If I have sinned in act, I may repent;
If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
If in Life's Camp I saw my tent-door darken,
In a false dream I saw the Foe prevail.
In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan
In Christian world Mary the garland wears!
In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships,
In ruling well what guerdon? Life runs low,
It flows through old hushed Egypt and its sands,
It is not death, that sometime in a sigh
It must have been for one of us, my own,
LAND of undying Winter, endless Spring,
Last night I woke and found between us drawn,—
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust;
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Let others sing of Knights and Paladines,
Like a musician, that with flying finger
Like as the culver on the bared bough
Like as the fountain of all light created
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
Lone wanderer 'mid the loftiest heights of Thought,
Long time a child, and still a child, when years
Look how the flower which lingeringly doth fade,
Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round!
Love that is dead and buried, yesterday
MARY! I want a lyre with other strings,
Methought I saw the grave where Laura lay,
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
Morn of the year, of day and May the prime !
Most glorious Lord of life! that on this day
Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
Musing on Venice and the thought of thee,
My galley, charged with forgetfulness,
My heart's Ideal, that somewhere out of sight
My lady's presence makes the roses red,
My letters! all dead paper, mute and white
Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
NEVER, Oh never more shall I behold
Not in the strength of duty but of love,
Now, as when sometime with high festival
Now certain women carved their names in stone
O CHOIR of Tempe mute these many years,
O Friend! I know not which way I must look
O gain that lurk'st ungainèd in all gain '
O land of solitude, can I forget
O Lord of all compassionate control,
O loved wild hill-side, that hast been a power
Oh for a voice that in a single song
O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy spray
O shady vales, O fair enriched meads,
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
O than the fairest day thrice fairer night
O that we too, above this earthly jar
O visioned face unutterably fair,
O woman, whose familiar face I hold
that walk in Willowwood,
Of all the Gods, for Love my heart is sore,
Of this fair volume which we World do name
Oh Mother, holiest Mother, Mother Night!
Old Chaucer, the unconquerably young,
On this lone isle, whose rugged rocks affright
On to the beach the quiet waters crept:
Once did She hold the gorgeous east in fee;
One day I wrote her name upon the strand;
One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,
Others abide our question-Thou art free.
PEACE, Shepherd, peace! What boots it singing on? 228
Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem:
REBUKE me not! I have nor wish nor skill
Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,
Remember me when I am gone away,
Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast :-
Run, shepherds, run where Bethlem blest appears,
SAD Soul, whom God, resuming what He gave,
Scorn not the Sonnet! Critic, you have frowned,
Seated between the old world and the new,
See how the small concentrate fiery force
Seven lamps of gold the spirit's sanctuary
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Shall we not weary in the windless days
She listened to the music of the spheres ;
Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part.
Sitting with strangers in the hurrying train,
So many a dream and hope that went and came,
So sang he and as meeting rose and rose
Sometimes when I sit musing all alone
Spring speaks again, and all our woods are stirred,
TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense,
Tell us, O Guide, by what strange natural laws
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
The Church stands there beyond the orchard-blooms:
The crackling embers on the hearth are dead;
The crimson Moon, uprising from the sea,
The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
The darkness deepens on the dim-lit shore;
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold
The end of the old order draweth nigh ;
The honeysuckle clambers everywhere
The imperial Consort of the Fairy-king
The Lady of the Hills with crimes untold
The lost days of my life until to-day,
The poetry of earth is never dead :
The rose to the wind has yielded: all its leaves
The Shannon bore me to thy bosom wide:
The soote season, that bud and bloom furth brings,
The tenderest ripple touched and touched the shore;
The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying
The wild things loved me, but a wood-sprite said:
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
They say our best illusions soonest fly—
They say that shadows of deceased ghosts
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Think upon Death, 'tis good to think of Death,
This little light is not a little sign
'Thou Ghost,' I said, 'and is thy name To-day ?—
Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thy lips are quiet, and thine eyes are still;
'Tis Christmas, and we gaze with downbent head
To-day, all day, I rode upon the down,
To me my life seems as a haunted house,
To thee, my master, thee, my shining one,
'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead
Two minutes' rest till the next man goes in!
Two things I love in this most lovely dale:
UNLIKE are we, unlike, O princely Heart!
WE climbed the steep where headless Edwin lies—
We search the darkness from the villa's height,
We talked of 'Children of the Open Air,'
Were I as base as is the lowly plain,
When do I see thee most, beloved one?
When from the blossoms of the noiseful day
When He returns, and finds the World so drear—
When I consider how my light is spent,
When in the chronicle of wasted time
When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
When our two souls stand up erect and strong,
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
When we were idlers with the loitering rills,
When winds blow high and leaves begin to fall,
Where have I been this perfect summer day,-
Where lurks the shining quarry, swift and shy,
Where San Miniato's convent from the sun
Where still Varenna wears her cypress-crown
Where wert thou, Soul, ere yet my body born
While yet we wait for spring, and from the dry
White sails that on the horizon flash and flee,
Why do I sing? I know not why, my friend;
With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climbst the skies!
'With how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky,
YE blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy
Your own fair youth, you care so little for it,
|