English

You gave me flowers when we met,
White violets, white violets,
And in their hearts the evening dew
Hung trembling like the tears of vain regret.

I gave a rosebud, red and sweet,
For violets, white violets, —
The drooping head had broke its stem,
And fell in blushing beauty at your feet.

You gave a promise when we met,
Ah! violets, white violets,
I gave you silence, for the heart
Had drifted through the springtide dew and wet.

The years grow aged all too soon,
Sweet violets, white violets, —

Though snowy peaks may cap my day,
I know somewhere that vines are twining;
Though storms and lightnings 'round me play,
Deep in my soul the sun is shining.

Though teardrops from mine eyelids start,
I know the world bows not in sorrow;
I would not have it weep, — my heart
May wake in gladness on the morrow.

O Love Divine, keep thou my land, —
My heritage of soul, — enfold it;
I know that when I reach my hand,
A Father's hand is there to hold it.

            I.

  Here's a babble
   In Vanity Fair!
  Here's a rabble
   Of folk on the stare!
  Here's a crying,
  Selling and buying,
  Groaning and grumbling,
  Pushing and stumbling!
  Tootle-te-toot!
   Rum-ti-tum-tum!
  They blow the flute,
   And they beat the drum.
  And yonder in rows
  Are the painted shows,
  Where zany and clown
   With ‘Walk in, walk in!’
  Stalk up and down,

Within your pulsing day
There must be little space
For visions of my face
To lure your thoughts away.

Yet, I would have it so,
To bear alone the pain
That saddens love's refrain.
Pray God you never know!

Still were the azure fields, thick strewn
With stars, and trod by luminous feet;
In the low west the wan white Moon
Walked in her winding-sheet —
Holding her taper up, to see
Thy cold fair face, Mnemosyne.

And on that face her lustre fell,
Deepening the marble pallor there,
While by the stream, and down the dell,
Thy slow still feet did fare;
Thy maiden thoughts were far from me,
Thy lips were dumb, Mnemosyne.

O who sits and sings the sad song of the Shealing,
Alone on the hill-side, alone in the night!
Dead still through the shadows the moon-light is stealing,
The dew's on the heather, the mist on the height.
She sitteth in silence, and singeth so slowly;
She milks the dark kine with her fingers so fair.
White woe of the lost, may her vigil be holy!
The song of the Shealing is sad on the air.

Dark strewn on the grass are the stones of the Shealing,
The wild leek and nettle grow black over all;

Believe me — when I say
That love like yours, at this belated hour,
Overwhelms me, —
Stills the fount of thought!
I move as one new-born —
And strange to swift transitions
As from my prison door
I gaze
Into a blinding sunlight!

Passing ever, early, late,
No fond footsteps seek my gate,
But down the winding road they wend
To some other journey's end.

Yet, — I would not have them wait
Here within my guarded gate,
Certain footsteps I shall know,
And for them I listen low!

A GENRE PICTURE .

I.

" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."

It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing

FRAGMENT .

But now the first faint flickering ray
Fell from the cold east far away,
The birds awoke and twitter'd, hover'd,
The dim leaves sparkled in the dew —
Earth slowly her dark head uncover'd
And held her blind face up the blue,
Till the fresh consecration came
In yellow beams of orient flame,
Touching her, and she breathed full blest
With lilies heaving on her breast.
Seas sparkled, dark capes glimmer'd green,
As Dawn crept on from scene to scene,
Lifting each curtain of the night