English

And thou art gone! Do I bewail thee? Not,
If wail needs words. Even tears refuse to flow.
Placid, I walk life's daily round; and, so,
The world may deem me peaceful—thee forgot.
Alas, alas, cold heart! men little know
That on the near and clement side of woe
Dwell every conscious grief. A sterner lot
Is frigid torpor, 'neath Fate's Arctic snow.
Test not the soul by obvious signs of gloom,
Save thou have insight. From some citadel,
Where falls a Queen amid her slaughtered train,
No cry goes forth—no cannon's sullen boom.

So, Florence, you have shown to me
All your wild region by the sea;
The pines, mysterious to us both,
Distorted with a sidelong growth
Of boughs irregularly spread,
And rough trunks ivy-garlanded;
The pathways indistinct and brief
Littered with droppings of the leaf;
The bents' precarious and scant
Life on the mounds extravagant
Of sand towards the abysmal sea
Crumbling for ever silently;
The rain-worn gully; the embrowned
Curve, sweeping half the horizon round,
Of low beach smooth to the content

Sing forth his high eternal name
Who holds all powers in thrall,
Through endless ages still the same,—
The mighty Lord of all.

His goodness, strong and measureless,
Upholds us lest we fall,
His hand is still outstretched to bless,—
The loving Lord of all.

His perfect law sets metes and bounds,
Our strong defense and wall;
His providence our life surrounds,—
The saving Lord of all.

He every thought and every deed
Doth to his judgment call;
Oh, may our hearts obedient heed

Oh, wondrous, solemn mystery of Dream!
Sublime induction of a formless thought—
How vivid is thy cloud-constructed theme!
Divine of fancy, and by mind unsought,
Marvel of color, nameless and untaught,
Appalling glimpses of a world supreme!

I saw in sleep, with thrills of proud delight,
Vistas of algid spheres, and such a view
As never yet of man had blurred the sight,
Which none can tell of, or conceive of few,—
In planets far, through billion leagues of blue,
A vision of an airless city, white.

Brothers , rejoice! for our task is completed,
After the pattern appointed of yore;
Let the reward to the Craftsmen be meted,
While with thanksgiving we bow and adore.
Low at the feet of Him,
Throned where the Seraphim
And the archangels sing anthems of praise.
Born of the lowly dust,
Wanting in faith and trust,
How shall we worship Thee, Ancient of Days!

Darkly we grope through the twilight of being,
Weary we wait for the day dawning bright;
Father Omnific, Supreme and All-Seeing,

When over us the cross its shadow throws,
Our frames enshrouded in the mould of night,
Thou wilt reflower in the lily white,
And from my flesh be born the ensanguined rose.

And Death divine thy verse in music knows,
With silence and oblivion to his flight,
Will bear us, cradled in serene delight,
Through charmèd ways that strange new stars disclose.

And mounting to the Sun our spirits twain,
Absorbed and melted in his depths, will gain
The tranquil raptures of unceasing fire;

That life go droning on we learn to ask,
With sunshine on the floor, a cat near by,
A lazy wheel's low stir our only task,
And last soft-fingered twilight drawing nigh,
And shutters closed. Serenely then to lie
And sleep were good.—Thank God it may not be!
The arrogant insistence of the sea
Shall grow less urgent to a listening ear,
Than shall unto our hearts the haunting plea
Of times about us, full of fate and fear.

Father beloved, thy daughter gives
Glad welcome to the morn,
That ushers in the happy day,
When sire and son were born.

Sire, on whose brow, few threads of gray
Have mingled with the gold,
Babe, with the silver, waving hair,
And only one year old.

Thou standest on the mountain top,
Thine eye is youthful still;
While he, a helpless babe, doth take
His first step up the hill.

His little feet may ne'er ascend
High as thine own have trod,
But waver soon, and early rest

I would not have a love wild over-much,
But love with power to do or to refrain;
Love loving Love so well it would not stain
Love's fair white pinions with one brutal touch.

They bear the burden of the snow—
They bear it with a patient grace,
The drooping trees! Yet well they know
A melting hour comes on apace.

Ah, if but Time, that crowns me white,
An equal clemency would show,
Then I, some soft, mild day or night,
Would drop the burden of the snow!