Wakeful for last year's call that I loved — still, it's as fresh as ever when the cuckoo comes

Neglectful, I have not died of love — another year gone, counting on meeting you by living on

Look, this must be love that fills the sky! As soon as the thought rises, smoke smolders

I

I saw the figure of a lovely Maid
Seated alone beneath a darksome tree,
Whose fondly-overhanging canopy
Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade.
No Spirit was she; that my heart betrayed,
For she was one I loved exceedingly;
But while I gazed in tender reverie
(Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played?)
The bright corporeal presence — form and face —
Remaining still distinct grew thin and rare,
Like sunny mist; — at length the golden hair,
Shape, limbs, and heavenly features, keeping pace

137

With Cords of love God often strove
your stubborn hearts to tame:
Nevertheless your wickedness,
did still resist the same.
If now at last Mercy be past
from you for evermore,
And Justice come in Mercies room,
yet grudge you not therefore.

138

If into wrath God turned hath
his long long suffering,
And now for love you vengeance prove,

She was lovely and fair to see
And the elfin's heart beat fitfully;
But lovelier far, and still more fair,
The earthly form imprinted there;
Nought he saw in the heavens above
Was half so dear as his mortal love,
For he thought upon her looks so meek,
And he thought of the light flush on her cheek;
Never again might he bask and lie
On that sweet cheek and moonlight eye,
But in his dreams her form to see,
To clasp her in his reverie,
To think upon his virgin bride,
Was worth all heaven and earth beside.

But Thee, but Thee, O sovereign Seer of time,
But Thee, O poets' Poet, Wisdom's Tongue,
But Thee, O man's best Man, O love's best Love,
O perfect life in perfect labor writ,
O all men's Comrade, Servant, King, or Priest,--
What if or yet, what mole, what flaw, what lapse,
What least defect or shadow of defect,
What rumor, tattled by an enemy,
Of inference loose, what lack of grace
Even in torture's grasp, or sleep's, or death's,--
Oh, what amiss may I forgive in Thee,
Jesus, good Paragon, thou Crystal Christ?

96 Saturday, 16 February 1751

Quod si Platonis musa personat verum,
Quod quisque discit, immemor recordatur.
Boethius [III xi 15]

Truth in platonic ornaments bedeck'd,
Inforc'd we love, unheeding recollect.

Long as thine art shall love true love,
Long as thy science truth shall know,
Long as thine eagle harms no dove,
Long as thy law by law shall grow,
Long as thy God is God above,
Thy brother every man below,
So long, dear land of all my love,
Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow.

SHALL I tell you whom I love?
— Hearken then awhile to me;
And if such a woman move
— As I now shall versify,
Be assured 'tis she or none,
That I love, and love alone.

Nature did her so much right
— As she scorns the help of art;
In as many virtues dight
— As e'er yet embraced a heart:
So much good so truly tried,
Some for less were deified.

Wit she hath, without desire
— To make known how much she hath;
And her anger flames no higher
— Than may fitly sweeten wrath.
Full of pity as may be,