Poor, worn-out Mortals! here you lie,
Stretched on your sandwich-boards, asleep!
Unconscious of the passers-by;
Unheedful of what miseries steep
Your waking hours, without, within!
To rouse you were a sin.

In yonder street the sun's ablaze;
I catch the river's glittering light
At end of it: their careless ways
The crowd goes on, in sin's despite,
In sorrow's neighbourhood content.—
You're lost in wonderment?

He made us all, Whose name is Good;
He counts each hair upon our head;
He marks the inmost spirit's mood;

Round and round the garden rushed a sudden blast.
Crying, “Autumn! Autumn!” shuddering as it passed.
Dry poppy-head and larkspur-spike shrill whistled in the wind,
Together whispering, “Autumn! and Winter is behind!”

Tossed the sumach pennons, green and gold and red;
Flapped the awning scallops loudly overhead;
Swung the empty hammocks lightly to and fro;
While the crickets simmered, chirruping below.

Keen the star of evening hung glittering in the sky,
Red the west was burning, deepening silently;

Is it eyes, or mouth, or hair,
Or the pearls about a throat,
No whit than themselves less fair,
That before my vision float,
And hold me pris'ner of despair?

Is it subtly moulded ear,
Tender as a rose-lit shell,
Or the rippling laugh I hear,
Whose resistless, untold, spell
Poiseth me 'twixt hope and fear?

Ah! I name nor lips, nor hair,
Ears, empearlèd throat, nor eyes:
Not in one beauty's curious snare
The secret of my bondage lies;
'Tis in the whole dear Self, I swear.

'Mid lights, and colour, and music, and dance,
Her heart is bounding, her swift feet glance;
While a thousand eyes are strained to behold her,
A thousand hands to applaud. — 'Tis done:
The curtain falls, and her triumph is won,
As their shouts, and their bouquets they fling, have told her.

Out from the theatre, into the street,
To where they are gathered at Mass to greet
The new-born Infant, she straightway turns.
The Host is offered, the chanting ends:
At the young Child's feet, as she lowly bends,

So soon the end must come,
Why waste in sighs our breath?
So soon our lips are dumb,
So swift comes death.

So brief the time to smile,
Why darken we the air
With frowns and tears, the while
We nurse despair?

Hold firm the suffering will
And bravely thrust it back;
Fight with the powers of ill,
The legions black.

Stand in the sunshine sweet
And treasure every ray,
Nor seek with stubborn feet
The darksome way.

Have courage! Keep good cheer!
Our longest time is brief.

What wondrous power from heaven upon thee wrought?
What prisoned Ariel within thee broods?
Marvel of human skill and human thought,
Light as a dry leaf in the winter woods!

Thou mystic thing, all beautiful! What mind
Conceived thee, what intelligence began
And out of chaos thy rare shape designed,
Thou delicate and perfect work of man?

Across my hands thou liest mute and still;
Thou wilt not breathe to me thy secret fine;
Thy matchless tones the eager air shall thrill
To no entreaty or command of mine;

The Sun returns,
The young Sun burns
With his youth renewed and desire of his love the Earth:
And his gentle kisses rain on her lips till mirth
Breaks out on her pale sweet face in a laughter of flowers,
In a ripple of crystal waves, in a chorus of song,
Through the silver hours,
Through the silver hours that are gliding, gliding along,
That are gliding to gold with the growing love of the Sun,
As he holds embraced with trance upon trance his beautiful bride,
While silver hours into golden hours glide;

Was it a dream? We sail'd, I thought we sail'd,
Martin and I, down a green Alpine stream,
Border'd, each bank, with pines; the morning sun,
On the wet umbrage of their glossy tops,
On the red pinings of their forest-floor,
Drew a warm scent abroad; behind the pines
The mountain-skirts, with all their sylvan change
Of bright-leaf'd chestnuts and moss'd walnut-trees
And the frail scarlet-berried ash, began.
Swiss chalets glitter'd on the dewy slopes,
And from some swarded shelf, high up, there came
Notes of wild pastoral music — over all

Little threshold, be thou not shaken;
It is for me to be shaken
To bring lilies.

Little plank, be thou not stirred;
It is for me to be stirred
To bring lilies

Little ground, shake thou not;
It is for me to be shaken,
To bring lilies.

Little tree, tremble not;
It is for me to tremble,
To bring lilies.

Little leaf, be thou not thrown down;
It is for me to be thrown down,
To bring lilies.

Sun, arise not;
It is for me to arise,
To bring lilies.

Sun, surround not;
It is for me to surround,

Through all the hours of all the days
I seek for Love through all the ways
His spirit drives my wandering feet,
One face, one form, one heart to meet
Unfound through any ways and days.

The million million waves that race
Over the whole world's ocean's face;
The million million leaves that quiver
Within the whole world's trees for ever,
Oh! leaves that quiver, oh! waves that race,

Your pulses beat for a spirit's kiss
That ye yearn and yearn for, ever miss;
For a spirit to touch you, embrace you, enter,