English

Once clear and white the mortal woman came
And softly filled the silent yearning room
With a superb exuberance of bloom,
A force of sweetness burning like a flame.
My soul leapt forth, her passionate soul to claim:
A sense as of her presence smote the gloom:
I saw her eyes, and heard her lips say, " Come! "
I rose, and almost called her by her name.

She filled the room; and, as for me, I wept
And closed my eyes and opened them again
To find her still before me, — then I slept:

By the old white maze of swift bewildering billows
That stormed the strand;
By the old dear woods' autumnal mossy pillows,
By thy white hand;
By far streams washing tips of bended willows,
A far-off land!

By all sweet sacred memories I adjure thee,
By cliff, by star,
By maze of garden shrubs that now secure thee
Where no songs are;
By the old soft dreams that once, sweet, did allure thee,
By pain's red scar!

By all the tossing tides of bitter sorrow,
A foaming main;

I.

Yes; sweet it was. Most sweet to watch your Spanish glances
Rove o'er the Stage, and through the gauzy mazy dances:
And yet how little part
Can I have ever in thee! Thou art the Morning's daughter!
Thy laugh is as the sound of silver running water!
How little art thou akin to my worn heart!

II.

I love thee. Yes. But as the night might love the morrow;
Or as the spirit of joy might be beloved of sorrow,
So art thou loved of me!
Or as an inland stream that glances 'neath the bushes,

I.

For all thy youth given up to me so worn and weary,
For thy soft days of Spring given up to Winter dreary,
What shall I, love, return?
What do the black pines give to the roses in the thicket?
What doth the searcher say as swift he stoops to pick it
To the first budding fern?

II.

Thou art so young and sweet,—and all is still before thee:
The whole long summer day's unbroken blue beams o'er thee;
But as for me, for me,
My summer days are far behind yon range of mountains;

I.

The woods are no less rich for all the flowers within them,
But richer, richer far:
The pine-leaves stoop above the daisies and would win them;
They kiss each white small star.

II.

The world is no less rich for all the songs within it,
But far more heavenly-sweet.
No nightingale can hush the happy homely linnet;
God hears its soft " tweet, tweet. "

III.

The skies are no less blue because the gold stars fill them;
Nor are the hills less bright

And is the Christ who rose with heaven-bright wings
Dead, dead for ever? Did he never rise
And cleave with helm and plume the shadowy skies?
What is this message that our sad age brings?
Oh, weird the low disastrous whisper rings
And fast around the darkening planet flies;
" Man stands alone; all former creeds were lies;
Truth open every heavenly doorway flings! "

The doors are open, and we gaze in dread
Thinking perchance some living God to see, —
Great eyes that burn from some divine vast head,

O shores and lakes and dells
Of England! asphodels
And lilies of the East are not so fair
As tender blossoms born
Beneath the breath of morn
Within your folds and nursed by Western air:
Nor are the Eastern maids
Crowned with the dim black braids
As sweet as flowing crowns of sun-kissed golden hair.

O England! cliffs and downs
And bustling fervent towns
And long grey shores and myriad-maned sea,
And gardens, close, red-walled,
And mountains weird and bald

I.

O strong pure spirit to whom
The leaves, the hills, the bright and bounding seas,
The laughing whisper of the English breeze,
Fair summer smiling through our forest trees,
Or spring's soft bloom,
Were gifts of present God, — what death, what tomb
Can hold thee, or what frost-bound gloom?

II.

Surely thou livest yet:
Surely thy well-loved Lord hath found for thee
By the grey waves of some celestial sea
A home where, winged with rapture, thou mayest be;

To F. B.

Is all the world against thee? Then am I
Quite for thee, though I bitterly condemn
The sin that justifies their spite to them,
And drains the wells of thy fair spirit dry.
It is an English poet's part to die
For English womanhood at utter need:
My spirit, all on fire to intercede
For thy bruised spirit, hovers gently nigh.

What is it worth, the gift of praise men bring

After Metaphysic's dreary song
Back to thee I turn,
Finding much of love's pure lore I long
Yet to learn.

After all the feasts of learning spread
Grand before my gaze,
Love's sweet mandate thrills my heart instead
At a glance of May's.

After all the lengthy windy words
Spun from mankind's tongue,
Strange relief to hear a girl's, or bird's,
Said or sung.

After wandering through the weary days,
Sad, alone,