Since thou came'st not at morn, come not at even;
Let night close peaceful where it hath begun.
Affrighten not the restful stars from heaven
With futile after-glimpses of the sun.
My heart inclines me, but my lands are wasted,
My treasure spent, and evening closes dim;
Spring's fair demesne the chilling frost hath tasted—
I have no house for Love to shelter him.

No raiment fair to clothe his limbs so tender;
No spicèd wines to cool his burning lip;
No garlands wherewithal to crown his splendor;
No lute to tune to songful fellowship.

To my most louing and highly valued friend, Mr Nathaniell Tomphins

T O pay you (deere Nathaniell) with that gold
I once receauèd of you, is but right;
Yours gaue mee glory; then your debter should.
Giue you the same, with wearing made more bright:
 But (ah) I cannot, sith you still refine.
 Your worthes, which at the worst, farre passèd mine.

" Linger, " I cried, " O radiant Time! thy power
Has nothing more to give, life is complete:
Let but the perfect Present, hour by hour,
Itself remember and itself repeat.

" And Love, — the future can but mar its splendor,
Change can but dim the glory of its youth;
Time has no star more faithful or more tender
To crown its constancy or light its truth. "

But Time passed on in spite of prayer or pleading,
Through storm and peril; but that life might gain
A Peace through strife all other peace exceeding,
Fresh joy from sorrow, and new hope from pain.

I.

A trinket made like a Heart, dear,
Of red gold, bright and fine,
Was given to me for a keepsake,
Given to me for mine.

And another heart, warm and tender,
As true as a heart could be;
And every throb that stirred it
Was always and all for me.

Sailing over the waters,
Watching the far blue land,
I dropped my golden heart, dear,
Dropped it out of my hand!

It lies in the cold, blue waters,
Fathoms and fathoms deep,
The golden heart which I promised
Promised to prize and keep.

Gazing at Life's bright visions,

Most noble lord, that truest worthinesse
Which in thy nature and thy carriage shines,
Doth presse me now to make them passe the Presse
Led thereto by these too-slacke twisted lines
Thou art a subiect worthy of the Muse
When most she raignes in height of happinesse;
Into whose noble spright the heauens infuse
All guifts and graces gracing noblenesse.
In few, there are so many parts in thee
(All wholy noble) as thus fixt shall bee
On Fames wings when she past herselfe doth flee.

Dear love, what thing of all the things that be
Is ever worth one thought from you or me,
Save only Love,
Save only Love?

The days so short, the nights so quick to flee,
The world so wide, so deep and dark the sea,
So dark the sea;

So far the suns and every listless star,
Beyond their light—Ah! dear, who knows how far,
Who knows how far?

One thing of all dim things I know is true,
The heart within me knows, and tells it you,
And tells it you.

So blind is life, so long at last is sleep,

You ask and I send. It is well, yea! best:
A lily hangs dead on its stalk, ah me!
A dream hangs dead on a life it blest
Shall it flaunt its death where sad eyes may see
In the cold dank wind of our memory?
Shall we watch it rot like an empty nest?
Nay, send the poor ghost to Mnemosyne,
Bury these shreds and behold it shall rest.

And shall life fail if one dream be sped?
For loss of one bloom shall the lily pass?
Nay, bury these deep round the roots, for so
In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow,

I AM athirst for love!
And eyes are near,
Like fountains clear,
Where I might drink my fill:
But Duty binds me in a stern caress,
Seals up those founts of blessedness,
And fetters down my will.
And home-born memories,
And home-loved faces, from my heart arise
In venerable might,
Hang, like a veil, before those beaming eyes,
And hide them from my sight!

I am athirst for love!
And lips are nigh,
Whose dewy smile allures the eye;
Whose pressure soft unlocks, with curious art,

Primrose and Violet —
May they help thee to forget
All that love should not remember,
Sweet as meadows after rain
When the sun has come again,
As woods awakened from December.
How they wash the soul from stain!
How they set the spirit free!
Take them dear, and pray for me.

Dear wife, there is no word in all my songs
But unto thee belongs:
Though I indeed before our true day came
Mistook thy star in many a wandering flame,
Singing to thee in many a fair disguise,
Calling to thee in many another's name,
Before I knew thine everlasting eyes.

Faces that fled me like a hunted fawn
I followed singing, deeming it was Thou,
Seeking this face that on our pillow now
Glimmers behind thy golden hair like dawn,
And, like a setting moon, within my breast
Sinks down each night to rest.