Hapless doom of woman happy in betrothing!
Beauty passes like a breath and love is lost in loathing:
Low, my lute; speak low, my lute, but say the world is nothing—
Low, lute, low!
Love will hover round the flowers when they first awaken;
Love will fly the fallen leaf, and not be overtaken;
Low, my lute! Oh low, my lute! we fade and are forsaken—
Low, dear lute, low!

Love , a thousand sweets distilling,
And with nectar bosoms filling,
Charm all eyes that none may find us,
Be above, before, behind us;
And, while we thy pleasures taste,
Enforce time itself to stay,
And by forelock hold him fast
Lest occasion slip away.

I was alone, for those I loved
Were far away from me;
The sun shone on the withered grass,
The wind blew fresh and free.

Was it the smile of early spring
That made my bosom glow?
'Twas sweet; but neither sun nor wind
Could cheer my spirit so.

Was it some feeling of delight,
All vague and undefined?
No; 'twas a rapture sweet and strong,
Expanding in the mind.

Was it a sanguine view of life,
And all its transient bliss,
A hope of bright prosperity?
Oh, no! it was not this.

It was a glimpse of truth divine

In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:
Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.

It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.

The little rift within the lover's lute
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit,
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.

It is not worth the keeping: let it go:
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.

W ACHUSETT thrilled
To its frostiest veins
At the step of its lover.

“Now am I repaid,”
It said, “for all
My lonely watch
Since the dawn of time.
He comes at last;
With loving foot he presses
My granite bosom;
He breathes my air,
Which I have made sweet for him
With starry dew,
And he will bear away
My image in his heart
To inspire and solace
Through him the world.
He loves me;
Therefore he knows me,
Both What I am and Why.”

Is not the picture strangely like?
Doesn't the very bowing strike?
Can any art of love in fashion
Express a more prevailing passion?
That air—that sticking to her side—
That deference, ill-concealing pride,—
That seeming consciousness of coat,
And repetition of one note,—
Ducking and tossing back his head,
As if at every bow he said,
‘Madam, by God’,—or ‘Strike me dead’.

And then the lady! look at her:
What bridling sense of character!
How she declines, and seems to go,
Yet still endures him to and fro;

Thy voice, as tender as the light
That shivers low at eve—
Thy hair, where myriad flashes bright
Do in and outward weave—
Thy charms in their diversity
Half frighten and astonish me.

Thine eyes, that hold a mirth subdued
Like deep pools scattering fire—
Mine dare not meet them in their mood,
For fear of my desire,
Lest thou that secret do descry
Which evermore I must deny.

Hard is the world that does not give
To every love a place;
Hard is the power that bids us live
A life bereft of grace—
Hard, hard to lose thy figure, dear,

Ah, Christ, I love you rings to the wild sky
And I must think a little of the past:
When I was ten I told a stinking lie
That got a black boy whipped; but now at last
The going years, caught in an after-glow,
Reverse like balls englished upon green baize—
Let them return, let the round trumpets blow
The ancient crackle of the Christ's deep gaze.
Deafened and blind, with senses yet unfound,
Am I, untutored to the after-wit
Of knowledge, knowing a nightmare has no sound;
Therefore with idle hands and head I sit
In late December before the fire's daze

I'le doe my best to win, when'ere I wooe:
That man loves not, who is not zealous too.

Seene? and yet hated thee? they did not see,
They saw Thee not, that saw and hated thee:
No, no, they saw thee not, o Life, o Love,
Who saw ought in thee, that their hate could move.