English

There's music in my soul today,
A joy of heart not there before:
This state of conscience I relay
To rich and proud and meek and poor.
There's music in my happy Soul:
From Heaven's realm doth truly flow
This music in my happy Soul,
My conscience tells me rightly so.

My song of joy I sing to you:
Let peace and love forever be
Among ye men of every hue,
Of every land and charted sea.

I crave no other fortune great,
But joy to live in peace with God;
My hopes are fixed on His Estate,

I.

Queen Mary said that on her heart,
Engraven there as with a dart,
Transferred by bitter thought,
The name of Calais would be found
In cipher legible and round,
By meditation wrought.

II.

And I believe that through the eye
The household forms, which round us lie
In sweet and shapely mass,
Things daily touched and seen and heard,
By sympathetic power transferred,
Upon the spirit pass.

III.

In childish days there was to me
A yearly vision of the sea;

I.

How long will lovely Amaret complain,
 In gentle notes , that wound each list'ning ear?
How long, alas! will she delight in pain,
 Which choice , not fate , inclines her soul to bear!

II.

 Strange paradox of love!—the vanquish'd maid,
 By cruel conquest , many still destroys!
What beauty gives her— passion has betray'd,
  And love, misplac'd, prevented all her joys .

III.

One way, and only one, does, yet, remain,
 Whereby, lost peace of mind you may restore,

The ice upon our pond's so thin
That poor Mama has fallen in!
We cannot reach her from the shore
Until the surface freezes more.
Ah me, my heart grows weary waiting—
Besides, I want to have some skating.

I.

There are who blame sensations of delight,
Born of our happy strength and cheerful health,
As though we could lay by no moral wealth
From the pulsations of mere joyous might.

II.

How poor they make themselves who thus disown
The fresh and temperate body's right to wait
Upon the soul, and to exhilarate
The heart with life from animal spirits thrown!

III.

For me a very weight of moral wealth
From the bright sun upon the ivy wall,
And white clouds in the sky, doth gaily fall,

Oh, traveler, disconsolate!
Thine heart may yet in solace be,
So brood ye not as if from Fate
Ignoble thou canst not be free.
Let's journey to the heights of love,
And cast behind the fears of death;
There is no death in life above,
For man is truly spiritual breath.

You are an entity of Grace
Divine, yes, partly God in One:
Your image is divine in race,
Although you may be mortal man.
Go seek the knowledge of the law,
Go make yourself the lord of earth;
See then the light that Moses saw,

I.

Is there a stream on this sweet earth
In vale or woodland, where
Traditions of unhappy love
Breathe not like summer air?

II.

There is no thought to hallow earth
With more consoling gladness
Than the true comfort she hath given
To lovers in their sadness.

III.

Green trees and streams and castled steeps
Are sweetest when they move,
The gentle forms in stirring songs
Of old disastrous love.

IV.

Born of no time or nation, still,
In its imperial force,

Good-bye, my friend, in death we part,
To meet in realms more glorious:
A void I feel deep in my heart,
For much there was of love in us:
To see you go is awful pain,
For thou hast been a world to me;
But we shall meet for good again,
To see the light that hallows thee.

This death is only transient;
It leads to brighter and new vales,
So wonderful, munificent,
As prophets tell in holy tales:
Go thou and wait for me a while,
And rest at God's fair borderland,
There with the angels you will smile,

O, thou profound, eternal blue,
God's mystic arch of heaven-land!
Art thou not veiling spirit hue,
And hiding the angelic band?
Jehovah! so move this veil,
That we may see the throne of light,
From which St. Gabriel brought the " Hail "
To Mary, on that Holy night!

We've slumbered much in darkness here,
And now we seek more light from Thee:
We feel that peace is reigning there —
Beyond the clouds, o'er land and sea.
The mystery of eternal life
Provokes the soul's sad tedium;

Condemn not, rashly, all that looks, like ill,
Lest you are forc'd to drink the cup, you fill .
As you sow judgment, you shall reap it, too;
And, as you measure, God will measure you .
Why, with such nice discernment, dost thou spy,
The growing mote , that clouds thy brother's eye?
Why is such zeal , to cure his blemish , shown,
When beams , instead of motes , have fill'd thy own .
Thou hypocrite! first, thy own blemish cure,
And, then, the needful help, for his , procure?