So many stars have shone, that all the stars are weary!
So many days have passed, that all the days are dreary!
So many flowers have bloomed
That nought is left of power within the earth to nourish
The spots where, gay of old, the green buds used to flourish:
Flowers, hearts and souls, are all alike entombed.

No more for me white hands shine at the summer casement
And beckon and allure, with dreams of sweet embracement:
No more swift glances gleam.
This arrow is the last. Though other arrows found me
And chains of other loves imprisoned me and bound me,

I offer this to God,—and then to thee,—
Then to the world: that God and man may know
Love's sweetness and love's blessing and love's woe
As each in turn possessed and vanquished me.
Then, lastly, back I come—as from the sea
To some fair valley with gold flowers aglow:
Longing to find thee,—where blue waters flow,
And where the bird's song mixes with the bee.

Back from the ocean of God's heart, and back
From the wild tempest-wingéd tides of things,
I turn to thee, as towards some flowerlit track
Lined with great oaks whose very leafage sings:

Thou art my youth.—My youth lies far behind the mountains:
Unmeasured years of pain between me and the fountains
Of young life bar the way:
To-day's November sun seems softly to remind me
Of strong old summer suns that in the years behind me
Gilded green leaves on many a forest-spray.

But thou art youth. To love old age is but a liar.
He cannot dim love's flame, he cannot quench love's fire;
For all his strength, not he!
Old age thinks scorn of love, and deems love like a river
Whose blue soft tides at cold advance of age will shiver:—

Jewels!—Can I not bring thee all the light
Of heaven's fair farthest stars for diadem?
Can I not give thee the dread soul of them
And clothe thee with the wild robes of the night?
Can I not win for thee in thickest fight
(Where giant spears and swords love's onset stem)
Gifts that a goddess-heart might not contemn,—
Gifts sweet to love's most penetrating sight?—

Can I not clothe thee, O thou woman fair,
With love for mantle, and with song for crown
Crown thee,—and bring thee, through life's stormiest air,
To peace and, it may be, high pure renown?

The long days stretch in front, and each will bring its greeting:—
The flowers and fronds of June—the August breeze,—
The green boughs o'er thine head in wild luxuriance meeting,—
The rippling waves of far-off summer seas,—
These all will greet thee.—I loved thee more than these!

I loved thee more than all the world's light host of lovers
Can love,—far more than fern or fragrant leas
Or fairies peeping through the rustling hazel-covers
Or gay-winged butterflies or restless bees.—
Ah! more than these I loved thee,—more than these!

If thou art true to me in spite of pain and danger,
What wilt thou gain, O love? The sweet divine sense, stranger
And stronger far than griet,
That thou hast saved a soul, and saved that soul for ever,
And added to my crown one flower that withers never,—
One deathless never-fading laurel-leaf.

This thou wilt gain:—A love that never words can measure;
My whole deep heart for mine of never-ceasing treasure
(If thou dost value this!)
This thou shalt gain:—The sense that when earth's loves are going
Thy golden cup of love is full to overflowing;

Why did I not know thee, instead of flowers and mountains?
Thy voice is sweeter far than voice of the old fountains:
Thou hast a tenderer charm
Than all the dreams of bliss Youth worshipped as he wandered
Along the flower-hung roads, and sang of love, and pondered.
White were the waves. But whiter is thine arm.

Why did I not know thee, instead of wooing sadness?
Why did I not woo thee, and, wooing thee, woo gladness
And infinite delight?
If I had only known that thou wast waiting—Known it!
If I by but one hint had only once been shown it!—

The old sweet inland love was mighty of soul and seeming:—
Through valleys sweet with flowers its footstep lingered dreaming
And ever it laughed and sang.
But when the valleys all are trodden and moorland heather
Burns round about our path, and winds and waves together
Mingle their solemn chant, how large is love and love's last pang.

Far-off the valleys seem, and all the inland flowers;
Love's tender spring, and love's soft unforgotten bowers
Where the early words were said.
Upon the cliffs the last great fight is ever wagéd

Yes, there are other loves.—This world is full of flowers.
Because to-night is fair, are there no moonlit hours
In front? Because to-night
Gives thee thy love, are there no loves in other cities?
If thou hast sung, is thine the last of all love-ditties?
Not woman,—rather womanhood,—is white.

Ah! so a man might plead. And yet how hollow a fashion
Of thought and word it seems, when once real deep live passion
Has risen and set its seal
Upon the spirit!—How little I care for next year's roses
If my flower-dream of this sweet year in darkness closes

As they sipped their tea round the table,
Their talk was of Love alone;
The gentlemen's arguments were able,
The ladies', more tender in tone.

“Love surely should be platonic,”
Said the Councillor wizened and dry;
His consort's smile was ironic,
Yet she none the less sighed a sigh.

Quoth the ponderous Canon clearly:
“Love must not be gross, you know,
Or health will suffer severely.”
The young lady simpered: “How so?”

Cried the Countess in accents heart-rending:
“Love, love seems resistless to me!”
And, graciously unbending,