English

The beauty of little things we never see;
The beauty of one leaf upon a tree
Where thousands wave:
The beauty of one shell upon the beach
Where thousands crackle at our tread, yet each
Buries a sunset in its spiral cave.

The olive-green sea-weed upon the shore,
Strewing the shingly sunlit briny floor,
With sunlight cast
Through the bright fronds: the stretch of white chalk cliff:
The white foam-streak behind the arrowy skiff:
The yellow moon against the tapering mast:

But now beneath strange stars our spirits meet.
Those golden flowerbuds of the gracious sky,
That shone upon our youth, when you and I
Found their gold petals, falling on us, sweet —
Those ancient stars are withered with life's heat, —
The golden petals, once so smooth, are dry;
Oh, darling, heave with me one long sweet sigh
For tracks deep-trodden by lone flowerless feet.

The sorrow and loneliness are over truly, —
Life's fresh stars rise and beam upon us newly, —
Yet weep for splendours of the ancient day:

The light of mountains, and the light of skies,
Will fade out swiftly from before thine eyes:
No more, blue seas will break.
Cast off thy faith in heaven! The earth will fade.
Cease to believe in love! No sunlit glade
Will laugh and gleam and brighten for thy sake

Thou standest now in deadly peril, friend. —
Lose faith in God and woman — all things end;
All things at least for thee.
Thy poethood, so sweet and pure and strong;
The might and force and manhood of thy song;
Thy heart's communion with the stars and sea;

The spirits of stars, the spirits of waves and seas,
The spirits of sunset-clouds, the spirits of trees,
Inspire the poet's song.
He passes rapidly from sphere to sphere:
The mountain-thunder now enthrals his ear;
 Next with the sea-wind's harp he dallies long.

The dead hosts, myriads who have passed away,
Are marshalled and divided. Some hosts sway
The stormy purplest seas:
Others, far inland in the forest-nooks,
Rule only flowers and birds and rippling brooks
And the thyme-scented breeze.

Have faith in truth. The generations pass:
The centuries wither like sun-stricken grass:
The very stars are doomed:
Yet never one true word shall pass away.
The songs of David thrill our hearts to-day;
His soul is disentombed.

His words move English hearts.—The words of Paul
Electrify and aid and lift us all
In our far Northern land.
No true word ever passes,—no Ideal.
Is any word of Christ to-day less real
Or parable less grand?

Words spoken by blue calm Gennesaret

We shall survey our lives, when life is past,
With strange transfigured vision, — when at last
The whole before us gleams.
We shall say, " Here a victory was ours:
Here gathered we sweet wealth of passion's flowers:
Here love's eyes filled our dreams. "

Yes, all shall then be changed, and yet the same.
The fiery current of the sun's red flame
Shall still dart down the air:
The flowers shall lavish fragrance on the breeze,
And still Spring's kiss shall greet the lilac-trees
In London street and square.

And in that desert of void endless thought,
Like a white shining flower my love shall be;
A flower to bloom round and encourage me,
With tender petals marvellously wrought.
This gift, far rarer than all gifts I sought,
Shall be mine own: its utter purity
Shall make that desert like some grassy sea,
With lilies 'twixt the grass-blades twined and caught.

This one sweet flower amid the desert sands
Of hard fierce thought, a silver bloom, expands,
In token that one woman did not fear,

I bear my lady unto other lands,
New spheres of thought, — through spirit-realms we fly:
As one who leads from under English sky
His bride to where dense tropic bloom expands,
Or shapes a home for her with thoughtful hands
Where through the groves Italian breezes sigh, —
Or 'neath the snowy glare of mountain high, —
Or 'mid the burning glare of Indian sands.

Yea, so, victorious, I would bear my lady,
From thought's first maiden regions, cool and shady,
Towards tropic lands of fiercer burning glee:

Ye strange fierce seas that listen to my song,
And all ye winds and mountains that rejoice
In unison with my uplifted voice,
And all ye streams that, one with me, are strong,
And all ye countless stars, a gold-crowned throng,
It is the last time, mark me, that I sing:
This summer breeze that trembles at my wing,
May eddy, unmolested, soon along.

For I am one with Beatrice: the pure
Sweet soul of her is part of me, and I
No longer, stricken into speech, endure
The lonely black abhorrence of the sky,

Full many a pleasure through the hours of life
Hath met me, — some in byeways, some in broad
Wide-open pathways of the common road:
Full many a flower hath fallen beneath my knife,
Some gathered redly from tempestuous strife,
Some plucked in valleys that calm thought hath showed; —
With many gracious gleams my days have glowed;
With many stars my clear skies have been rife.

Yet never have I known a pleasure higher
Than when, an ardent trembling youth, I came
To lay before my lady my desire