Why have you gone down in me,
O light of life, sun of the world?
Why is your radiance gone from me?
The path of my life wherein I walked
So unfaltering
Has stopped under my feet;
The shadows are heavy about me,
There is no direction or end; I stumble.

It is only you can make the path sure;
Reason and foresight go ever round and round,
And our continual confusion and noisy seeking of the will
Only you can set in eager forward ways.

Come, deceive me again into happiness!
Put upon me your old delusion, your certainties of good.

What has become of me? My self is fallen in pieces.
The walls of my house, the corridors where I walked,
The towers and high rooms that looked out —
Have been shaken till they are fallen in ruins;
The timbers are loosened from each other,
Hanging disjoined, against emptiness, broken;
I drift as a ghost over the rafters,
The crumbled roof.

What does the rock on which the waves of the sea beat know of the sea?
The rock beholds the broken surface of the water, the hurling spray,
But he has no sight of the quiet, unmarred,
The deep places of treasure.
He feels the caresses of the sea, hears the passionate cry
Of the sea's song at his feet, breaking upon him,
And to the rock it appears
That it is the rock who draws the sea's caresses, her desire.
But it is only the driving of the moon, that drives all seas.
Whatever rock the sea touches upon,
That the tides urge her upon,

Love has given me my singing, —
Take then what you have taken.
All the longing and denial,
The unrest my life has shaken,
I forgive. Much sorrow love can bring,
But it was love that stirred my lips to sing!

Oh, you taught to me my hunger,
You may claim me by that token;
But the word my hunger taught me
That my hunger might be spoken —
This to me, to me — not you — belongs;
You had my love, but mine shall be my songs!

In answer to Mr. Waller's verses to the Author.

When into Libya the young Grecian came,
To talk with Hammon, and consult for fame;
When from the sacred tripod where he stood
The priest, inspir'd, saluted him a god;
Scarce such a joy that haughty victor knew,
Thus own'd by Heav'n, as I, thus prais'd by you.
Whoe'er their names can in thy numbers show
Have more than empire, and immortal grow;
Ages to come shall scorn the pow'rs of old,
When in thy verse of greater gods they 're told;
Our beauteous queen and royal James's name

Thou'st heard those old proverbs, ne'er lean on; rush,
A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,
'Tis the money paid down that decides who's the winner,
Who waits upon fortune's ne'er sure of a dinner:

Out of sight out of mind, delaying breeds danger,
He ought to be cozen'd who trusts to a stranger;
Heaven take my friend, and the old one my brother,
Promising's one thing, performing another.

II.

Much may fall out 'twixt the cup and the lip,

There was a rose, that blushing grew
Within my life's young bower;
The angels sprinkled holy dew
Upon the blessed flower.
I glory to resign it, love,
Though it was dear to me;
Amid thy laurels twine it, love,
It only blooms for thee.

There was a rich and radiant gem
I long kept hid from sight;
Lost from some seraph's diadem,
It shone with heaven's own light!
The world could never tear it, love,
That gem of gems, from me;
Yet on thy fond breast wear it, love,
It only shines for thee.

The flower you picked for me that day
Is lying in the book we read,
Its petals pale and fallen away;
The flower is dead, that day is dead,
And our love too has paled and died
And even the memory of it sleeps:
Only the book still keeps
The bloom of life and pride.

Come, courage lads, and drink away,
A man upon his wedding day
Ought rarely well his part to play
 At Stingo, or October:

For, who would be that stupid elf
For whim, caprice, or love, or pels,
To poison, hang, or drown himself,
 Or marry when he's sober.

II.

For madam's will at nothing stops,
She must have balls, and routs, and fops,
And often ransack all the shops,
 In gay attire to robe her:

Then drink the day you take a wife,
As the last comfort of your life:
For, ever after, noise and strife

When a photograph of Attila
Appeared in The Tatler
The Huns were all delighted,
And the editor was knighted.