That pains me so! To think the sunlight knew,
The blossoms knew (or how could they have bloomed!)
The sunsets knew thee, wild and crimson-plumed,
Spreading their plumage over ceaseless blue.
I was the one heart in the world untrue!
That saddens me; for now so many entombed
Sweet thoughts of thine may never be resumed.
Can Nature's hand repeat one sunset's hue?

I cannot penetrate with fiery speed
The far star-spaces, — search the silent night
For thoughts of thine that made dark spaces bright

There never should be bitter words or pain
Between a lover and a loving soul.
From the first starting to the faint far goal
Dimly descried on Time's eternal plain
— The goal where white-peaked mountains soar and reign
And where the far-off mountain-thunders roll —
From love's beginning till death maketh whole
Or sundereth, there should be not one tear-stain.

It is within the reach of human hearts
To love and love, and never to bring grief.
The wild and passionate love that carries darts
Within its love and thorns on its rose-leaf

I.

Through walls and doors Love goes:
His lips are in the rose;
His feet are on the hills;
His voice is in the rills.

II.

His breath is in the breeze;
He thunders in strong seas;
And through the arcades of morn
He winds his hunting-horn.

III.

What do ye, ye who bind
Love? Can Love be confined
By earthly bars or grates
Or bolts or brazen gates?

IV.

Through walls the winged kiss flies,
And over gloom of skies:
Through foes that cluster round
It speeds without a sound:

V.

When passion fails us, and when Woman fails, —
When we are weary of the roses scent
And not one song can bring our souls content,
Yea, when the very flush on Love's cheek pales, —
What help is left us then, — what hope avails?
What pleasure tarrieth when Love's robes are rent
Asunder, and his golden hours are spent,
And the wind whistles round his house and wails?

When even Woman's lips are no more red,
And the sun ceases, and the silver moon
Is tarnished, and the pleasant stars are dead,

I.

Have not I been as Love through all these years and given
The bloom of flowers and light of stars to thee?
Have not I raised thee high within song's bright-blue heaven? —
What hast thou given to me?

II.

Lo! flower on flower and star on star the bright months bring thee,
And songs on songs have floated o'er the sea.
My harp were traitor indeed if ever it failed to sing thee:
What wilt thou give to me?

III.

Oh infinite delight when never more
The white seas shine before us on the sand, —
When at the touching of Death's calm sweet hand
Colour forsakes the hills, and light the shore!
Yes: then shall all life's wild fierce pain be o'er.
Nought shall arouse us from our perfect sleep:
At woman's touch no lingering pulse shall leap
Nor at bright Summer's footstep at the door.

Whom woman cannot rouse is more than dead,
Death's infinite peace shall fall upon each soon:
Then in the timeless land where star nor moon

O first love, — tender holy blind pure phase! —
For then it seemeth to the soul that one
And but one woman liveth, — that the sun
Finds but one blossom worthy of his gaze.
Is it a snowdrop? — Then by green hedge-ways
We think no gleaming rose-bush ever grew!
White is our flower, — so never harebells blue
The sun loved, nor the rich gorse' golden blaze!

Ah! — Some day blind eyes open and we see
On every side far fairer than the old
New blossoms springing, — marvelling we behold
Petunia, cowslip, heath, anemone: —

It is not love to love the fair
And feast one's eyes on beauty rare,
For beauty all men's gaze enthrals,
Nor for a lover's rapture calls.

Nay, he alone true love doth know
Who pays no heed to outward show,
And though his mistress homely be
Still finds in her the perfect she.

Quench thy fire, linkman Love,
'Tis not right on one to turn,
Either now thy torch remove
Or make two hearts burn.

The poet, victor over words,
Coy wayward things,
Deems he can snare the stars, those gold-plumed birds,
Because he sings!

He dreams of endless conquest, he —
While others plod
He must win thunder-music from the sea,
Epics from God.

The fragrance of the lips of June
In sunlit dales
His song must steal. The slender white-breast moon
His hand unveils.

Because one hour of mortal breath
He makes sublime,
His fond heart dreams of victory over death