English

Blue are of heaven whose lattices
Are throng'd with starry eyes;
Vast dome that over land and seas
Dost luminously rise,
With mystic characters enwrought
More strange than all poetic thought!

Hear, Heaven, if thou canst hear! and see,
O stars, if see ye can!
Mark, while your speechless mystery
Flows to a Voice in man:
He stands erect this solemn hour
In reverent insolence of power.

Order divine, whose awful show
Dazzles all guess or dream;
Sequence unseen, whose mystic flow

The chap who never knows he is whipped
Is a fool ... from some people's point of view;
He whirls right in, though he isn't equipped,
And does the things that he just can't do.
Liking the things that he cannot bear,
He laughs, though it's only a bluff....His sand
Is damp, perhaps, with tears — but it's there ,
So he stands the pain that he just can't stand.

Of course I love you! Love your dusky hair,
 Your sea-gray eyes, your bud-like lips, your throat
White as the hurrying foam, soft as the summer air
 That down the rose-lane whispers one love note;
  Of course I love you! You who are so wise
  Your lashes needs must veil your sapient eyes.

I love to think my fate is in your hands;
 To know you're ever near me in The Race;
To sense the way you meet all my demands—
 (Granting what's good for me, with charming grace!)
  I love your poise; your joyous laugh; your walk;

A whisper at twilight, a sigh through the night,
A strain of soft music, a perfume so light,
Will sweep as a feather the bulwark of years,
To surges of rapture, or rivers of tears.

The shades of the gloaming around me are stealing,
The lure of the dusk through the silences call,
Whiie blossoming incense comes mutely appealing,
And choiring wood-voices, vespering, fall.
Immersed in the deep of my dim sylvan-bower,
Upborne on the breast of its emerald tide,
I drift with the gleam of the vanishing hour
Afar — where my uttermost longings abide.

O love, you have shorn me, and rifled my heart,
You have torn down the shrine from the innermost part,
And through it now rushes a grief, sadly-wild,
That breaks as the plaint of a sorrowing child.

Why won't spring come? " asked the little maid
As she wistfully watched the gloomy sky,
The cold, gray clouds were scurrying by,
And the soft, sweet voice was weary — aye,
But the man saw no gray clouds! Not he —
Her eyes were blue as the summer sea!

" Why won't spring come? It's time 'twas here! "
And she sighed like a tired child at play.
But his pulse beat fast and his heart was gay —
And he thought of kissing her frown away.

A LONG way off you hear a song-bird trill;
At hand the city hums its endless song,
Till longingly you vision some green hill
And fret because the day seems over-long.
Dear Heart-o'-Mine were you not there before —
And, looking back, wished you were here once more?

The silent shepherd in the distant vale
Dreams not of peaceful days or calm, white nights.
He hears again the traveler's wondrous tale
Of life resplendent in the city's lights.
Cursing the fate that makes existence drear,

A little hour of sunshine,
A little while of joy,
We winnow in our harvesting
From all the world's alloy.

None, none, are so benighted,
Who journey up life's hill,
But have some treasured memory,
Which lives all vibrant still.

Into the immeasurable reaches of the still Unknown,
A little space ago you took your smiling way,
Led by a radiant, splendid Faith and that alone;
Lighted by love, the Path to you was bright as day.
You had no fear — as ever your one lack —
But took Death's kindly hand nor once looked back.

Whether you found the Great Adventure all you thought;
Whether or no that Life to your belief squares true,
The legacy you left to us — yourself — has taught,
What creeds, however good, could never do.