Here in a world where hearts grow old,
You still retain your heart of boy;
For still you follow and uphold
A creed of charity and joy.

Here in a world where hearts grow cold,
Life still runs warmly in your blood;
For still your April dreams unfold
Blossom on blossom, bud on bud.

Here in a world where hearts grow old,
Your heart is still with youth aglow;
For beauty still you make and mould,
And beauty still you reap and sow.

Here in a world where hearts grow cold,
Warm to your heart returns the love, —

Since honour from the honourer proceeds,
How well do they deserve, that memorise
And leave in books for all posterities
The names of worthies, and their virtuous deeds;
When all their glory else, like water-weeds
Without their element, presently dies,
And all their greatness quite forgotten lies,
And when and how they flourisht no man heeds;
How poor remembrances are statues, tombs,
And other monuments that men erect
To Princes, which remain in closed rooms,
Where but a few behold them, in respect
Of books, that to the universal eye

Her radiant amber-lucent eyes
Have far unknown infinitudes:
We merely wot the nether skies
That sparkle with her lighter moods.

The suns, the stars, above, behind, —
The radiance of remoter Space,
We know not. We are dazed and blind
With the near beauty of her face.

But could we the deep eyes explore,
Would nobler constellations shine?
Would the eyes sparkle more and more,
Lit by a spirit more divine?

Or would we find the lights inane,
And would we find the depth a shoal,
And would we seek the skies in vain

Not me you love — not me so maimed and marred,
So flecked with flaws,
So sullied and so scarred,
Or, loving me, you love me just because
Your faith can see
Embalmed in me
The boy-who-was —
The poet-boy, so starry and ill-starred,
Who died of life too hopeless and too hard.

Rare Mystic Union of Melodious Wood
With Lips whose caressing woos it into Life!
Whence borne's such mellow sound on raptured ear,
That straightway dissolves all thought of hideous strife,
Annoyance, pain, yea every hurtful mood,
Now nought remaining but pure peace and sheer

Ecstasy of sense. Even so, I ween,
Fell in the golden prime those notes he filled
The expectant woodland with, the Great God Pan;
When all the submissive beasts were wholly stilled
In an amazed enchantment — yea, the green

While on my lonely couch I lie,
I seldom feel myself alone,
For fancy fills my dreaming eye
With scenes and pleasures of its own.

Then I may cherish at my breast
An infant's form beloved and fair;
May smile and soothe it into rest,
With all a mother's fondest care.

How sweet to feel its helpless form
Depending thus on me alone;
And while I hold it safe and warm,
What bliss to think it is my own!

And glances then may meet my eyes
That daylight never showed to me;
What raptures in my bosom rise

Others may far outstrip thee:
Some by right
And other some perchance by lucky hap;
Or through sheer craft of knowing how to play
A game they've held in sight
Up from youth's earliest day,
Intent the prize — no matter how 't may be —
Should drop into their lap.

I give to thee no counsel,
Friend, and cry —
" Pass heedless of them vexing not thy mind
With scorn, or anger, or disdainful word,
Envying their seat on high:
Not once, not once be heard
That whispered sneer of — " Fair enough the shell!
Blank emptiness behind!" "

'Tis strange to think, there was a time
When mirth was not an empty name,
When laughter really cheered the heart,
And frequent smiles unbidden came,
And tears of grief would only flow
In sympathy for others' woe;

When speech expressed the inward thought,
And heart to kindred heart was bare,
And Summer days were far too short
For all the pleasures crowded there,
And silence, solitude, and rest,
Now welcome to the weary breast —

Were all unprized, uncourted then —
And all the joy one spirit showed,

The glories of her lucent eyes,
That seem of truth and wisdom full,
Are merely starry summer skies
Mirrored upon a mountain pool,
Whose level limpid water lies
Placid, and passionless, and cool.

The truth and beauty that they dole
Are borrowed and reflected light.
No glimmer is there of a soul
In the blue depths that seem so bright;
And where the mirrored planets roll
Is cold as space, and dark as night.

And though a dancing summer wind
Make the blue water ripple and gleam
As if a spirit there — behind —

I

With dreamy eyes undimmed by care,
And earnest mouth and dusky hair,
More calm she is than halcyon air

Upon a languorous night in June,
What time the scented breezes swoon,
And brown bats flit across the moon.

More pure she is than the petals white
That dimple the dark breasts of Night,
As tiny cherub-fingers might.

And cinctured with simplicity,
She moveth like the singing sea,
And wotteth not the melody

That in her bosom-deep abides,