When all that hindered, all that vexed our love, As tall rank weeds will climb the blade above, When all but it has yielded to decay. We'll meet again upon some future day. When we have proved, each on his course alone, The wider world, and learned what's now unknown, Have made life clear, and worked out each a way, We'll meet again,-we shall have much to say. With happier mood, and feelings born anew, Our boyhood's bygone fancies we'll re view, [play, Talk o'er old talks, play as we used to And meet again, on many a future day. Some day, which oft our hearts shall THE STREAM OF LIFE O STREAM descending to the sea, In garden plots the children play, O life descending into death, Strong purposes our mind possess, We toil and earn, we seek and learn, The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), And through the vale the rains go sweeping by; Ah me, and when in shelter shall we be? Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel they O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that stray (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind The pleasant huts and herds he left behind? And doth he sometimes in his slumbering see The feeding kine, and doth he think of me, My sweetheart wandering whereso'er it be? Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. The thunder bellows far from snow to snow (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), And loud and louder roars the flood below. Heigho! but soon in shelter shall we be : Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie), Or shall he find before his term be sped, Some comelier maid that he shall wish to wed? (Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie.) For weary is work, and weary day by day To have your comfort miles on miles away. Home. Rose, and home, Provence and La Palie. I do not ask the tints that fill The gate of day 'twixt hill and hill; I ask not for the hues that fleet Above the distant peaks; my feet Are on a poplar-bordered road, Where with a saddle and a load A donkey, old and ashen-gray, Reluctant works his dusty way. Before him, still with might and main Pulling his rope, the rustic rein, A girl before both him and me, Frequent she turns and lets me see, Unconscious, lets me scan and trace The sunny darkness of her face And outlines full of southern grace. Following I notice, yet and yet, A priest, and reading at his book! But while I speak, and point them COME, POET, COME! COME, Poet, come! A thousand laborers ply their task, Come, Poet, come! To give an utterance to the dumb, Whether we are not best without. Come, Poet, come! In vain I seem to call. And yet And countless hearts on countless years Had wasted thoughts, and hopes, and fears, Rude laughter and unmeaning tears, Whoe'er, Whate'er Thou art, Within the closest veil of mine own in. most heart. What is it then to me If others are inquisitive to see? Why should I quit my place to go and ask If other men are working at their task? To look if other orbs their orbits keep aright, Around their proper sun, Deserting Thee, and being undone. O let me love my love unto myself alone, And know my knowledge to the world unknown; And worship Thee, O hid One, O much sought, As but man can or ought, Within the abstracted'st shrine of my least breathed on thought. Better it were, thou sayest, to consent; Feast while we may, and live ere life be spent ; Close up clear eyes, and call the unstable sure, The unlovely lovely, and the filthy pure; In self-belyings, self-deceivings roll, And lose in Action, Passion, Talk, the soul. Nay, better far to mark off thus much air, And call it Heaven: place bliss and glory there; [sky, Fix perfect homes in the unsubstantial And say, what is not, will be by-and-bye. 1869. PERCHE PENSA? PENSANDO S' IN VECCHIA LIFE IS STRUGGLE To wear out heart, and nerves, and brain, And give oneself a world of pain; That keeps us all alive. To say we truly feel the pain, And quite are sinking with the strain ;- That keeps us still alive. 1869. To every clime, in every age, hath taught; If in this human complex there be aught Not lost in death, as not in birth acquired, O then, though cold the lips that did convey Rich freights of meaning, dead each living sphere Where thought abode, and fancy loved to play, Thou yet, we think, somewhere somehow still art, And satisfied with that the patient heart The where and how doth not desire to hear. 1869. IN A LONDON SQUARE PUT forth thy leaf, thou lofty plane, East wind and frost are safely gone; With zephyr mild and balmy rain The summer comes serenely on; Earth, air, and sun and skies combine To promise all that's kind and fair :But thou, O human heart of mine, Be still, contain thyself, and bear. December days were brief and chill, The winds of March were wild and drear, And, nearing and receding still, Spring never would, we thought, be here. The leaves that burst, the suns that shine, ALL IS WELL WHATE'ER you dream, with doubt possessed, Keep, keep it snug within your breast, "Twill all be well: no need of care; Though how it will, and when, and where, We cannot see, and can't declare. In spite of dreams, in spite of thought, 'Tis not in vain, and not for nought, The wind it blows, the ship it goes, Though where and whither, no knows. one 1869. |