D UMB Comforter of woes!
The depth of whose deep comfort no man knows.
Whose consolations on the spirit steal
More gently than Love's gentlest word, and heal
Where Love falls back affrighted — only Life
Proves Thee the Comforter of mortal strife,
Of all that doth begin and end, that He
May speak in Thy dread silence endlessly.

What vision of the softly sleeping eyes
— Shone like the vision that they could not see?
Night, quivering with the children of the skies
Resplendently.

Fair is her dream. But ah! what fairest dream
— Is half so lovely as the dawn of day,
When the first golden gleam
Chases the rose and dove colour away?

'T IS not Love that is dead,
But Hope, his sister fair.
They breathed the self-same air,
On the same food they fed.
The soul of Love with awful strength was filled
By Passion — but his sister, Hope, was killed.

Plant not the lily here!
No lily lies below.
The crimson rose to her was dear,
And the summer of the year,
Not the snow.

— Sing no lament!
She loved a merry song.
For her the birds were sent.
To her the humming of the golden bees,
And the murmur of trees

Find me, O my true love, find me,
— All the words by love made strongest,
— All the words that last the longest,
For an oath, an oath to bind me!

In the East the dawn grows brighter,
— On the wind I hear a whistle.
— Light the down upon the thistle.
Yea, true love, but I am lighter!

Love , the immortal thing, by Time constrained
— Is as a spirit by some devil bound,
— His voice an unintelligible sound,
His aspect harsh despair and beauty feigned.

Closely I watched it, hour by hour,
— I almost thought I saw it grow,
When first the bud became a flower,
— — I do not know.

Closely I watched thee, O my dove,
— I almost thought I knew thee well.
When liking blossomed into love,
— — I cannot tell.

I CANNOT love you well, love,
— I cannot love again.
Your heaven is my hell, love,
— Your rapture is my pain.

I cannot say once more, love,
— The words that have been said.
My hand is on the door, love,
— My heart is with the dead.

When you would bid me stay, love,
— A voice is in mine ear,
That cries, " Away, away, love!
— How shouldst thou linger here? "

You warmed me at your fire, love,
— But I myself am cold.
God grant you your desire, love,
— And new love for the old.

Before Thine Altar on my bended knees,
When I remember those Thy friends that lie
Helpless and hopeless, sunk in misery,
O Christ, I love Thee, but I love not these.

Without them I may never hope to please
That friend of theirs who had no word to say
When from his side the rich man turned away.
O Christ, Thou lov'st not me. Thou lovest these!

Why is she set so far, so far above me,
— And yet not altogether raised above?
I would give all the world that she should love me,
— My soul that she should never learn to love.