How much soever in this life's mutations
We seek our shattered idols to replace,
Not one, in all the myriads of the nations,
Can ever fill another's vacant place.

Each has his own, the smallest and most humble,
As well as he revered the wide world through;
At every death some loves and hopes must crumble,
Which never strive to build themselves anew.

If the fair race of violets should perish
Before another spring-time has its birth,
Could all the costly blooms which florists cherish
Bring back its April beauty to the earth?

Not farther than a fledgling's weak first flight,
In a low dell, standeth an antique grove;
Dusky it is by day, but when 'tis night,
None may tread safely there, unlit by Love.
In lonelier days, it was my mood to rove
At all hours there—to hear what mirth I might
Of the passionate Lark, the brooding Dove,
And the strong Thrush—all breathers of delight.
When Night's drawn curtains darkened the deep vale,
And the rich music of the day was ended,
Out gushed a sudden song of saddest wail,
Breaking the silence it with sweetness mended:—

For th' Heaven-gifted still an earthly Gift have I!
Some kingly robe, belike? Some jewel priceless-fair?
A Gift no King's or Croesus' yellow heaps could buy:
True love from Woman's heart, this tress of Woman's hair!

I have a friend; I have a story;
I have a life that's hard to live;
I love; my love is all my glory;
I have been hurt and I forgive.

I have a friend; none could be better;
I stake my heart upon my friend!
I love; I trust her to the letter;
Will she deceive me in the end?

She is my love, my life, my jewel;
My hope, my star, my dear delight.
God! but the ways of God are cruel,—
That love should bow the knee to spite!

She loves, she hates,—a foul alliance!
One King shall rule in one estate.

In vain!—The punishment that I must bear,
The bitter price that I must always pay
Is that I cannot wash the stain away
Which I have made upon a love so fair.
I sometimes think, that, dark though the despair,
Which binds your being in relentless sway,
It does not your sad heart more fiercely slay
Than the remorse in mine beyond compare—
To give, and have the fulness of return,
To love as few have loved, and then to mar
That spotless love by a belittling scar
Which must a soul beloved forever burn.
What anguish can be greater than to know

Though to the South thou takest flight
To farthest shores of Meroë,
Winged Love will come with wingèd might
And bear me on to thee;

And if to Eastern lands thou sail,
Thy cheeks more red than Eastern skies,
I'll follow still nor ever fail
Until I reach my prize.

Lord, hast Thou so loved us, and will not we
Love Thee with heart and mind and strength and soul,
Desiring Thee beyond our glorious goal,
Beyond the heaven of heavens desiring Thee?
Each saint, all saints cry out: Yea me, yea me,
Thou hast desired beyond an aureole,
Beyond Thy many Crowns, beyond the whole
Ninety and nine unwandering family.
Souls in green pastures of the watered land,
Faint pilgrim souls wayfaring thro' the sand,
Abide with Thee and in Thee are at rest:
Yet evermore, kind Lord, renew Thy quest

The mighty many-sounding English sea
Forgets to love its moon and worships thee;
The English meadows, by thy beauty won,
Dream in thy glances and forget the sun;
The English dales, and dells of deep-green gloom,
Beneath thy footing tremble into bloom;
The morning follows thee; the wondering night
Forgets its stars—for are not thine eyes bright?
The English summer wind must tune its lute,
Love, at thy voice,—or be for ever mute;—
The laughter in the branches of the pine
Was never lovely till it copied thine;

I went to learned men and asked the way.
The learned men were lost among their books;
They bade me stand aside, for such as they
For such as me had neither words nor looks.

I went to churches, where beyond my sight
Priests and their servants served great mystery;
Their waves of incense filled the arches' height,
Their waves of music swelled in harmony.
But I stood all alone: and he and he
Who led the great procession had no care for me.

I left their church, and sought the street instead,
To find a cripple crouched upon the ground.

Love who will, for I 'll love none,
—There 's fools enough besides me:
Yet if each woman have not one,
—Come to me where I hide me,
And if she can the place attain,
For once I 'll be her fool again.

It is an easy place to find,
—And women sure should know it;
Yet thither serves not every wind,
—Nor many men can show it:
It is the storehouse, where doth lie
All women's truth and constancy.

If the journey be so long,
—No woman will adventer;
But dreading her weak vessel's wrong,
—The voyage will not enter: