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.—

Tie one end of a rope fast over a beam,
And make a slip-noose at the other extreme;
Then just underneath let a cricket be set,
On which let the lover most manfully get;
Then over his head let the snecket be got,
And under one ear be well settled the knot.
The cricket kicked down, let him take a fair swing;
And leave all the rest of the work to the string.

They that never had the use
Of the grape's surprising juice,
To the first delicious cup
All their reason render up;
Neither do, nor care to know,
Whether it be best or no.

So they that are to love inclined
Swayed by chance, not choice, or art,
To the first that's fair, or kind,
Make a present of their heart;
'Tis not she that first we love,
But whom dying we approve.

To man, that was in the evening made,
Stars gave the first delight,
Admiring, in the gloomy shade,
Those little drops of light;
Then at Aurora, whose fair hand

They nailed my Saviour to the cross,
The cross on Calvary;
'Twas there in agony He died
For sinful souls like me.

They placed upon His brow a crown,
A cruel crown of thorn;
Placed it upon that gentle brow,
In bitter hate and scorn.

Despised, rejected, loving still,
My dear Lord suffered there;
“Forgive, they know not what they do,”
His tender dying prayer.

How can I show my love to Him
Who suffered thus for me?
All that I have—a humble gift
His evermore shall be.

There is no power to change
One act, one word.
We move in time: these range
Immortal. I have heard

Egypt and her Antony,
With their love first fulfilled,
Cry out, and again cry—
Nor ever are they stilled.

And Sheba I have seen
Bare for her love her breast.
The silken Lesbian queen
Leaves nothing unconfessed.

Though Helen's lips are dust
The kisses of her lips
Must burn the towers, and must
Still launch the thousand ships.

Unspaced, untimed, held fast
Are all things done or undone.

There are no stars to-night
But those of memory.
Yet how much room for memory there is
In the loose girdle of soft rain.

There is even room enough
For the letters of my mother's mother,
Elizabeth,
That have been pressed so long
Into a corner of the roof
That they are brown and soft,
And liable to melt as snow.

Over the greatness of such space
Steps must be gentle.
It is all hung by an invisible white hair.
It trembles as birch limbs webbing the air.

And I ask myself:

“Are your fingers long enough to play

That Love,—whose power and sovranty we own,
And who before all time was did beget
The sun and moon and splendid stars, and set
All lovely things to speak of Him alone,—
Late looking earthward from his supreme throne
Saw that,—although the beauty lingered yet,—
The froward heart of man did quite forget
That all this beauty from His presence shone;
Wherefore, desiring to reclaim his eyes
To heaven by some unequalled new delight,
He gave the world a treasure from the skies,
My Lady's sacred beauty, pure and bright,

That Love is all there is,
Is all we know of Love;
It is enough, the freight should be
Proportioned to the groove.

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a loving sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome:
Whose service is my special dignity
And she my lodestar while I go and come.

And so because you love, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame