When at the last we stand beside the sea's grey water,
How passing sweet is then the earth's pale last flower-daughter
Who follows to the marge
Where yellow sand meets grey wild-crested waves far-gleaming;
Who once again sets heart and spirit and brain a-dreaming
Of old green forests lit by moonlight large.

No flowers are here to love, save this one blossom only
Which shines so strange and sweet upon the margin lonely
Where at the last we stand:
This blossom-spirit who brings the fair old earth's last message,

This is the rapture of love:—To plunge one's soul in honey,—
Yet not one drop to spill:
To pass from night to dawn,—from darkness to the sunny
Broad belt of light that circles gleaming mount and hill.

This is the glory of love: this is the true possession;
When the clear soul-eyes meet.
When the strong soul leaps forth, at last from Time's oppression
Freed,—and first tastes its triumph large and full and sweet.

For in the end the Soul is victor, and that only:
Though day press hard on day;

How could I help it?—Climbing out of hell,
Can one refuse to love the flower that grows
Close by the hell-brink? Is not the first rose
One sees in a green hedge adorable?—
So sweetness more than I can ever tell
Crowns thee, and round about thy being flows.
My love is measured by my former throes
Of pain: the light by darkness visible.

It is not much I ask. Pay love's old debt
With this, Lord God. I only ask to see
This woman's face: that it may shine on me
From time to time: that this star may not set:—

Wake all the dead! what ho! what ho!
How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!
They mind not poor lovers who walk above
On the decks of the world in storms of love.
No whisper now nor glance can pass
Through wickets or through panes of glass;
For our windows and doors are shut and barred.
Lie close in the church, and in the churchyard.
In every grave make room, make room!
The world's at an end, and we come, we come.

The state is now love's foe, love's foe;
Has seized on his arms, his quiver and bow;

I have loved thee, still love thee, and evermore
Amid a world's undoing,
The flames of my love for thee shall soar
From out the shattered ruin.

And after I have loved thee so,
When my death-hour is near me,
I shall bear with me to the grave below
The deep love-wounds that sear me.

Sweet is true love, tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain;
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be;
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.
O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,
I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

I fain would follow love, if that could be;
I needs must follow death, who calls for me:
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die!

What thing is love? for sure love is a thing.
It is a prick, it is a sting,
It is a pretty, pretty thing;
It is a fire, it is a coal,
Whose flame creeps in at every hole;

And as my wit doth best devise,
Love's dwelling is in ladies' eyes,
From whence do glance love's piercing darts,
That make such holes into our hearts;
And all the world herein accord,
Love is a great and mighty lord;
And when he list to mount so high,
With Venus he in heaven doth lie,
And evermore hath been a god,
Since Mars and she played even and odd.

On crimson wings of passionate desire
I traversed gardens of a tropic clime
To pluck love's strangest blossoms, and my lyre
Tuning, I caught each heart-throb in a rhyme.

But now thy lashes burn me, and my head
Is all confused with bitter love of thee;
Yet never have I sung thy praise, or said
How very pleasant was thy love to me.

I hush the songs that rise in me by day,
That rise by day and in the depth of night,
Lest—as a tiny bird that flies away
By some child's laughter taken with affright—

The heavy gang-chains clatter, and the boat
Groans grievously like to some stricken knight,
A sudden yearning rises in my throat,
And unshed tears half veil you from my sight.

Your love was like an incense-bearing vase
That I have shattered, playing carelessly,
Seeing that dearer than my Lady's grace
The lay of sainted poets was to me.

As we have loved, so let us part from love,
And I shall walk into the outer night
Singing, at heart the sweet remembrance of
Those violet-scented hours of delight.

Right true it is that once love's bacchanal
Had spent itself, and the devouring sea
Of passion slept, that unrelentingly
I heaped upon you bitterness, and all
That sears the heart and kills it, yea the gall
Poured down your throat, until you looked at me
With sad wan smile that was a silent plea,
Craving deliverance from the cruel thrall.

Right true it is I harass you with fears,
With sudden mood, indifference, sharp surprise:
I love you best. O sweetest, when the tears
Moisten the perfect crystal of your eyes,