The look that thy sweet eyes on mine impress,
The pledge thy lips to mine convey,—the kiss,—
He who, like me, hath knowledge sure of this,
Can he in aught beside find happiness?

Removed from thee, friend-sever'd, in distress,
These thoughts I vainly struggle to dismiss:
They still return to that one hour of bliss,
The only one; then tears my grief confess.

But unawares the tear makes haste to dry:
He loves, methinks, e'en to these glades so still,—
And shalt not thou to distant lands extend?

For one
who doesn't come
I wait on,
wasting my time—
although
every night
the light of the stars,
at least,
visits
my bedchamber.

O love, round as the watermelon,
do not use words sweet as the melon.
What you have said, this and that,
was all wrong, and you mocked me.
Enough, your empty talk
is hollow, like a preserved melon.

Ah , who shall Praise receive
—And not profane her?
Fool were I to believe,
—Churl to disdain her!

Praise is the kindly love
—Of all a nation,
Lifting the man above
—His lower station.

Praise is a mortal hate;
—In blood, not money,
He pays who takes the bait,
—Swallows the honey.

Imperial renown,
—How may I win thee?
Praise me, and I shall own
—The strength of ten within me.

Praise me, and I shall sink
—In shallow water;
Folly upon the brink,
—Vanity's daughter!

Alone they safely trod

In Nature's pieces still I see
Some error that might mended be;
Something my wish could still remove,
Alter or add; but my fair love
Was framed by hands far more divine,
For she hath every beauteous line.
Yet I had been far happier
Had Nature, that made me, made her.
Then likeness might (that love creates)
Have made her love what now she hates;
Yet, I confess, I cannot spare
From her just shape the smallest hair;
Nor need I beg from all the store
Of heaven for her one beauty more.
She hath too much divinity for me:

Yes, I will love thee when the sun
Throws light upon a thousand flowers;
When winter's biting breath is gone,
And spring leads on the smiling hours.
And I will call thee beautiful—
More beautiful than May's bright wreaths—
Tho' all the air with sweets be full,
Tho' every bird his soft tone breathes.

And I will love thee when the earth
Is bright with summer's rich attire;
When morn to seas of gold gives birth,
And eve to brighter wreaths of fire;
When the broad moon and burning stars
Are riding thro' the lucid air

There is a place where lute and lyre are broken,
Where scrolls are torn and on a wild wind go,
Where tablets stand wiped naked for a token,
Where laurels wither and the daisies grow.

Lo: I too join the brotherhood of silence,
I am Love's trappist and you ask in vain,
For man through Love's gate, even as through Death's gate,
Goeth alone and comes not back again.

Yet here I pause, look back across the threshold,
Cry to my brethren, though the world be old,
Prophets and sages, questioners and doubters,

Love, we have looked on many shows
As over lands from sea to sea
Man with his Guardian Angel goes
His shining shadow more than he.

For us the Nile's first Kings lay covered
Under a mountain made with hands;
Or red bud bloomed and red bird hovered
Over the lost Red Indian lands.

Beside the sledge with fairy bells
The snow slid by like seas of foam;
Mirrored in many marble wells,
The sun sat regnant over Rome.

But not as distance, not as danger,
Not chance, and hardly even change,

We heard it calling, clear and low,
——That tender April morn; we stood
——And listened in the quiet wood,
We heard it, ay, long years ago.

It came, and with a strange, sweet cry,
——A friend, but from a far-off land;
——We stood and listened, hand in hand,
And heart to heart, my Love and I.

In dreamland then we found our joy,
——And so it seemed as 'twere the Bird
——That Helen in old times had heard
At noon beneath the oaks of Troy.

O time far off, and yet so near!
——It came to her in that hushed grove,

It whizzed and whistled along the blurred
And red-blent ranks; and it nicked the star
Of an epaulette, as it snarled the word—
War!

On it sped—and the lifted wrist
Of the ensign-bearer stung, and straight
Dropped at his side as the word was hissed—
Hate!

On went the missile—smoothed the blue
Of a jaunty cap and the curls thereof,
Cooing, soft as a dove might do—
Love!

Sang!—sang on!—sang hate—sang war—
Sang love, in sooth, till it needs must cease,
Hushed in the heart it was questing for.—