If sorrow have taught me anything
She hath taught me to weep for you; And if Falsehood have left me a tear to shed For Truth, these tears are true. If the one star left by the morning Be dear to the dying night; If the late lone rose of October
Be sweetest to scent and sight, If the last of the leaves in December Be dear to the desolate tree, Remember, beloved, O remember How dear is your beauty to me!
And more dear than the gold, is the silver Grief hath sown in that hair's young gold: And lovelier than youth, is the language
Of the thoughts that have made youth old; We must love, and unlove, and forget, dear- Fashion and shatter the spell
Of how many a love in a life, dear
Ere life learns to love once and love well. Then what matters it, yesterday's sorrow? Since I have outlived it-see!
And what matter the cares of to-morrow, Since you, dear, will share them with me?
Look back, look back! the height is won, The journey of thy youth is done; Thou hast passed the clime of flowers, The solemn snow above thee towers,
Look back! thou never, never more Wilt breathe the air thou breath'dst before. There they lie those tender hues
Veiled in thickly-rising dews,
There they sleep, those tones so dear
Which woke and charmed thy youthful ear;
Never more the flowers or strain Shalt thou see or hear again.
They were thine, and that is gone, Time of such seasons has but one; All was new-thy heart and all, Passion, Duty, Hope, Delight, And where'er thine eye could fall There were objects fresh and bright. Age must take those fairy things
And from them fashion all he feels, But his hand is cold and flings A dampness o'er Life's tuneful strings That half their music steals. Not like Youth, for he can make The soul of every string awake; Delicate, light, and swift his hand
Flies o'er the lyre and bids it sing. Till the very heart in reply will ring
And feel itself all in fairy-land.
Look back! for there is the scene wherein Thou heardest the song of Life begin.
I stand upon a vantage-height
With rocks and snows around me, And gaze on valleys smiling bright Where earliest morning found me. By village lawns and grassy slopes I careless mused and pondered, Thro' marshy sedge, o'er glacier edge Up, ever up, I wandered.
Day wears-and from my rocky throne I gaze, and tho' no craven, I tremble at the dim Unknown Where lies my evening haven. No genial slopes, no grassy way, But icy chasms clouded, And whirling mists and torrents spray, Sun-lit, but dimly shrouded.
I stand upon the vantage-ground Where two score years have left me, And sighing gaze below, around, Oh, how has Time bereft me! Bright spots I see, like many Still in the distance burning, And fain would I revisit them, But ah! there's no returning!
Day wears-I watch with anxious mind, The path I must be going, Sunlit, but vague and undefined
The mists are round me growing. Then memory brings the mountain's brow Where dangers rose beside me, "Who led me then will lead me now, Who guided then will guide me.”
How beautiful is the rain! After the dust and heat, In the broad and fiery street, In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain.
The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain. In the country on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain How welcome is the rain.
His pastures and his fields of grain, As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.
These and far more than these
The Poet sees!
He can behold
Aquarius old
Walking the fenceless fields of air;
And from each ample fold
Of the clouds about him rolled Scattering everywhere
The showery rain,
As the farmer scatters his grain.
He can behold
Things manifold
That have not yet been wholly told,- Have not been wholly sung or said, For his thought, that never stops, Follows the water-drops
Down to the graves of the dead, Down thro' chasms and gulfs profound, To the dreary fountain-head
Of lakes and rivers underground; And sees them, when the rain is done, On the bridge of colours seven Climbing up once more to heaven, Opposite the setting sun.
Thus the Seer
With vision clear
Sees forms appear and disappear,
In the perpetual round of strange,
Mysterious change.
From birth to death, from death to birth,
From earth to heaven, from heaven to earth;
Till glimpses more sublime
Of things unseen before,
Unto his wondering eyes reveal
The universe, as an immeasurable wheel
Turning for evermore
In the rapid and rushing river of Time.
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