English

Who sings of love? One moment, let me lend
One broken fragment of my boundless store;
One moment, let him stand beside the shore
Of Thee, my Ocean, and his songs will end
In shame and silence. O my Friend, my Friend,
Shall I keep craven silence, or be bold,
And Truth, Thy truth, O Lord of truth, be told? —
Of how the Highest High can condescend,

And how the lowest low can rise and soar
Even to Thy Presence, even to Thy Heart,
O mightiest of the mighty (yet more dear
Than mighty), ever nearer and more near,

Thus far, no further! tyrant of the skies,
Thus far, no further! mighty Lord of life,
Here, where I crouch beneath Thy minion's knife,
Here where my wounded hands and bleeding eyes
Speak loud, where every shattered member cries,
Unheeded, not for mercy but the End —
Without a helper and without a friend —
My body quails, but still my soul defies,
Defies Thee now, and shall defy Thee still
When, ringed with angels, I shall stand alone
Judged and condemned before Thy judgment seat,
And hear Thee utter Thy almighty will.

Come let us reason, though my voice is weak;
My voice is weak as thy decree is strong.
At last the cup is full. Too long, too long
Have I endured in silence: I will speak.
Is this thy Right, on thine own work to wreak
The vengeance due thine own almighty wrong?
Does good to good and bad to bad belong,
Or is this world of thine the monstrous freak
Of madness drunk with its omnipotence?
Peace, peace, poor soul; and would you hope to stir
That heart with human pity? How and whence?
The answer still is silence. Should He use.

NOVEMBER

I SAW a little maid with pattering feet
Who ran to me with open arms and cried
" Father!" and in my heart there swelled a tide
So strong, so deep, and oh so wonder-sweet!
I woke, and heard the long slow billows beat
In ominous thunder on the shallow shore,
And gust on gust the misty North-wind roar,
Where surge and shingle undistinguished meet.

I saw thee, little maid, for thou wast here;
The sun was on thy hair, and in thy hand
Daisies — and oh the smile! Sullen, forlorn

Know me ? I am no power who sits at ease,
But what I am I am because I do.
And wouldst thou know me, son of earth, thou too?
Behold the flowery mead, the teeming seas,
The lily dancing in the morning breeze,
The planet and the heaven wherein he moves,
The sun that warms thee, and the heart that loves;
Thou who wouldst know me, thou must be as these.

Who knows my power? Not they who stand at gaze,
For seeing they shall see and shall not see,
And knowing they shall know not, though they knew;

This earth we tread on is thy work, O sea!
The architect was thou ; 'twas thou didst lay
The strong unseen foundations: day by day
Within thy bosom imperceptibly
The fabric grew of continents to be;
And men shall live and build and breed and sleep
Where now the waves are rolling fathoms deep,
And little heed perchance will take of thee
And all thy patient toil: but some there are
To whom, although old Neptune and his train
Are banished from the deeps to realms afar,
The voice of those laborious waves of thine,

Oh ! may thy life be ever bright, I pray,
And gladly mayst thou ever greet the morn:
But if (for who escapes of mortal born?),
If thou shouldst fall upon an evil day,
If that should fail which was thy chiefest stay,
If honour seem a jest, and life forlorn,
And friends are cold, and cruel is the scorn
Of worldlings yelping round a soul at bay:
Ah then, perchance this thought will come to thee:
" Far off across the seas I have a friend:
And though alone and all alone I be,
Though none be by to comfort or defend:

" LEARN to forget," the wise man said of old;
Learn to forget the cruel wiles of Fate:
Learn to forget the gods' remorseless hate;
Death comes apace, and soon the tale is told;
Then fill the wine-cup ere the blood be cold,
And, lapped in languorous beauty's soft caress,
Distil a potion of forgetfulness
From lips of coral and from locks of gold.

But thou shalt fill my wine-cup, and the wine
Shall be the joy and beauty of the earth:
I'll drink deep draughts of essences divine,
Of peace and truth and love and holy mirth:

O friend, what honour canst thou have of me?
Better my name were never named again:
Vain were the builded hopes, and worse than vain,
Now hope is shattered, is the memory.
Then void thy heart of what remains to thee
Of my importunate presence; make it clear
Of all that was and all that might have been,
Of Love, or thought of love, if thought there be —

But I have that nor thou nor Time can take,
Nor gusty fortune nor the tongues of men,
I have thyself within me, there to make
Sweet music in the chambers of my heart —

XLVIII

Rises before me the sweet, eloquent face,
The lithe form once again is at my side,
His speech is in mine ear, the moving grace
Of his dear presence warms the morning tide
Or makes the evening lovely, — lo! he's there!
I reach my hand, — and meet the empty air.

XLIX

Nay, but that air shall stir to the rich strains
He struck upon Life's harp; silence shall break
Into such harmonies for Love's sole sake,