English

Before our lives divide for ever,
While time is with us and hands are free,
(Time, swift to fasten and swift to sever
Hand from hand, as we stand by the sea)
I will say no word that a man might say
Whose whole life's love goes down in a day;
For this could never have been; and never
Though the gods and the years relent, shall be.

Is it worth a tear, is it worth an hour,
To think of things that are well outworn?
Of fruitless husk and fugitive flower,
The dream foregone and the deed forborne?

Love is a restless brigand; that you'll own:
He heeds no law and strips men to the bone.

A day that died, with slowly-quenched light,
Before the dusk that glided to the west,
Had led its hours along in quiet flight,
With one of joy, that sweeten'd all the rest.
Our minds could never yield the room for all
Our days at once; but God is ever kind,
To let us send away the thoughts of all
But one, and so forget, as well as mind:
Forget a thousand days, and, in their place,
To mind the day that show'd me first your face,
Forget a thousand days, and keep, the while,
The happy day that show'd me first your smile,

SAINT Patrick , slave to Milcho of the herds
Of Ballymena, wakened with these words:
“Arise, and flee
Out from the land of bondage, and be free!”

Glad as a soul in pain, who hears from heaven
The angels singing of his sins forgiven,
And, wondering, sees
His prison opening to their golden keys,

He rose a man who laid him down a slave,
Shook from his locks the ashes of the grave,
And outward trod
Into the glorious liberty of God.

He cast the symbols of his shame away;

Wind & sea are as playmates
Reviving an ancient affection:
Lovers they are, & the breeze
Combs out the beard of the wave;
Ripples & smoothes to a mirror
Its breast, until old recollection
Dreams of the peace of the vale,
Dance & the pastoral stave.

Were men of such importance as they deem,
Earth might look sad on them for being unread
So long: so long perversely written dead;
A stepping-stone, if that, to the Supreme:
More oft a block, or a misleading beam.
She has her wheel to spin, he[r] weft to thread,
And sings the while: her work supplies them bread;
Her gifts comprise the mastery of her theme.
Thus have they life, & labour clear before
Their faces, with the crown of labour shown
In glimpses where the tangled woodway thins.
But fables, built of old perceptive sins

O shrive me Friar, my ghostly Friar!
Quick, shrive me now, he cried.
For I have kiss'd a mortal maid,
And something more, beside.

The Friar he frown'd, his belt he hitched,
In accents stern spake he.
The thing that in my day I did,
Was never meant for thee!
Etc., etc.

The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;
It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;
And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,
Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers.
The sun's betrothing kiss it never knows,
Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;
But ever in a placid, pure repose,
More like a spirit with its look serene,
Droops its pale cheek veined thro' with infant green.

Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,
Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;
The year's own darling and the Summer's Queen!

From lamplight and an aged leaf,
I turn'd to the night air:
Large Autumn stars bent o'er the sheaf:
A sweet fresh breeze was there.

The gentle freshness fann'd my brow,
And dried some weary dews:
I thought ‘in seeking knowledge now;
Great Nature I abuse.

‘This Soul speaks from his scornful vault
A language dead & hard:
With Nature I am ne'er at fault;
Her gates are never barred:

‘And I an infant at her breast
Draw milk of purest life—’
Wise Admonition checkt the rest;

After the dazzle of day is gone,
Only the dark, dark night shows to my eyes the stars;
After the clangor of organ majestic, or chorus, or perfect band,
Silent, athwart my soul, moves the symphony true.