Who art thou, starry ghost,
That ridest on the air
At head of all the host,
And art so burning-eyed
For all thy strengthlessness?
World, I am no less
Than She whom thou hast awaited;
She who remade a Poland out of nothingness
And hath created
Ireland, out of a breath of pride
In the reed-bed of despair.

Ah, sleepless race,
Ye that a thousand years sail'd to destroy
Past Lemnos Isle and Samothrace
The cloud-rebuilded pirate fort of Troy —
Who perish'd not for Helen's face
To keep for kings her beauty's joy
But died to burst the Asian robbers' gate
And send Athena shining thro' the iron strait
On lifted shield, —

Sleep now in pride!
Asia shall yield to you to-day once more
When beak'd ships of the freemen ride
Past Holy Wisdom's wave-wash'd temple-door!
Across the Hellespont's astride
Power darker than the Minotaur

" Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. "
The Christmas joy, the song, the feast, the cheer,
Thine be the light of love in every face
That looks on thee, to bless thy coming year.

Thy own wish wish I thee. What dost thou crave?
All thy dear hopes be thine, whate'er they be.
A wish fulfilled may make thee king or slave;
I wish thee Wisdom's eyes wherewith to see.

Behold, she stands and waits, the youthful year!
A breeze of morning breathes about her brows;
She holds thy storm and sunshine, bliss and fear,

Go out with awe;
Come in with fear.

Here is the toil of silkworms,
And the labor of women's work.
If, having got the new, you cast away the old,
In the end you will be cold.

By cottage walls the lilacs blow;
Rich spikes of perfume stand and sway
At open casements, where all day
The warm wind waves them to and fro.

Out of the shadow of the door,
Into the golden morning air,
Comes one who makes the day more fair
And summer sweeter than before.

The apple blossoms might have shed
Upon her cheek the bloom so rare;
The sun has kissed her bright brown hair
Braided about her graceful head.

Lightly betwixt the lilacs tall
She passes, through the garden gate,

While all men's hearts with new-born hope were fed,
Hope in the morning, sweet faith in the sun,
Hope that dark tyrannous ages all were dead,
That reigns of kings and reigns of priests were done;

While all men's eyes beheld the morning light
Red in the skies, but blood-red over France, —
While all men dreamed that now the starless night
Had quailed before the high sun's fiery glance;

While all men dreamed that now on Europe's plains
Untinged with blood might wave the untrodden rye, —
While Revolution's forehead red with stains

Leucophaea, Ashen-gray!
So the Learned, Pretty One,
Name you: sleeping in the sun
This short February day,

Nestled closely to your oak,
Hardly from itself discerned;
Gentle Flutterer, all but turned
In your dun-barred quaker cloak.

To semblance of the aged tree,
That its hoary mottled side
Lends you, safely to abide
Till day dies, and dusk shall be:

Sweet Spring Usher, named aright
In our homely English phrase,
You, who brave these wintry days,
Harbinger of Spring's delight:

When at the last the great King's heart grew weary,
When pleasure's wild impassioned reign was done,
When laughter of bright lips rang dull and dreary,
When sadness veiled the stars and veiled the sun,

Then with grim Death the great King thus debated:
— The end is drawing near, lift up thine eyes, —
Said Death; — through all these long years I have waited,
But now my patient keen spear claims its prize. —

— But, Death, the world is mine, its every season —
I am the lord of winter and of spring;

The barley bows from the west
Before the delicate breeze
That many a sail caressed
As it swept the sapphire seas.

It has found the garden sweet,
And the poppy's cup it sways;
Bends the golden ears of wheat;
And its dreamy touch it lays.

On the heavy mignonette,
Stealing soft its odors fine,
On the pansies dewy yet,
On the phloxes red as wine.

Where the honeysuckle sweet
Storms the sunny porch with flowers,
Like a tempest of delight
Shaking fragrance down in showers,

It touches with airy grace