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I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh earth in new leaves dressed,
And the starry night,
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.
I love snow, and all the forms
I love waves and winds and storms,
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good.
Between thee and me
What difference? But thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love, though he has wings,
And like light can flee;
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee
Thou art love and life! Oh come!
Make once more my heart thy home!
WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?
Art thou not over-bold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled, And livest thou still, Mother Earth? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled— What, Mother, dost thou laugh now he is dead?
"Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told?
It is thou who art over-bold."
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
All my sons when their knell is knolled;
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
"Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,
"I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousand fold Fuller of speed and splendour and mirth. I was cloudy and sullen and cold, Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm: I feed on whom I fed.
"Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth.
'Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled
In terror and blood and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow to mould
And weave into his shame, which, like the dead
THE flower that smiles to-day
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Virtue how frail it is!
Friendship too rare!
Love how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts, Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame :Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts;
History is but the shadow of their shame;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts,
Staining that heaven with obscene imagery
IF I walk in Autumn's even
While the dead leaves pass,
WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When, young and old, and strong and weak,
Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,
In thy place-ah well-a-day!—
"Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere the stars were lit or candles brought.
This Aziola was some tedious woman,
Asked "Who is Aziola?"
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear and hate!
And laughed and said, "Disquiet yourself not;
Sad Aziola! many an eventide
Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side,
And fields and marshes wide,
Such as nor voice nor lute nor wind nor bird
Unlike and far sweeter than they all.
Sad Aziola! from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.
O WORLD! O life! O time!
Trembling at that where I had stood before,—
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh Spring, and Summer, Autumn, and Winter hoar,
SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
As the earth when leaves are dead,
The swallow summer comes again,
My heart to-day desires to-morrow;
Sunny leaves from any bough.
Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
On the living grave I bear