind!
What happiness must thy fond parent find,
To see thee now a comely modelled child?
And know how many hours thou hast disjoined
From Care and Sorrow, by thy visage mild.
Yes—thou hast devious murmurings beguiled;
Which doubtless would have lingered in the heart;
For when thou on those worldly carkings smiled,
They melted into shadows by thine art.

At three o'clock in the afternoon
On a hot September day,
I began to dream of a highland stream
And a frostbit russet tree;

Of the swashing dip of a clipper ship
(White canvas wet with spray)
And the swirling green and milk-foam clean
Along her canted lee.

I heard the quick staccato click
Of the typist's pounding keys,
And I had to brood of a wind more rude
Than that by a motor fanned—
And I lay inert in a flannel shirt
To watch the rhyming seas
Deploy and fall in a silver sprawl

It is the dead sex of the earth
On which the sun still gazes.

It is all the mountains of love,
Into whose sarcophagus
Peers