Elegiacs


  Lowflowing breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the
    gloaming:
  Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines.
  Creeping thro' blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,
  Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall.
  Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerily; the grasshopper carolleth clearly;
  Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;
  Winds creep; dews fell chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes
    stilly:
  Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn.
  Sadly the far kine loweth: the glimmering water outfloweth:
  Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.
  Lowthroned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad
  Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast.

  The ancient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth,
  Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind.
  Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning or even.
  False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind?

The "How" and the "Why"


  I am any man's suitor,
  If any will be my tutor:
  Some say this life is pleasant,
  Some think it speedeth fast:
  In time there is no present,
  In eternity no future,
  In eternity no past.
  We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die,
  Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_?

  The bulrush nods unto its brother,
  The wheatears whisper to each other:
  What is it they say? What do they there?
  Why two and two make four? Why round is not square?
  Why the rocks stand still, and the light clouds fly?
  Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh?
  Why deep is not high, and high is not deep?
  Whether we wake, or whether we sleep?
  Whether we sleep, or whether we die?
  How you are you? Why I am I?
  Who will riddle me the _how_ and the _why_?

  The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow;
  But what is the meaning of _then_ and _now_?
  I feel there is something; but how and what?
  I know there is somewhat; but what and why?
  I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.

  The little bird pipeth, "why? why?"
  In the summerwoods when the sun falls low
  And the great bird sits on the opposite bough,
  And stares in his face and shouts, "how? how?"
  And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight,
  And chaunts, "how? how?" the whole of the night.

  Why the life goes when the blood is spilt?
  What the life is? where the soul may lie?
  Why a church is with a steeple built;
  And a house with a chimneypot?
  Who will riddle me the how and the what?
  Who will riddle me the what and the why?

Supposed Confessions
of a Second-Rate Sensitive Mind Not in Unity With Itself


  Oh God! my God! have mercy now.
  I faint, I fall. Men say that thou
  Didst die for me, for such as _me_,
  Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,
  And that my sin was as a thorn
  Among the thorns that girt thy brow,
  Wounding thy soul.--That even now,
  In this extremest misery
  Of ignorance, I should require
  A sign! and if a bolt of fire
  Would rive the slumbrous summernoon
  While I do pray to thee alone,
  Think my belief would stronger grow!
  Is not my human pride brought low?
  The boastings of my spirit still?
  The joy I had in my freewill
  All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown?
  And what is left to me, but thou,
  And faith in thee? Men pass me by;
  Christians with happy countenances--
  And children all seem full of thee!
  And women smile with saint-like glances
  Like thine own mother's when she bow'd
  Above thee, on that happy morn
  When angels spake to men aloud,
  And thou and peace to earth were born.
  Goodwill to me as well as all--
  I one of them: my brothers they:
  Brothers in Christ--a world of peace
  And confidence, day after day;
  And trust and hope till things should cease,
  And then one Heaven receive us all.
  How sweet to have a common faith!
  To hold a common scorn of death!
  And at a burial to hear
  The creaking cords which wound and eat
  Into my human heart, whene'er
  Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,
  With hopeful grief, were passing sweet!

  A grief not uninformed, and dull
  Hearted with hope, of hope as full
  As is the blood with life, or night
  And a dark cloud with rich moonlight.
  To stand beside a grave, and see
  The red small atoms wherewith we
  Are built, and smile in calm, and say--
  "These little moles and graves shall be
  Clothed on with immortality
  More glorious than the noon of day--
  All that is pass'd into the flowers
  And into beasts and other men,
  And all the Norland whirlwind showers
  From open vaults, and all the sea
  O'er washes with sharp salts, again
  Shall fleet together all, and be
  Indued with immortality."

  Thrice happy state again to be
  The trustful infant on the knee!
  Who lets his waxen fingers play
  About his mother's neck, and knows
  Nothing beyond his mother's eyes.
  They comfort him by night and day;
  They light his little life alway;
  He hath no thought of coming woes;
  He hath no care of life or death,
  Scarce outward signs of joy arise,
  Because the Spirit of happiness
  And perfect rest so inward is;
  And loveth so his innocent heart,
  Her temple and her place of birth,
  Where she would ever wish to dwell,
  Life of the fountain there, beneath
  Its salient springs, and far apart,
  Hating to wander out on earth,
  Or breathe into the hollow air,
  Whose dullness would make visible
  Her subtil, warm, and golden breath,
  Which mixing with the infant's blood,
  Fullfills him with beatitude.
  Oh! sure it is a special care
  Of God, to fortify from doubt,
  To arm in proof, and guard about
  With triple-mailed trust, and clear
  Delight, the infant's dawning year.

  Would that my gloomed fancy were
  As thine, my mother, when with brows
  Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld
  In thine, I listen'd to thy vows,
  For me outpour'd in holiest prayer--
  For me unworthy!--and beheld
  Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew
  The beauty and repose of faith,
  And the clear spirit shining through.
  Oh! wherefore do we grow awry
  From roots which strike so deep? why dare
  Paths in the desert? Could not I
  Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt,
  To th' earth--until the ice would melt
  Here, and I feel as thou hast felt?
  What Devil had the heart to scathe
  Flowers thou hadst rear'd--to brush the dew
  From thine own lily, when thy grave
  Was deep, my mother, in the clay?
  Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I
  So little love for thee? But why
  Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray
  To one who heeds not, who can save
  But will not? Great in faith, and strong
  Against the grief of circumstance
  Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if
  Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive
  Thro' utter dark a fullsailed skiff,
  Unpiloted i' the echoing dance
  Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low
  Unto the death, not sunk! I know
  At matins and at evensong,
  That thou, if thou were yet alive,
  In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive
  To reconcile me with thy God.
  Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
  At heart, thou wouldest murmur still--
  "Bring this lamb back into thy fold,
  My Lord, if so it be thy will".
  Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod,
  And chastisement of human pride;
  That pride, the sin of devils, stood
  Betwixt me and the light of God!
  That hitherto I had defied
  And had rejected God--that grace
  Would drop from his o'erbrimming love,
  As manna on my wilderness,
  If I would pray--that God would move
  And strike the hard hard rock, and thence,
  Sweet in their utmost bitterness,
  Would issue tears of penitence
  Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!
  I think that pride hath now no place
  Nor sojourn in me. I am void,
  Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.

  Why not believe then? Why not yet
  Anchor thy frailty there, where man
  Hath moor'd and rested? Ask the sea
  At midnight, when the crisp slope waves
  After a tempest, rib and fret
  The broadimbasèd beach, why he
  Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
  Wherefore his ridges are not curls
  And ripples of an inland mere?
  Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
  Draw down into his vexed pools
  All that blue heaven which hues and paves
  The other? I am too forlorn,
  Too shaken: my own weakness fools
  My judgment, and my spirit whirls,
  Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

  "Yet" said I, in my morn of youth,
  The unsunned freshness of my strength,
  When I went forth in quest of truth,
  "It is man's privilege to doubt,
  If so be that from doubt at length,
  Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
  An image with profulgent brows,
  And perfect limbs, as from the storm
  Of running fires and fluid range
  Of lawless airs, at last stood out
  This excellence and solid form
  Of constant beauty. For the Ox
  Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills
  The horned valleys all about,
  And hollows of the fringed hills
  In summerheats, with placid lows
  Unfearing, till his own blood flows
  About his hoof. And in the flocks
  The lamb rejoiceth in the year,
  And raceth freely with his fere,
  And answers to his mother's calls
  From the flower'd furrow. In a time,
  Of which he wots not, run short pains
  Through his warm heart; and then, from whence
  He knows not, on his light there falls
  A shadow; and his native slope,
  Where he was wont to leap and climb,
  Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,
  And something in the darkness draws
  His forehead earthward, and he dies.
  Shall man live thus, in joy and hope
  As a young lamb, who cannot dream,
  Living, but that he shall live on?
  Shall we not look into the laws
  Of life and death, and things that seem,
  And things that be, and analyse
  Our double nature, and compare
  All creeds till we have found the one,
  If one there be?" Ay me! I fear
  All may not doubt, but everywhere
  Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God,
  Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove
  Shadow me over, and my sins
  Be unremembered, and thy love
  Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet
  Somewhat before the heavy clod
  Weighs on me, and the busy fret
  Of that sharpheaded worm begins
  In the gross blackness underneath.

  O weary life! O weary death!
  O spirit and heart made desolate!
  O damnéd vacillating state!

The Burial of Love


  His eyes in eclipse,
  Pale cold his lips,
  The light of his hopes unfed,
  Mute his tongue,
  His bow unstrung
  With the tears he hath shed,
  Backward drooping his graceful head,

  Love is dead;
  His last arrow is sped;
  He hath not another dart;
  Go--carry him to his dark deathbed;
  Bury him in the cold, cold heart--
  Love is dead.

  Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn,
  And unrevenged? thy pleasant wiles
  Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?
  Shall hollowhearted apathy,
  The cruellest form of perfect scorn,
  With languor of most hateful smiles,
  For ever write
  In the withered light
  Of the tearless eye,
  An epitaph that all may spy?
  No! sooner she herself shall die.

  For her the showers shall not fall,
  Nor the round sun that shineth to all;
  Her light shall into darkness change;
  For her the green grass shall not spring,
  Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,
  Till Love have his full revenge.

To--


  Sainted Juliet! dearest name!
  If to love be life alone,
  Divinest Juliet,
  I love thee, and live; and yet
  Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame
  Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice
  Offered to gods upon an altarthrone;
  My heart is lighted at thine eyes,
  Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.

Song


  I

  I' the glooming light
  Of middle night
  So cold and white,
  Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave;
  Beside her are laid
  Her mattock and spade,
  For she hath half delved her own deep grave.
  Alone she is there:
  The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose;
  Her shoulders are bare;
  Her tears are mixed with the bearded dews.


  II

  Death standeth by;
  She will not die;
  With glazed eye
  She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep;
  Ever alone
  She maketh her moan:
  She cannot speak; she can only weep;
  For she will not hope.
  The thick snow falls on her flake by flake,
  The dull wave mourns down the slope,
  The world will not change, and her heart will not break.

Song


  The lintwhite and the throstlecock
  Have voices sweet and clear;
  All in the bloomed May.
  They from the blosmy brere
  Call to the fleeting year,
  If that he would them hear
  And stay. Alas! that one so beautiful
  Should have so dull an ear.


  II

  Fair year, fair year, thy children call,
  But thou art deaf as death;
  All in the bloomèd May.
  When thy light perisheth
  That from thee issueth,
  Our life evanisheth: Oh! stay.
  Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb
  Should have so sweet a breath!


  III

  Fair year, with brows of royal love
  Thou comest, as a king,
  All in the bloomèd May.
  Thy golden largess fling,
  And longer hear us sing;
  Though thou art fleet of wing,
  Yet stay. Alas! that eyes so full of light
  Should be so wandering!


  IV

  Thy locks are all of sunny sheen
  In rings of gold yronne,
  All in the bloomèd May,
  We pri'thee pass not on;
  If thou dost leave the sun,
  Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay.
  Thou art the fairest of thy feres,
  We pri'thee pass not on.

Song


  I

  Every day hath its night:
  Every night its morn:
  Thorough dark and bright
  Wingèd hours are borne;
  Ah! welaway!

  Seasons flower and fade;
  Golden calm and storm
  Mingle day by day.
  There is no bright form
  Doth not cast a shade--
  Ah! welaway!


  II

  When we laugh, and our mirth
  Apes the happy vein,
  We're so kin to earth,
  Pleasaunce fathers pain--
  Ah! welaway!
  Madness laugheth loud:
  Laughter bringeth tears:
  Eyes are worn away
  Till the end of fears
  Cometh in the shroud,
  Ah! welaway!


  III

  All is change, woe or weal;
  Joy is Sorrow's brother;
  Grief and gladness steal
  Symbols of each other;
  Ah! welaway!
  Larks in heaven's cope
  Sing: the culvers mourn
  All the livelong day.
  Be not all forlorn;
  Let us weep, in hope--
  Ah! welaway!

Nothing Will Die


  When will the stream be aweary of flowing
  Under my eye?
  When will the wind be aweary of blowing
  Over the sky?
  When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
  When will the heart be aweary of beating?
  And nature die?
  Never, oh! never, nothing will die?
  The stream flows,
  The wind blows,
  The cloud fleets,
  The heart beats,
  Nothing will die.

  Nothing will die;
  All things will change
  Through eternity.
  'Tis the world's winter;
  Autumn and summer
  Are gone long ago;
  Earth is dry to the centre,
  But spring, a new comer,
  A spring rich and strange,
  Shall make the winds blow
  Round and round,
  Through and through,
  Here and there,
  Till the air
  And the ground
  Shall be filled with life anew.

  The world was never made;
  It will change, but it will not fade.
  So let the wind range;
  For even and morn
  Ever will be
  Through eternity.
  Nothing was born;
  Nothing will die;
  All things will change.

All Things Will Die



  Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
  Under my eye;
  Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
  Over the sky.
  One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
  Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
  Full merrily;
  Yet all things must die.
  The stream will cease to flow;
  The wind will cease to blow;
  The clouds will cease to fleet;
  The heart will cease to beat;
  For all things must die.

  All things must die.
  Spring will come never more.
  Oh! vanity!
  Death waits at the door.
  See! our friends are all forsaking
  The wine and the merrymaking.
  We are called--we must go.
  Laid low, very low,
  In the dark we must lie.
  The merry glees are still;
  The voice of the bird
  Shall no more be heard,
  Nor the wind on the hill.
  Oh! misery!
  Hark! death is calling
  While I speak to ye,
  The jaw is falling,
  The red cheek paling,
  The strong limbs failing;
  Ice with the warm blood mixing;
  The eyeballs fixing.
  Nine times goes the passing bell:
  Ye merry souls, farewell.
  The old earth
  Had a birth,
  As all men know,
  Long ago.
  And the old earth must die.
  So let the warm winds range,
  And the blue wave beat the shore;
  For even and morn
  Ye will never see
  Through eternity.
  All things were born.
  Ye will come never more,
  For all things must die.