THE DOUBTERS .

Y E love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.

Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there,
Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.

Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone

On Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
In flaming letters written, was impress'd
Good F RIDAY . And on mine, be it confess'd,
Is this year's A DVENT , as it passeth o'er.

I dOnot now begin, — I still adore
Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast,
Then once again with prudence dispossess'd,
And to whose heart I'm driven back once more.

The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
One long Good Friday 'twas, one heartache drear;

But may my mistress' Advent ever prove,

The remembrance of the Good
Keep us ever glad in mood.

The remembrance of the Fair
Makes a mortal rapture share.

The remembrance of one's Love
Blest is, if it constant prove.

The remembrance of the One
Is the greatest joy that's known.

Loving the spring evening alone, I step down to the garden,
a breeze, a soft moon, both comely and fair.
Were my clothes not to become soaked with dew,
I'd lie under cherry blossoms until the day breaks.

Now that
at last
the dogs
that once barked at you
are
used to your touch,
don't
stay
away from the house
they linger around

Through rain, through snow,
Through tempest go!
'Mongst steaming caves,
O'er misty waves,
On, on! still on!
Peace, rest have flown!

Sooner through sadness
I'd wish to be slain,
Than all the gladness
Of life to sustain;
All the fond yearning
That heart feels for heart,
Only seems burning
To make them both smart!

How shall I fly?
Forestwards hie?
Vain were all strife!
Bright crown of life,
Turbulent bliss, —
Love, thou art this!

If I, dearest Lily, did not love thee,
How this prospect would enchant my sight!
And yet if I, Lily, did not love thee,
Could Ifind, or here, or there, delight?

Ah ! who'll e'er those days restore,
Those bright days of early love!
Who'll one hour again concede,
Of that time so fondly cherish'd!
Silently my wounds I feed,
And with wailing evermore
Sorrow o'er each joy now perish'd.
Ah! who'll e'er the days restore
Of that time so fondly cherish'd!

With what harshness
they come blowing
toward me —
the mountain winds
from deep
within
the heart
of one who asks

I try to hide it,
but still my love
burns within —
grasses of springtime
whose colors
show the more
clearly
for a layer