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And with him risen and regent in death's


I that have love and no more
Give you but love of you, sweet :

He that hath more, let him give;
He that hath wings, let him soar;
Mine is the heart at your feet
Here, that must love you to live.


All day thy choral pulses rang full choir ; O heart whose beating blood was run

ning song, O sole thing sweeter than thine own

songs were, Help us for thy free love's sake to be

free, True for thy truth's sake, for thy

strength's sake strong, Till very liberty make clean and fair The nursing earth as the sepulchral sea.





It does not hurt. She looked along the

knife Smiling, and watched the thick drops

mix and run Down the sheer blade; not that which

had been done Could hurt the sweet sense of the Roman

wife, But that which was to do yet ere the

strife Could end for each forever, and the sun : Nor was the palm yet nor was peace yet While pain had power upon her hus

band's life. It does not hurt, Italia. Thou art more Than bride to bridegroom ; how shalt

thou not take The gift love's blood has reddened for

thy sake? Was not thy lifeblood given for us be

fore? And if lore's heartblood can avail thy

need, And thou not die, how should it hurt indeed ?


In a coign of the cliff between lowland

and highland, At the sea-down's edge between wind

ward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland

island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brush wood and thorn en

closes The steep square slope of the blos

somless bed Where the weeds that grew green from

the graves of its roses Now lie dead. The fields fall southward, abrupt and

broken, To the low last edge of the long lone

land. If a step should sound or a word be

spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange

guest's hand ? So long have the gray bare walks lain

guestless, Through branches and briars if a man

make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's,

restless Night and day. The dense hard passage is blind and

stifled That crawls by a track none turn to

climb To the strait waste place that the years

have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched

not of time. The thorns he spares when the rose is

taken: The rocks are left when he wastes the

plain ; The wind that wanders, the weeds wind

shaken, These remain.


Ask nothing more of me, sweet,
All I can give you I give.

Heart of my heart, were it more, More would be laid at your feet : Love that should help you to live,

Song that should spur you to soar.

All things were nothing to give
Once to have sense of you more,

Touch you and taste of you, sweet, Think you and breathe you and live, Swept of your wings as they soar,

Trodden by chance of your feet.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not ;

[plots are dry ; As the heart of a dead man the seedIn the air now soft with a summer to

be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the

seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh

now or weep, When, as they that are free now of weep

ing and laughter, We shall sleep.

From the thicket of thorns whence the

nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose

to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and

wither, Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. Only the sun and the rain come hither

All year long The sun burns sear, and the rain dishev

els One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless

breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as

death. Here there was laughing of old, there

was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred


Here death may deal not again forever : Here change may come not till all

change end. From the graves they have made they

shall rise up never, Who have left naught living to rav.

age and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild

ground growing: When the sun and the rain ve, these

shall be ; Till a last wind's breath upon all these

blowing Roll the sea.

Years ago.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff

crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep

gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high

tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that

shrink, Here now in his triumph where all things

falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his

own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange

altar, Death lies dead.

July, 1876.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood,

Look thither," Did he whisper? “ Look forth from

the flowers to the sea ; For the foam-flowers endure when the

rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die

But we ?And the same wind sang, and the same

waves whiteneil, And or ever the garden's last petals

were shed, In the lips that had whispered, the eyes

that had lightened, Love was dead. Or they loved their life through, and

then went whither ? And were one to the end--but what

end who knows? Lore deep as the sea as a rose must

wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks

the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead

to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave? They are loveless now as the grass above

them Or the wave. All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields

and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been



I hin my heart in a nest of roses,

Out of the sun's way, hidden apart : In a softer bed than the soft white snow's

is. Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why should

it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? Wbat made sleep flutter his wings and

part? Only the song of a secret bird. Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's



ie still, for the wind on the warm seas

dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than

thou art. Does a thought in thee still as

thorn's wound smart? oes the fang still fret thee of hope de

ferred ? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart ? nly the song of a secret bird. he green land's name that a charm en

closes, It never was writ in the traveller's

chart, ind sweet on its trees as the fruit that

grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's

mart. The swallows of dreams through its

dim fields dart, Ind sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops

heard ; No hound's note wakens the wild

wood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.

Alas, the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and

sius and fears, And gave thee stones for bread and tares

for corn
starveli plucked gaol-birds for thy

. Till death clipt close their flight with

shameful shears ; Till shifts came short and loves were

hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of twang

ling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses ; when

light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through

brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's

name! Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled

and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with

light quick tears ! Poor perfect voice, most blithe when

most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no

man steers, Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells

in our ears! What far delight has cooled the fierce

desire That, like some ravenous bird, was

strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed

with fame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's



In the world of dreams I have chosen

my part, To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.

September, 1876.




BIRD of the bitter bright gray golden


Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous

veals, First of us all and sweetest singer born, Whose far shrill note the world of

new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as

twilight clears ; When song new-born put off the old

world's attire And felt its tune on her changed lips ex

pire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that

came Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears

and fire, A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire ; Shame soiled thy song, and song as

soiled thy shame. But from thy feet now death has washed

the mire. Love reads out first at head of all our

quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.

September, 1877.


LIGHT of our fathers' eyes, and in our


Star of the unsetting sunset! for thy




That on the front of noon was as a flame In the great year nigh twenty years agone When all the heavens of Europe shook

and shone With stormy wind and lightning, keeps

its fame And bears its witness all day through

the same; Not for past days and great deeds past

alone, Kossuth, we praise thee as our Landor

praised But that now too we know thy voice up

raised, Thy voice, the trumpet of the truth of

God, Thine hand, the thunder-bearer's, raised

to smite As with heaven's lightning for a sword

and rod Men's heads abased before the Muscovite.

February, 1878.

The message of April to May,
That May sends on into June
And June gives out to July
For birthday boon;

The delight of the dawn in the day,
The delight of the day in the noon,
The delight of a song in a sigh
That breaks the tune ;

The secret of passing away, The cast of the change of the moon, None knows it with ear or with eye,

But all will soon.



The live wave's love for the shore,
The shore's for the wave as it dies,
The love of the thunder-fire
That sears the skies-
We shall know not though life war

Till all life, spent into sighs,
Burn out as consumed with desire
Of death's strange eyes ;

Till the secret be secret no more
In the light of one hour as it flies,
Be the hour as of suns that expire
Or suns that rise.


What is gold worth, say, Worth for work or play, Worth to keep or pay, Hide or throw away,

Hope about or fear? What is love worth, pray?

Worth a tear?


Golden on the mould
Lie the dead leaves rolled
Of the wet woods old,
Yellow leaves and cold,

Woods without a dove;
Gold is worth but gold;

Love's worth love. 1878.



The word of the sun to the sky, The word of the wind to the sea, The word of the moon to the night, What may it be?

The sense of the flower to the fly, The sense of the bird to the tree, The sense of the cloud to the light,

Who can tell me?

μερόφωνος αηδών (SAPPHo) BETWEEN the moondawn and the sun.

down here The twilight hangs half starless ; hali

the sea Still quivers as for love or pain or fear Or pleasure mightier than these all mar

be. A man's live heart might beat Wherein a God's with mortal blouri

should meet And fill its pulse too full to bear the

strain With fear or love or pleasure's twin-born,

pain. Fiercely the gaunt woods to the grim

soil cling That bears for all fair fruits Wan wild sparse flowers of windy and

wintry spring Between the tortive serpent-shapen ruits Wherethrough their dim growth hardly

strikes and shoots And shows one gracious thing;

The song of the fields to the kye, The song of the lime to the bee, The song of the depth to the height,

Who knows all three ?

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Wherewith the Athenian judgment

shrine was rent, For wrath that all their wrath was rainly

spent, Their wrath for wrong made right By justice in her own divine despite That bade pass forth unblamed The sinless matricide and unashamed ? Yea, what new cry is this, what note

more bright Than their song's wing of words was

dark of flight, What word is this thou hast heard, Thine and not thine or theirs, O Night,

wiat word More keen than lightning and more

sweet than light? As all men's hearts grew godlike in one

bird And all those hearts cried on thee, cry

ing with might, Hear us, O mother Night!

Hardly, to speak for summer one sweet

word Of summer's self scarce heard. But higher the steep green sterile fields,

thickset With flowerless hawthorn even to the

upward verge Whence the woods gathering watch new

cliffs emerge, Higher than their highest of crowns

that sea-winds fret, Holds fast, for all that night or wind can

say, Some pale pure color yet, Too dim for green and luminous for gray. Between the climbing inland cliffs above And these beneath that breast and break

the bay, A barren peace too soft for hate or love Broods on an hour too dim for night or

day. ( wind, O wingless wind that walk'st

the sea, Weak wind, wing-broken, wearier wind

than we, Who are yet not spirit-broken, maimel

like thee, Who wail not in our inward night as

thou In the outer darkness now, What word has the old sea given thee

for mine ear From thy faint lips to hear? For some word would she send me, know

ing not how. Nay, what far other word Than ever of her was spoken, or of me Or all my winged white kinsfolk of the Between fresh wave and wave was ever

heard, Cleaves the clear dark enwinding tree

with tree Too close for stars to separate and Enmeshed in multitudinous unity ? What voice of what strong God hath

stormed and stirred The fortressed rock of silence, rent apart Even to the core Night's all maternal

heart? What voice of God grown heavenlier in

a bird, Make keener of edge to smite Than lightning.-yea, thou knowest, O

mother Night, Keen as that cry from thy strange chil

dren senti

1 In Aeschylus' Eumenides.

Dumb is the mouth of darkness as of

death: Light, sound and life are one In the eyes and lips of dawn that draw

the sun To hear what first child's word with

glimmering breath Their weak wan weanling child the

twilight saith ; But night makes answer none.



God, if thou be god, -bird, if bird thou

be, Do thou then answer me. For but one word, what wind soever

blow, Is blown up usward ever from the sea. In fruitless years of youth dead long ago

[and snow And deep beneath their own dead leares Buried, I heard with bitter heart and sere The same sea's word unchangeable, por

knew But that mine own life-days were

changeless too, And sharp and salt with unshed tear on

tear, And cold and fierce and barren ; and

my soul, Sickening, swam weakly with bated

breath In a deep sea like death, And felt the wind buflet her face with

brine Hard, and harsh thought on thought in

long bleak roll

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