The Day was dying; his breath
Wavered away in a hectic gleam —
And I said, if Life's a dream, and Death
And Love and all are dreams — I'll dream.

A Mist came over the Bay
Like as a Dream would over an eye —
The Mist was white and the Dream was grey
And both contained a human cry —

The burthen whereof was " Love, "
And it filled both Mist and Dream with pain,
And the hills below and the skies above
Were touched and uttered it back again.

The Mist broke: down the rift
A kind ray shot from a holy star.

Nay, Romney, nay—I will not hear you say
Those words again: “I love you, love you, sweet!”
You are profane—blasphemous. I repeat,
You are no actor for so grand a play.

You love with all your heart? Well, that may be;
Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try
To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry—
I who have had a full bowl proffered me—

A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,
One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?
Think you I even care to bathe my lips
With this poor sweetened water you call wine?

A cloud of crystal, veined with gold
Slow drifting in the rosy west
Is not more lovely to behold
Than thou art, — and thy father's breast,
While fond affection holds her seat,
Will keep that image of thy grace,
Thy buoyant form, thy gentle face,
Thy spirit, ever blythe and sweet, —
In frolic and in love complete!
And so, dear child, — though mountains rise
Between us, and our brooding skies
Are alien, — wheresoe'er thou art,
Thy constant home is in thy father's heart.

Seeming empty to the eye,
Yet within this magic space,
Mantled all in golden grace,
Many costly gems do lie.
Like the blessings angels shed
From the wafture of their wings
Are these ghosts of lovely things, —
Love, and hope, and pleasure dead.
Guard these treasures of the Past!
Soon the shadows dim the day;
All the world will pass away, —
These alone remain at last.

Hey, rose, just born
Twin to a thorn;
Was't so with you, O Love and Scorn?

Sweet eyes that smiled,
Now wet and wild;
O Eye and Tear—mother and child.

Well: Love and Pain
Be kinsfolk twain:
Yet would, Oh would I could love again.

Oh! a heart it loves, it loves thee,
That never loved before,
Oh! a heart it loves, it loves thee,
That heart can love no more.

As the rose was in the bud, love,
Ere it opened into sight,
As yon star, in drumlie daylight,
Behind the blue was bright, —

So thine image in my heart, love,
As pure, as bright, as fair,
Thyself unseen, unheeded,
I saw and loved it there.

Oh! a heart it loves, it loves thee,
As heart ne'er loved before;
Oh! a heart it loves, loves, loves thee,
That heart can love no more.

O soft is the ringdove's eye of love
When her mate returns from a weary flight;
And brightest of all the stars above
Is the one bright star that leads the night.

But softer thine eye than the dove's by far,
When of friendship and pity thou speakest to me;
And brighter, O brighter, than eve's one star,
When of love, sweet maid, I speak to thee.

" You have the Earth, O Sun! "
Sang the Moon;
" But I, but I have the Sea! "

" You have the Sun, O Earth! "
Sang the Sea;
" But I, but I have the Moon! "

Then the Sun and the Earth
Made mirth;
And the Sea and the Moon
Sang on;
And Love, who listened, caught up the strain
To sing it into our hearts again.
And I know not how, but that oldest rune
Of the Sea and the Moon
Holds all the mystery and love-lore
Of the world and many a planet more;
But Love knows the tune.

I.

And shall we meet in heaven, and know and love?
Do human feelings in that world above
Unchanged survive? blest thought! but ah, I fear
That thou, dear sister, in some other sphere,
Distant from mine, will find a brighter home,
Where I, unworthy found, may never come; —
Or be so high above me glorified,
That I, a meaner angel, undescribed,
Seeking thine eyes, such love alone shall see
As angels give to all bestowed on me;
And when my voice upon thy ear shall fall,
Hear only such reply as angels give to all.

II.

A kind war-wave dashed thee and me together;
So we have drifted to the shores of peace,
A wintry shore, attained in wintry weather.
Must here our loving cease?

Ah, was not ancient Love born of the ocean?
And is not our Love a tempest child
That rose from out the seething war's commotion
And blessed it, as she smiled?

The buffets of this storm I have forgiven,
And all its drunken, rude barbarity,
Aye, I have begged a blessing on't from heaven
Because it brought me thee!

My soul doth utterly refuse to render