CLXIII

TO THE END

I wonder if the Angels
Love with such love as ours,
If for each other's sake they pluck

And keep eternal flowers.
Alone I am and weary,

Alone yet not alone :

Her soul talks with me by the way
From tedious stone to stone,
A blessed Angel treads with me
The awful paths unknown.

If her spirit went before me
Up from night to day,

It would pass me like the lightning
That kindles on its way.

I should feel it like the lightning
Flashing fresh from Heaven:

I should long for Heaven sevenfold more,
Yea and sevenfold seven :

Should pray as I have not pray'd before,
And strive as I have not striven.

She will learn new love in Heaven,
Who is so full of love;

She will learn new depths of tenderness
Who is tender like a dove.

Her heart will no more sorrow,
Her eyes will weep no more :
Yet it may be she will yearn
And look back from far before:
Lingering on the golden threshold
And leaning from the door.

C. G. Rossetti

CLXIV

THE ONE HOPE

When vain desire at last and vain regret
Go hand in hand to death, and all is vain,
What shall assuage the unforgotten pain
And teach the unforgetful to forget?

Shall Peace be still a sunk stream long unmet,—
Or may the soul at once in a green plain
Stoop through the spray of some sweet life-fountain
And cull the dew-drench'd flowering amulet ?

Ah! when the wan soul in that golden air

Between the scriptured petals softly blown
Peers breathless for the gift of grace unknown,—

Ah! let none other alien spell soe'er

But only the one Hope's one name be there,—
Not less nor more, but even that word alone.
D. G. Rossetti

CLXV

A DEAD ROSE

O Rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat,— Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame

thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee
Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,—

If breathing now,-unsweeten'd would forgo thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appear'd to bloom, and flower to burn,—

If shining now,—with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grow incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,-

If dropping now,-would darken where it met thee.
The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet,
Along thy leaf's pure edges, after heat,—
If lighting now,--would coldly overrun thee.

The bee that once did suck thee,

And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-
If passing now,-would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee,

Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most completeThough seeing now those changes that disguise thee. E. B. Browning

CLXVI

LOST DAYS

The lost days of my life until to-day,

What were they, could I see them on the street
Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat
Sown once for food but trodden into clay?
Or golden coins squander'd and still to pay?
Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet?
Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat
The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway?

I do not see them here; but after death

God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murder'd self, with low last breath.

'I am thyself,-what hast thou done to me?' ' And I—and I-thyself,' (lo! each one saith,) 'And thou thyself to all eternity!'

P. G. Rossetti

CLXVII

THE SUMMER IS ENDED

Wreathe no more lilies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet :
Or, if you will for the last time
Indeed, why make me fair
Once for my winding-sheet.

Pluck no more roses for my breast,
For I like them fade in my prime :
Or, if you will, why pluck them still,
That they may share my rest
Once more for the last time.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
Dear tender one, but hope and smile :
Or, if you cannot choose but weep,
A little while weep on,

Only a little while.

C. G. Rossetti.

CLXVIII

RETURNING HOME

To leave unseen so many a glorious sight,
To leave so many lands unvisited,
To leave so many worthiest books unread,
Unrealized so many visions bright ;—

Oh! wretched yet inevitable spite

Of our brief span, that we must yield our breath,
And wrap us in the unfeeling coil of death,
So much remaining of unproved delight.

But hush, my soul, and vain regrets, be still'd;
Find rest in Him who is the complement
Of whatsoe'er transcends our mortal doom,
Of baffled hope and unfulfill'd intent;
In the clear vision and aspect of whom
All longings and all hopes shall be fulfill'd.

R. C. Archbishop Trench

CLXIX

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, Had, not the less, their certain date :And thou, O human heart of mine,

Be still, refrain thyself, and wait.

A. H. Clough

CLXX

LASCIATE OGNI SPERANZA...

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me, like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am-I live-though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem

And all that's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange-nay, they are stranger than the rest.