While we slumber and sleep,
The sun leaps up from the deep,--
Daylight born at the leap,--
Rapid, dominant, free,
Athirst to bathe in the uttermost sea.

While we linger at play--
If the year would stand at May!--
Winds are up and away,
Over land, over sea,
To their goal, wherever their goal may be.

It is time to arise,
To race for the promised prize;
The sun flies, the wind flies,
We are strong, we are free,
And home lies beyond the stars and the sea.

She stands as pale as Parian statues stand;
    Like Cleopatra when she turned at bay,
    And felt her strength above the Roman sway,
And felt the aspic writhing in her hand.
Her face is steadfast toward the shadowy land,
    For dim beyond it looms the light of day;
    Her feet are steadfast; all the arduous way
That foot-track hath not wavered on the sand.
She stands there like a beacon thro' the night,
    A pale clear beacon where the storm-drift is;
She stands alone, a wonder deathly white;
She stands there patient, nerved with inner might,
    Indomitable in her feebleness,
Her face and will athirst against the light.

Live all thy sweet life through
  Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
Drop down thine evening dew
To gather it anew
When day is bright:
  I fancy thou wast meant
Chiefly to give delight.

Sing in the silent sky,
  Glad soaring bird;
Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by
Or passing cloud;
  Heedless if thou art heard
Sing thy full song aloud.

O that it were with me
  As with the flower;
Blooming on its own tree
For butterfly and bee
Its summer morns:
  That I might bloom mine hour
A rose in spite of thorns.

O that my work were done
  As birds' that soar
Rejoicing in the sun:
That when my time is run
And daylight too,
  I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.

I said of laughter, it is vain.
  Of mirth I said, what profits it?
  Therefore I found a book, and writ
Therein how ease and also pain,
How health and sickness, every one
Is vanity beneath the sun.

Man walks in a vain shadow; he
  Disquieteth himself in vain.
  The things that were shall be again.
The rivers do not fill the sea,
But turn back to their secret source;
The winds too turn upon their course.

Our treasures moth and rust corrupt,
  Or thieves break through and steal, or they
  Make themselves wings and fly away.
One man made merry as he supped,
Nor guessed how when that night grew dim
His soul would be required of him.

We build our houses on the sand,
  Comely withoutside and within;
  But when the winds and rains begin
To beat on them, they cannot stand;
They perish, quickly overthrown,
Loose from the very basement stone.

All things are vanity, I said,--
  Yea, vanity of vanities.
  The rich man dies; and the poor dies;
The worm feeds sweetly on the dead.
Whate'er thou lackest, keep this trust:
All in the end shall have but dust:

The one inheritance, which best
  And worst alike shall find and share:
  The wicked cease from troubling there,
And there the weary be at rest;
There all the wisdom of the wise
Is vanity of vanities.

Man flourishes as a green leaf,
  And as a leaf doth pass away;
  Or, as a shade that cannot stay
And leaves no track, his course is brief:
Yet man doth hope and fear and plan
Till he is dead:--O foolish man!

Our eyes cannot be satisfied
  With seeing, nor our ears be filled
  With hearing: yet we plant and build
And buy and make our borders wide;
We gather wealth, we gather care,
But know not who shall be our heir.

Why should we hasten to arise
  So early, and so late take rest?
  Our labor is not good; our best
Hopes fade; our heart is stayed on lies:
Verily, we sow wind; and we
Shall reap the whirlwind, verily.

He who hath little shall not lack;
  He who hath plenty shall decay:
  Our fathers went; we pass away;
Our children follow on our track:
So generations fail, and so
They are renewed and come and go.

The earth is fattened with our dead;
  She swallows more and doth not cease:
  Therefore her wine and oil increase
And her sheaves are not numbered;
Therefore her plants are green, and all
Her pleasant trees ***** and tall.

Therefore the maidens cease to sing,
  And the young men are very sad;
  Therefore the sowing is not glad,
And mournful is the harvesting.
Of high and low, of great and small,
Vanity is the lot of all.

A King dwelt in Jerusalem;
  He was the wisest man on earth;
  He had all riches from his birth,
And pleasures till he tired of them;
Then, having tested all things, he
Witnessed that all are vanity.

When I was dead, my spirit turned
  To seek the much-frequented house
I passed the door, and saw my friends
  Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
  They ****** the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
  For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat:
  Said one: "To-morrow we shall be
Plod plod along the featureless sands,
  And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one: "Before the turn of tide
  We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one: "To-morrow shall be like
  To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
  And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they, one and all,
  While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
  I, only I, had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
  I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
  No chill across the table-cloth;
I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
  To stay, and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
  I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
  That tarrieth but a day.

Many have sung of love a root of bane:
  While to my mind a root of balm it is,
  For love at length breeds love; sufficient bliss
For life and death and rising up again.
Surely when light of Heaven makes all things plain,
  Love will grow plain with all its mysteries;
  Nor shall we need to fetch from over seas
Wisdom or wealth or pleasure safe from pain.
Love in our borders, love within our heart,
  Love all in all, we then shall bide at rest,
  Ended for ever life's unending quest,
    Ended for ever effort, change and fear:
Love all in all;--no more that better part
    Purchased, but at the cost of all things here.

Three sang of love together: one with lips
  Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
  And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
  Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
  Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
  Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
  Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
  All on the threshold, yet all short of life.

I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
  Gilded with flashing boats
    That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
    O love-pangs, let me be.

Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
    And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
    Love-promising, entreating,--
    Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--
  Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
  Hush! the wind flags and fails,--
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--
  Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--
  They cannot hear me moan.

  One latest, solitary swallow flies
    Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,
    Poor bird, shall it be lost?
  Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
        With no kind eyes
        To watch it while it dies,
      Unguessed, uncared for, free:
        Set free at last,
        The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.

Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
      Some rent by thunder-strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:
      Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.

A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
  He catches down and foolish painted flies,
      That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
  Betwixt boughs green with sap,
  So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
      I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.

It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused
      In cavern where it housed:
      Each white and quivering sail,
      Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
      Each maiden sings again,--
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
      Miles down my river to the sea
        They float and wane,
      Long miles away from me.
      Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
        Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
        Perhaps they say: "One hour
          More, and we stand,
          Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"

        My trees are not in flower,
        I have no bower,
        And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.

Keep love for youth, and violets for the spring:
  Or if these bloom when worn-out autumn grieves,
  Let them lie hid in double shade of leaves,
Their own, and others dropped down withering;
For violets suit when home birds build and sing,
  Not when the outbound bird a passage cleaves;
  Not with dry stubble of mown harvest sheaves,
But when the green world buds to blossoming.
Keep violets for the spring, and love for youth,
  Love that should dwell with beauty, mirth, and hope:
    Or if a later sadder love be born,
  Let this not look for grace beyond its scope,
But give itself, nor plead for answering truth--
    A grateful Ruth tho' gleaning scanty corn.

A white hen sitting
  On white eggs three:
Next, three speckled chickens
  As plump as plump can be.

An owl, and a hawk,
  And a bat come to see:
But chicks beneath their mother's wing
  Squat safe as safe can be.

A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
  And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
  My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
  Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.--
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
  And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
  Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
  Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
  Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old Dog
  Who wags his tail a-begging in his need:
Despise not even the sorrows of a Frog,
  God's creature too, and that's enough to plead:
Spare **** who trusts us purring on our hearth:
  Spare Bunny once so frisky and so free:
Spare all the harmless tenants of the earth:
  Spare, and be spared:--or who shall plead for thee?

On the wind of January
  Down flits the snow,
Travelling from the frozen North
  As cold as it can blow.
Poor robin redbreast,
  Look where he comes;
Let him in to feel your fire,
  And toss him of your crumbs.

On the wind in February
  Snow-flakes float still,
Half inclined to turn to rain,
  Nipping, dripping, chill.
Then the thaws swell the streams,
  And swollen rivers swell the sea:--
If the winter ever ends
  How pleasant it will be.

In the wind of windy March
  The catkins drop down,
Curly, caterpillar-like,
  Curious green and brown.
With concourse of nest-building birds
  And leaf-buds by the way,
We begin to think of flowers
  And life and nuts some day.

With the gusts of April
  Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall,
On the hedged-in orchard-green,
  From the southern wall.
Apple-trees and pear-trees
  Shed petals white or pink,
Plum-trees and peach-trees;
  While sharp showers sink and sink.

Little brings the May breeze
  Beside pure scent of flowers,
While all things wax and nothing wanes
  In lengthening daylight hours.
Across the hyacinth beds
  The wind lags warm and sweet,
Across the hawthorn tops,
  Across the blades of wheat.

In the wind of sunny June
  Thrives the red rose crop,
Every day fresh blossoms blow
  While the first leaves drop;
White rose and yellow rose
  And moss-rose choice to find,
And the cottage cabbage-rose
  Not one whit behind.

On the blast of scorched July
  Drives the pelting hail,
From thunderous lightning-clouds, that blot
  Blue heaven grown lurid-pale.
Weedy waves are tossed ashore,
  Sea-things strange to sight
Gasp upon the barren shore
  And fade away in light.

In the parching August wind,
  Cornfields bow the head,
Sheltered in round valley depths,
  On low hills outspread.
Early leaves drop loitering down
  Weightless on the breeze,
First-fruits of the year's decay
  From the withering trees.

In brisk wind of September
  The heavy-headed fruits
Shake upon their bending boughs
  And drop from the shoots;
Some glow golden in the sun,
  Some show green and streaked
Some set forth a purple bloom,
  Some blush rosy-cheeked.

In strong blast of October
  At the equinox,
Stirred up in his hollow bed
  Broad ocean rocks;
Plunge the ships on his *****,
  Leaps and plunges the foam,--
It's O for mothers' sons at sea,
  That they were safe at home!

In slack wind of November
  The fog forms and shifts;
All the world comes out again
  When the fog lifts.
Loosened from their sapless twigs
  Leaves drop with every gust;
Drifting, rustling, out of sight
  In the damp or dust.

Last of all, December,
  The year's sands nearly run,
Speeds on the shortest day,
  Curtails the sun;
With its bleak raw wind
  Lays the last leaves low,
Brings back the nightly frosts,
  Brings back the snow.

While roses are so red,
  While lilies are so white,
Shall a woman exalt her face
  Because it gives delight?
She's not so sweet as a rose,
  A lily's straighter than she,
And if she were as red or white
  She'd be but one of three.

Whether she flush in love's summer
  Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty
  Or hide it away in a veil,
Be she red or white,
  And stand she ***** or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her
  And hide her away in a shroud.

Before the winter morn,
Before the earliest **** crow,
Jesus Christ was born:
Born in a stable,
Cradled in a manger,
In the world his hands had made
Born a stranger.

Priest and king lay fast asleep
In Jerusalem;
Young and old lay fast asleep
In crowded Bethlehem;
Saint and angel, ox and ***,
Kept a watch together
Before the Christmas daybreak
In the winter weather.

Jesus on his mother's breast
In the stable cold,
Spotless lamb of God was he,
Shepherd of the fold:
Let us kneel with Mary maid,
With Joseph bent and hoary,
With saint and angel, ox and ***,
To hail the King of Glory.

1.

Man rising to the doom that shall not err,--
  Which hath most dread: the arouse of all or each;
  All kindreds of all nations of all speech,
Or one by one of him and him and her?
While dust reanimate begins to stir
  Here, there, beyond, beyond, reach beyond reach;
  While every wave refashions on the beach
Alive or dead-in-life some seafarer.
Now meeting doth not join or parting part;
  True meeting and true parting wait till then,
    When whoso meet are joined for evermore,
Face answering face and heart at rest in heart:--
    God bring us all rejoicing to the shore
  Of happy Heaven, His sheep home to the pen.

2.

Blessed that flock safe penned in Paradise;
  Blessed this flock which tramps in weary ways;
  All form one flock, God's flock; all yield Him praise
By joy or pain, still tending toward the prize.
Joy speaks in praises there, and sings and flies
  Where no night is, exulting all its days;
  Here, pain finds solace, for, behold, it prays;
In both love lives the life that never dies.
Here life is the beginning of our death,
  And death the starting-point whence life ensues;
    Surely our life is death, our death is life:
    Nor need we lay to heart our peace or strife,
But calm in faith and patience breathe the breath
  God gave, to take again when He shall choose.

Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look?
  Heaven, earth, and hell stood gazing at the first,
  While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed;
Christ, God and Man, Whom God the Father strook
And shamed and sifted and one while forsook:--
  Cry shame upon our bodies we have nursed
  In sweets, our souls in pride, our spirits immersed
In wilfulness, our steps run all acrook.
Cry shame upon us! for He bore our shame
  In agony, and we look on at ease
With neither hearts on flame nor cheeks on flame:
  What hast thou, what have I, to do with peace?
Not to send peace but send a sword He came,
  And fire and fasts and tearful night-watches.

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy Blood's slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon--
I, only I.
Yet give not o'er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

A lowly hill which overlooks a flat,
  Half sea, half country side;
  A flat-shored sea of low-voiced creeping tide
Over a chalky, weedy mat.

A hill of hillocks, flowery and kept green
  Round Crosses raised for hope,
  With many-tinted sunsets where the *****
Faces the lingering western sheen.

A lowly hope, a height that is but low,
  While Time sets solemnly,
  While the tide rises of Eternity,
Silent and neither swift nor slow.

Did any bird come flying
  After Adam and Eve,
When the door was shut against them
  And they sat down to grieve?

I think not Eve's peacock
  Splendid to see,
And I think not Adam's eagle;
  But a dove may be.

Did any beast come pushing
  Through the thorny hedge
Into the thorny, thistly world
  Out from Eden's edge?

I think not a lion,
  Though his strength is such;
But an innocent loving lamb
  May have done as much.

If the dove preached from her bough
  And the lamb from his sod,
The lamb and the dove
  Were preachers sent from God.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
  The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come darkness, moonrise, every thing
  That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
  Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon,
  Make haste to wake the nightingale:
Let silence set the world in tune
To hearken to that wordless tale
Which warbles from the nightingale

O herald skylark, stay thy flight
  One moment, for a nightingale
Floods us with sorrow and delight.
  To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail;
  Leave us to-night the nightingale.

Summer is gone with all its roses,
  Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers,
  Its warm air and refreshing showers:
    And even Autumn closes.

Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going,
  And winter comes which is yet colder;
  Each day the ****-frost waxes bolder
    And the last buds cease blowing.

"If you'll busk you as a bride
  And make ready,
It's I will wed you with a ring,
  O fair lady."

"Shall I busk me as a bride,
  I so bonny,
For you to wed me with a ring,
  O boy Johnny?"

"When you've busked you as a bride
  And made ready,
Who else is there to marry you,
  O fair lady?"

"I will find my lover out,
  I so bonny,
And you shall bear my wedding-train,
  O boy Johnny."

Oh fair Milly Brandon, a young maid, a fair maid!
  All her curls are yellow and her eyes are blue,
And her cheeks were rosy red till a secret care made
  Hollow whiteness of their brightness as a care will do.

Still she tends her flowers, but not as in the old days,
  Still she sings her songs, but not the songs of old:
If now it be high Summer her days seem brief and cold days,
  If now it be high Summer her nights are long and cold.

If you have a secret keep it, pure maid Milly;
  Life is filled with troubles and the world with scorn;
And pity without love is at best times hard and chilly,
  Chilling sore and stinging sore a heart forlorn.

Walter Brandon, do you guess Milly Brandon's secret?
  Many things you know, but not everything,
With your locks like raven's plumage, and eyes like an egret,
  And a laugh that is music, and such a voice to sing.

Nelly Knollys, she is fair, but she is not fairer
  Than fairest Milly Brandon was before she turned so pale:
Oh, but Nelly's dearer if she be not rarer,
  She need not keep a secret or blush behind a veil.

Beyond the first green hills, beyond the nearest valleys,
  Nelly dwells at home beneath her mother's eyes:
Her home is neat and homely, not a cot and not a palace,
  Just the home where love sets up his happiest memories.

Milly has no mother; and sad beyond another
  Is she whose blessed mother is vanished out of call:
Truly comfort beyond comfort is stored up in a mother
  Who bears with all, and hopes through all, and loves us all.

Where peacocks nod and flaunt up and down the terrace,
  Furling and unfurling their scores of sightless eyes,
To and fro among the leaves and buds and flowers and berries
  Maiden Milly strolls and pauses, smiles and sighs.

On the hedged-in terrace of her father's palace
  She may stroll and muse alone, may smile or sigh alone,
Letting thoughts and eyes go wandering over hills and valleys
  To-day her father's, and one day to be all her own.

If her thoughts go coursing down lowlands and up highlands,
  It is because the startled game are leaping from their lair;
If her thoughts dart homeward to the reedy river islands,
  It is because the waterfowl rise startled here or there.

At length a footfall on the steps: she turns, composed and steady,
  All the long-descended greatness of her father's house
Lifting up her head; and there stands Walter keen and ready
  For hunting or for hawking, a flush upon his brows.

"Good-morrow, fair cousin." "Good-morrow, fairest cousin:
  The sun has started on his course, and I must start to-day.
If you have done me one good turn you've done me many a dozen,
  And I shall often think of you, think of you away."

"Over hill and hollow what quarry will you follow,
  Or what fish will you angle for beside the river's edge?
There's cloud upon the hill-top and there 's mist deep down the hollow,
  And fog among the rushes and the rustling sedge."

"I shall speed well enough be it hunting or hawking,
  Or casting a bait towards the shyest daintiest fin.
But I kiss your hands, my cousin; I must not loiter talking,
  For nothing comes of nothing, and I'm fain to seek and win."

"Here's a thorny rose: will you wear it an hour,
  Till the petals drop apart still fresh and pink and sweet?
Till the petals drop from the drooping perished flower,
  And only the graceless thorns are left of it."

"Nay, I have another rose sprung in another garden,
  Another rose which sweetens all the world for me.
Be you a tenderer mistress and be you a warier warden
  Of your rose, as sweet as mine, and full as fair to see."

"Nay, a bud once plucked there is no reviving,
  Nor is it worth your wearing now, nor worth indeed my own;
The dead to the dead, and the living to the living.
  It's time I go within, for it's time now you were gone."

"Good-bye, Milly Brandon, I shall not forget you,
  Though it be good-bye between us for ever from to-day;
I could almost wish to-day that I had never met you,
  And I'm true to you in this one word that I say."

"Good-bye, Walter. I can guess which thornless rose you covet;
  Long may it bloom and prolong its sunny morn:
Yet as for my one thorny rose, I do not cease to love it,
  And if it is no more a flower I love it as a thorn."

Too late for love, too late for joy,
  Too late, too late!
You loiter'd on the road too long,
  You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
  Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
  Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
  You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,
  One year ago,
Even then you had arrived in time,
  Though somewhat slow;
Then you had known her living face
  Which now you cannot know:
The frozen fountain would have leap'd,
  The buds gone on to blow,
The warm south wind would have awaked
  To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?
  Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
  With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
  White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
  And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
  Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile
  Or with a frown;
Her bed seem'd never soft to her,
  Though toss'd of down;
She little heeded what she wore,
  Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;
We think her white brows often ached
  Beneath her crown,
Till silvery hairs show'd in her locks
  That used to be so brown.

We never heard her speak in haste:
  Her tones were sweet,
And modulated just so much
  As it was meet:
Her heart sat silent through the noise
  And concourse of the street.
There was no hurry in her hands,
  No hurry in her feet;
There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
  That she might run to greet.

You should have wept her yesterday,
  Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
  That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
  But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
  Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
  Cut down and spread.

A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.

Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.

To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.

What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.

A million buds are born that never blow,
  That sweet with promise lift a pretty head
  To blush and wither on a barren bed
    And leave no fruit to show.

Sweet, unfulfilled. Yet have I understood
  One joy, by their fragility made plain:
  Nothing was ever beautiful in vain,
    Or all in vain was good.

Why does the sea moan evermore?
      Shut out from heaven it makes its moan,
It frets against the boundary shore;
      All earth's full rivers cannot fill
      The sea, that drinking thirsteth still.

Sheer miracles of loveliness
      Lie hid in its unlooked-on bed:
Anemones, salt, passionless,
      Blow flower-like; just enough alive
      To blow and multiply and thrive.

Shells quaint with curve, or spot, or spike,
      Encrusted live things argus-eyed,
All fair alike, yet all unlike,
      Are born without a pang, and die
      Without a pang, and so pass by.

B.C. 570.


Here, where I dwell, I waste to skin and bone;
  The curse is come upon me, and I waste
  In penal torment powerless to atone.
The curse is come on me, which makes no haste
  And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud
  Hard man and him the sinner double-faced.
Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed
  Within me, as my body in this mire;
  My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore bestead and cowed
As ***** and Gomorrah scourged by fire,
  As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal,
  So we the elect ones perish in His ire.
Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel
  With famished faces toward Jerusalem:
  His heart is shut against us not to feel,
His ears against our cry He shutteth them,
  His hand He shorteneth that He will not save,
  His law is loud against us to condemn:
And we, as unclean bodies in the grave
  Inheriting corruption and the dark,
  Are outcast from His presence which we crave.
Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark,
  Our Glory hath departed from His rest,
  Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark
Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest.
  Our very Father hath forsaken us,
  Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppress'd
Unto our foes are even marvellous,
  A hissing and a **** for pointing hands,
  Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus;
For He hath scattered us in alien lands,
  Our priests, our princes, our anointed king,
  And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands.
Here while I sit, my painful heart takes wing
  Home to the home-land I may see no more,
  Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring
And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore
  Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine,
  There where my parents dwelt at ease before:
Now strangers press the olives that are mine,
  Reap all the corners of my harvest-field,
  And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine;
To them my trees, to them my gardens yield
  Their sweets and spices and their tender green,
  O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield.
Yet these are they whose fathers had not been
  Housed with my dogs; whom hip and thigh we smote
  And with their blood washed their pollutions clean,
Purging the land which spewed them from its throat;
  Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey,
  Choice tender ones on whom the fathers dote:
Now they in turn have led our own away;
  Our daughters and our sisters and our wives
  Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day,
To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives,
  Soothing their drunken masters with a song,
  Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves--
Accurst if they remember through the long
  Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed
  If they forget and join the accursed throng.
How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst
  When I remember that my way was plain,
  And that God's candle lit me at the first,
Whilst now I ***** in darkness, ***** in vain,
  Desiring but to find Him Who is lost,
  To find him once again, but once again!
His wrath came on us to the uttermost,
  His covenanted and most righteous wrath.
  Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast,
Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path,
  Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet,
  Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath
Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat
  Born of thy body, as the sun and moon
  'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete.
O Lord, remember David, and that soon.
  The Glory hath departed, Ichabod!
  Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon,
Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod,
  Before we go down quick into the pit,
  Remember us for good, O God, our God:--
Thy Name will I remember, praising it,
  Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face,
  And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ;
Thy Name will I remember in my praise
  And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old,
Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days
  And end me as a tale ends that is told.

Remember, if I claim too much of you,
  I claim it of my brother and my friend:
  Have patience with me till the hidden end,
Bitter or sweet, in mercy shut from view.
Pay me my due; though I to pay your due
  Am all too poor and past what will can mend:
  Thus of your bounty you must give and lend
Still unrepaid by aught I look to do.
Still unrepaid by aught of mine on earth:
  But overpaid, please God, when recompense
Beyond the mystic Jordan and new birth
  Is dealt to virtue as to innocence;
When Angels singing praises in their mirth
  Have borne you in their arms and fetched you hence.

"In the grave, whither thou goest."

O weary Champion of the Cross, lie still:
  Sleep thou at length the all-embracing sleep:
  Long was thy sowing day, rest now and reap:
Thy fast was long, feast now thy spirit's fill.
Yea, take thy fill of love, because thy will
  Chose love not in the shallows but the deep:
  Thy tides were springtides, set against the neap
Of calmer souls: thy flood rebuked their rill.
Now night has come to thee--please God, of rest:
  So some time must it come to every man;
  To first and last, where many last are first.
Now fixed and finished thine eternal plan,
  Thy best has done its best, thy worst its worst:
Thy best its best, please God, thy best its best.

Brown and furry
Caterpillar in a hurry,
Take your walk
To the shady leaf, or stalk,
Or what not,
Which may be the chosen spot.
No toad spy you,
Hovering bird of prey pass by you;
Spin and die,
To live again a butterfly.

I wish you were a pleasant wren,
  And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
  We'd rise and go to bed at eight
  Or it may be not quite so late.

Then you should see the nest I'd build,
  The wondrous nest for you and me;
The outside rough, perhaps, but filled
  With wool and down: ah, you should see
  The cosey nest that it would be.

We'd have our change of hope and fear,
  Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
  Or hop about on active feet
  And fetch you dainty bits to eat.

We'd be so happy by the day,
  So safe and happy through the night,
We both should feel, and I should say,
  It's all one season of delight,
And we'll make merry whilst we may.

Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
  When spring had blossomed from the snow:
I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
  Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
  To let our little neighbors know.

Next you should sit and I would sing
Through lengthening days of sunny spring:
  Till, if you wearied of the task,
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
  From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.

Fancy the breaking of the shell,
  The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
The untried proud paternal swell;
  And you with housewife-matron air
  Enacting choicer bills of fare.

Fancy the embryo coats of down,
  The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
  With ****** warblings in their beak,
  They too go forth to soar and seek.

So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew:
  Then should we part and live as twain,
Love-time would bring me back to you
  And build our happy nest again.

"O happy happy land!
Angels like rushes stand
  About the wells of light."--
  "Alas, I have not eyes for this fair sight:
Hold fast my hand."--

"As in a soft wind, they
Bend all one blessed way,
  Each bowed in his own glory, star with star."--
  "I cannot see so far,
  Here shadows are."--

"White-winged the cherubim,
Yet whiter seraphim,
  Glow white with intense fire of love."--
"Mine eyes are dim:
  I look in vain above,
And miss their hymn."--

"Angels, Archangels cry
One to other ceaselessly
  (I hear them sing)
  One 'Holy, Holy, Holy,' to their King."--
"I do not hear them, I."--

"Joy to thee, Paradise,--
  Garden and goal and nest!
Made green for wearied eyes;
  Much softer than the breast
Of mother-dove clad in a rainbow's dyes.

"All precious souls are there
  Most safe, elect by grace,
  All tears are wiped forever from their face:
Untired in prayer
  They wait and praise,
  Hidden for a little space.

"Boughs of the Living Vine,
They spread in summer shine
  Green leaf with leaf:
Sap of the Royal Vine, it stirs like wine
  In all both less and chief.

"Sing to the Lord,
  All spirits of all flesh, sing;
For He hath not abhorred
  Our low estate nor scorned our offering:
  Shout to our King."--

"But Zion said:
  My Lord forgetteth me.
Lo, she hath made her bed
  In dust; forsaken weepeth she
  Where alien rivers swell the sea.

"She laid her body as the ground,
  Her tender body as the ground to those
Who passed; her harpstrings cannot sound
In a strange land; discrowned
  She sits, and drunk with woes."--

"O drunken not with wine,
  Whose sins and sorrows have fulfilled the sum,--
  Be not afraid, arise, be no more dumb;
Arise, shine,
  For thy light is come."--

"Can these bones live?"--
            "God knows:
  The prophet saw such clothed with flesh and skin
  A wind blew on them and life entered in;
They shook and rose.
  Hasten the time, O Lord, blot out their sin,
  Let life begin."

1.

Whoso hears a chiming for Christmas at the nighest,
  Hears a sound like Angels chanting in their glee,
Hears a sound like palm-boughs waving in the highest,
  Hears a sound like ripple of a crystal sea.

Sweeter than a prayer-bell for a saint in dying,
  Sweeter than a death-bell for a saint at rest,
Music struck in Heaven with earth's faint replying,
  "Life is good, and death is good, for Christ is Best."

2.

A holy, heavenly chime
Rings fulness in of time,
And on His Mother's breast
Our Lord God ever-Blest
Is laid a Babe at rest.

Stoop, Spirits unused to stoop,
Swoop, Angels, flying swoop,
Adoring as you gaze,
Uplifting hymns of praise,--
"Grace to the Full of Grace!"

The cave is cold and strait
To hold the angelic state.
More strait it is, more cold,
To foster and infold
Its Maker one hour old.

Thrilled through with awestruck love,
Meek Angels poised above,
To see their God look down.
"What, is there never a Crown
For Him in swaddled gown?

"How comes He soft and weak
With such a tender cheek,
With such a soft, small hand?--
The very Hand which spann'd
Heaven when its girth was plann'd.

"How comes He with a voice
Which is but baby-noise?--
That Voice which spake with might:
'Let there be light!' and light
Sprang out before our sight.

"What need hath He of flesh
Made flawless now afresh?
What need of human heart?--
Heart that must bleed and smart,
Choosing the better part.

"But see: His gracious smile
Dismisses us a while
To serve Him in His kin.
Haste we, make haste, begin
To fetch His brethren in."

Like stars they flash and shoot,
The Shepherds they salute.
"Glory to God" they sing;
"Good news of peace we bring,
For Christ is born a King."

3.

Lo! newborn Jesus,
  Soft and weak and small,
Wrapped in baby's bands
By His Mother's hands,
  Lord God of all.

Lord God of Mary,
  Whom His Lips caress
While He rocks to rest
On her milky breast
  In helplessness.

Lord God of shepherds
  Flocking through the cold,
Flocking through the dark
To the only Ark,
  The only Fold.

Lord God of all things,
  Be they near or far,
Be they high or low;
Lord of storm and snow,
  Angel and star.

Lord God of all men,--
  My Lord and my God!
Thou who lovest me,
Keep me close to Thee
  By staff and rod.

Lo! newborn Jesus,
  Loving great and small,
Love's free Sacrifice,
Opening Arms and Eyes
  To one and all.

It is a land with neither night nor day,
Nor heat nor cold, nor any wind, nor rain,
Nor hills nor valleys; but one even plain
Stretches thro' long unbroken miles away:
While thro' the sluggish air a twilight grey
Broodeth; no moons or seasons wax and wane,
No ebb and flow are there among the main,
No bud-time no leaf-falling there for aye,
No ripple on the sea, no shifting sand,
No beat of wings to stir the stagnant space,
And loveless sea: no trace of days before,
No guarded home, no time-worn restingplace
No future hope no fear forevermore.

What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

As rivers seek the sea,
  Much more deep than they,
So my soul seeks thee
  Far away:
As running rivers moan
On their course alone
  So I moan
  Left alone.

As the delicate rose
  To the sun's sweet strength
Doth herself unclose,
  Breadth and length:
So spreads my heart to thee
Unveiled utterly,
  I to thee
  Utterly.

As morning dew exhales
  Sunwards pure and free,
So my spirit fails
  After thee:
As dew leaves not a trace
On the green earth's face;
  I, no trace
  On thy face.

Its goal the river knows,
  Dewdrops find a way,
Sunlight cheers the rose
  In her day:
Shall I, lone sorrow past,
Find thee at the last?
  Sorrow past,
  Thee at last?

Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief:--
    We are as they;
    Like them we fade away,
As doth a leaf.

    Consider
The sparrows of the air of small account:
    Our God doth view
Whether they fall or mount,--
    He guards us too.

    Consider
The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
    Yet are most fair:--
    What profits all this care
And all this coil?

    Consider
The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
    God gives them food:--
Much more our Father seeks
    To do us good.

Flowers preach to us if we will hear:--
The rose saith in the dewy morn,
I am most fair;
Yet all my loveliness is born
Upon a thorn.
The poppy saith amid the corn:
Let but my scarlet head appear
And I am held in scorn;
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies
Within my cup of curious dyes.
The lilies say: Behold how we
Preach without words of purity.
The violets whisper from the shade
Which their own leaves have made:
Men scent our fragrance on the air,
Yet take no heed
Of humble lessons we would read.

But not alone the fairest flowers:
The merest grass
Along the roadside where we pass,
Lichen and moss and sturdy ****,
Tell of His love who sends the dew,
The rain and sunshine too,
To nourish one small seed.

I was a cottage maiden
Hardened by sun and air
Contented with my cottage mates,
Not mindful I was fair.
Why did a great lord find me out,
And praise my flaxen hair?
Why did a great lord find me out,
To fill my heart with care?
He lured me to his palace home--
Woe's me for joy thereof--
To lead a shameless shameful life,
His plaything and his love.
He wore me like a silken knot,
He changed me like a glove;
So now I moan, an unclean thing,
Who might have been a dove.
O Lady kate, my cousin Kate,
You grew more fair than I:
He saw you at your father's gate,
Chose you, and cast me by.
He watched your steps along the lane,
Your work among the rye;
He lifted you from mean estate
To sit with him on high.
Because you were so good and pure
He bound you with his ring:
The neighbors call you good and pure,
Call me an outcast thing.
Even so I sit and howl in dust,
You sit in gold and sing:
Now which of us has tenderer heart?
You had the stronger wing.
O cousin Kate, my love was true,
Your love was writ in sand:
If he had fooled not me but you,
If you stood where I stand,
He'd not have won me with his love
Nor bought me with his land;
I would have spit into his face
And not have taken his hand.
Yet I've a gift you have not got,
And seem not like to get:
For all your clothes and wedding-ring
I've little doubt you fret.
My fair-haired son, my shame, my pride,
Cling closer, closer yet:
Your father would give his lands for one
To wear his coronet.

A dream that waketh,
  Bubble that breaketh,
Song whose burden sigheth,
  A passing breath,
  Smoke that vanisheth,--
Such is life that dieth.

  A flower that fadeth,
  Fruit the tree sheddeth,
Trackless bird that flieth,
  Summer time brief,
  Falling of the leaf,--
Such is life that dieth.

  A scent exhaling,
  Snow waters failing,
Morning dew that drieth,
  A windy blast,
  Lengthening shadows cast,--
Such is life that dieth.

  A scanty measure,
  Rust-eaten treasure,
Spending that nought buyeth,
  Moth on the wing,
  Toil unprofiting,--
Such is life that dieth.

  Morrow by morrow
  Sorrow breeds sorrow,
For this my song sigheth;
  From day to night
  We lapse out of sight,--
Such is life that dieth.

Ah! changed and cold, how changed and very cold!
  With stiffened smiling lips and cold calm eyes:
  Changed, yet the same; much knowing, little wise;
This was the promise of the days of old!
Grown hard and stubborn in the ancient mould,
  Grown rigid in the sham of lifelong lies:
  We hoped for better things as years would rise,
But it is over as a tale once told.
All fallen the blossom that no fruitage bore,
  All lost the present and the future time,
All lost, all lost, the lapse that went before:
So lost till death shut-to the opened door,
  So lost from chime to everlasting chime,
So cold and lost forever evermore.

Hope new born one pleasant morn
  Died at even;
Hope dead lives nevermore,
  No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud
  To weep itself away;
Or were he buried underground
  To sprout some day!
But dead and gone is dead and gone
  Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face
  To mark the spot,
But it shows a barren place
  In our lot.

The Spring spreads one green lap of flowers
  Which Autumn buries at the fall,
No chilling showers of Autumn hours
  Can stay them or recall;
Winds sing a dirge, while earth lays out of sight
Her garment of delight.

The cloven East brings forth the sun,
  The cloven West doth bury him
What time his gorgeous race is run
  And all the world grows dim;
A funeral moon is lit in heaven's hollow,
And pale the star-lights follow.

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.
I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.

My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

"Friend, open to Me."--Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?

"Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me."
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.

"Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me."

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:
"Open to Me."
Still harping in mine ears:
"Rise, let Me in."
Pleading with tears:
"Open to Me that I may come to thee."
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
"My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me."

So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood forevermore.

A diamond or a coal?
  A diamond, if you please:
Who cares about a clumsy coal
  Beneath the summer trees?

A diamond or a coal?
  A coal, sir, if you please:
One comes to care about the coal
  What time the waters freeze.

I love and love not: Lord, it breaks my heart
  To love and not to love.
Thou veiled within Thy glory, gone apart
  Into Thy shrine, which is above,
Dost Thou not love me, Lord, or care
  For this mine ill?--
I love thee here or there,
  I will accept thy broken heart, lie still.

Lord, it was well with me in time gone by
  That cometh not again,
When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I?
  I fresh, I cheerful: worn with pain
Now, out of sight and out of heart;
  O Lord, how long?--
I watch thee as thou art,
  I will accept thy fainting heart, be strong.

"Lie still," "be strong," to-day; but, Lord, to-morrow,
  What of to-morrow, Lord?
Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow,
  Be living green upon the sward
Now but a barren grave to me,
  Be joy for sorrow?--
Did I not die for thee?
  Do I not live for thee? leave Me to-morrow.

Where sunless rivers weep
Their waves into the deep,
She sleeps a charmed sleep:
Awake her not.
Led by a single star,
She came from very far
To seek where shadows are
Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,
She left the fields of corn,
For twilight cold and lorn
And water springs.
Through sleep, as through a veil,
She sees the sky look pale,
And hears the nightingale
That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.
She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain;
She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;
Rest, rest at the heart's core
Till time shall cease:
Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.