English

" O SISTER , " the white rose said to the red,
" Could only my face be as bright as thine!
I am pale. Could I only be pink instead,
I would lift to the sunlight my beautiful head,
And never be weary, or weep, or pine! "

" O sister, " the red rose said to the white,
" Could only my face be as pale as thine!
I am doomed to be gathered to-night, to-night, —
I shall faint at a ball in the hot gas-light,
While you will be glad in the cool moonshine. "

" Ah! sister, " the white rose sighed to the red,

What is the whisper of the leaves
Round ruined turrets reddening fast,
Or nestling under cottage-eaves
While autumn winds go sighing past?
“Life is sorrow,” they whisper,
“Life is only a dream:
The sky seemed blue, but it was not true;
The sky is as grey as the stream!”

What is the whisper of the heart
When love and life have ceased to please,
When passion's fairy dreams depart
And cold winds rustle through the trees?
“Life is trouble,” it whispers,
“Trouble and wild despair

White, when I saw you last, with eyes as clear
As ocean in the summer over sand,
Your face was, — when I pressed your cold sweet hand.
I did not know it was the last time, dear,
And so another sonnet-pressure here
I send, — the last wave washed upon the strand, —
Last cry from darkness towards the sunlit land, —
Last petal of the last rose of the year.

The last long wailing of a harpsichord, —
Last struggle, last spent sobbing, of a flute, —
Last broken iridescence of a lute, —

I dreamed a wonderful dream of a flower.
On the hill-side green it grew:
But the tongue would fail, nor has brush the power
To paint that flower for you.
It scented the hill-side far and wide,
And scented the fields of corn:
Its odour was sweet through the tall gold wheat,
And sweet on the airs of morn.
And when I woke, I marvelled:
My soul seemed breathing still
A fragrance never lavished
On mortal grove or hill.

And never, till love came down from above
With its rapture and despair,

We have to give her eyes, and hearts, and hands,
Sweet poet-brothers, lovers of my soul;
We have to crown her with the living whole
Of power that each in his degree commands.
Silent and smiling before each she stands,
Ready to lay cool palms upon his brow
If only he will swear allegiance now,
Renouncing love of home, and life, and lands,
Renouncing popularity and praise
And great laudation of most petty minds
And all the vulgar hubbub of the ways; —
The man that doth this thing most surely finds

If only a single Rose is left,
Why should the Summer pine?
A blade of grass in a rocky cleft;
A single star to shine.
— Why should I sorrow if all be lost,
If only thou art mine?

If only a single Blue-bell gleams
Bright on the barren heath,
Still of that flower the Summer dreams,
Not of his August wreath.
— Why should I sorrow, if thou art mine,

The bloom is fair upon the hawthorn hedges;
The throstles sing from many a budding spray;
Blue ripples laugh along the river-edges;
The blue sky seems to whisper, " It is May! "
And yet the thought of tawny-leaved September
Dismays the fancy with a touch of gloom:
Aye, and a mem'ry of old wild November,
Whose storm-winds trumpet forth pale Autumn's doom.

When love is at its sweetest, in its season,
When it is full of summer joy and mirth,
There sometimes comes the thought, " In love is treason:

The fairest things, alas! are ever fleetest;
How glad, and yet how short, is sunny May:
For just one hour the rose is at its sweetest;
The violet's perfume lasts but for a day.
For some short weeks the waves are at their brightest;
The stars grow pale within the morning air:
One day the chestnut-bloom is at its whitest —
The next day sees it wither and despair.

And so with love. — It has its perfect splendour,
Its summer glory, when the twain hearts meet:
Its perfect hour of June, its moment tender,

Woman herself is led astray by dreams
That lead the heart of man in turn astray.
Oh, will Night's blackness never change to day?
Shall we for ever chase elusive gleams?
Endless and vain the mad pursuing seems!
Soul after soul is born, — then hurled away,
Whither? Will Beauty's white foot ne'er delay.
Bright on an earth of flowers and sunlit streams?

Eternal Beauty, whom I wildly sought
When in my youth the long search first began.
If all my passionate seeking counts for nought,

I sometimes feel as if the dream divine
Of what fair Woman on this earth might be,
A dream that ever with sweet touch gladdened me
In the old days when youth and hope were mine,
A dream that met me in the soft starshine
Of even, or morn's sunlight o'er the sea, —
I sometimes feel that, if this dream must flee,
Distorted, baffled, is strong Love's design.

If England fails the dream to realize, —
If some pure Angel stooping from bright air
Met no response within dull human eyes, —