VII. RELICS. (In Switzerland.) What relic of the dear, dead yesterday In rocky angles black with scattering spray, Of light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleam VIII. ON THE PIER OF BOULOGNE. (A Reminiscence of 1870.) A venal singer to a thrumming note Chanted the civic war-song, that red flower By frenzied winds of change, and borne afloat O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse true IX. DOVER. (In a Field.) A joy has met me on this English ground Along the corn; there is not to be seen In all the land a single pilèd sheaf Or line of grain new-fallen, and not a tree The year's despair; nay, Summer saves for me AN AUTUMN SONG. Long Autumn rain; White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sides Of the bewildered hills; in all the plain No field agleam where the gold pageant was, And silent o'er a tangle of drenched grass The blackbird glides. In the heart,-fire, Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs, Drinking great ardours; and the rapturous birth BURDENS. Are sorrows hard to bear,—the ruin Of flowers, the rotting of red fruit, A love's decease, a life's undoing, And summer slain, and song-birds mute, And skies of snow and bitter air? These things, you deem, are hard to bear. But ah the burden, the delight Of dreadful joys! Noon opening wide, Golden and great; the gulfs of night, Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside, Strong soul to strong soul rendered up, And silence filling like a cup. |