English

Yet in ten years a high work may be done,
Labour accomplished that shall put to shame
The swift departure of the vanquished sun,
When the red waves receive on crests of flame
The lingering arrows its last efforts aim.
For in ten years the meadow-sweet immortal
Of song may crown and robe one much-loved name;
Yea, and the wings of song may through death's portal
Bear, living and triumphant, one flower-form,
Still beautiful and white, still breathing, warm.
In ten years, sweetheart, I have set thee high

Oh, thou canst not escape! my songs pervade
The distance lying between us, and they fill
The sunny plain, the fields, the leafy shade.
They ripple to thee in the rippling rill,
They call unto thee from the gleaming hill;
They laughing claim thee as mine own for ever
In spite of all that time can work of ill.
They cluster round thee, to forsake thee never;
Their plumes in the hazy air of August quiver;
They follow thee throughout the silent deep
Unfathomed dim abodes of awful sleep,

Yea, towards God's snow-capped mountains do I raise
Mine eyes and towards God's temples lift my voice:
The endless beauty of my love I praise,
That she too in my singing may rejoice,
Finding immortal pleasure in my lays.
Oh, beautiful her face beneath the bays
Smiles, when I lift the circlet from mine head;
Forgetting for a season all the ways
Of song — the paths of suffering fiery-red
Through which my thorn-pierced footsteps have been led,
And all the lonely nights and grievous days —

Are we forgotten, when our spirits pass
The silent doors of all-absorbing death?
Yea, do we mingle with the flowers and grass,
And draw no more sweet loving human breath?
Lovers have trodden love's mystic path before us,
And other fair-souled lovers will succeed —
Will mark the same blue skies that once shone o'er us,
Or haply with the same deep sorrows bleed.

Oh, is there any resting place, a haven
For love's wings sent forth like the pilot raven
To pierce the shadows, pioneer the tomb?

Yes , weary it is. The days are full of sighing. —
Close to our hands the remedy is lying,
The cure for sorrow and care.
Stretch out thine hand. The poison-draught is ready.
See how below that bridge the dark waves eddy!
Are not sleep's lips of all lips the most fair? —

So pleads the inner voice with dangerous pleading.
And yet the soul is great which, rent and bleeding,
Lives on and on and on.
" Great souls are strong to live. " Great past our knowing
Is the brave soul who lives, when hope seems going

Two spirits, mixing, blending,
Went swiftly upward tending
To the skies:
Their golden course no power
Could stay — sweet hour on hour
They uprise.

In heaven's holy night
These spirits, glad and bright,
Became
One perfect spirit-being,
Far, far beyond death seeing,
Earth's pale dominions fleeing
Like a flame.

But back in the sad morn
To earthland they were borne
On slow faint wings —
Slowly, slowly weeping;
But still the chant that sleeping,
They heard, around them rings.

I.

" Far out where waves are breaking,
Where never song-bird sings,
My soul would fly, forsaking
All flowers and inland things
I am weary of the bowers
Where summer's heart is won;
I am weary of the flowers;
I am weary of the sun:
Where only star-rays sunder
The darkness, I would be;
At rest, while wild waves thunder
The anthems of the sea. "

II.

Oh, thou wast white! Beyond all earthly splendour
Of utmost love thine utter whiteness shone:
Moon-radiant, subtle, sweet, supremely tender,
Luring with gentle might my passion on.
No singing words can all thy beauty render;
It gleamed one perfect moment — then 'twas gone!
A lily waved on earth her flower-stalk slender
And seemed to smile up at me, soft and wan!

But thou hadst vanished, sweet, and never more
Shall I set foot on that far heavenly shore;
Or see thy whiteness glittering through my sleep.

O weird pale pitiless stars, so wan and cold,
Planets that knew no youth, yet are not old,
Ye watch with deathless eyes
Our death-filled years, our bitter days and hours:
Yet are ye heartless, — just mere golden flowers
Crowding the purple skies?

O strong strange stars that glitter through the night,
Are ye all speechless? Are your eyes so bright,
Yet do they never weep?
Are mortal agonies mere passing gleams
That flash across the darkness of your dreams
But never break your sleep?

Whence springs the sweetness of pure golden rhyme
That fills the soul with fragrant dreams for hours?
From rose and lily and furze and pink and thyme:
The poet's earliest teachers are the flowers.

Then, when he craves the thunder for his strain,
The strength of song at which the centuries flee,
His stern inspiring motive he must gain
From the wild waters, worshipping the sea.

Another step — and upward. Let the race
Of man pour through him its tempestuous might!
Let him find marvel in the lowliest face