He saddens, all the magic light

Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight.

So find I every pleasant spot

In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark, where thou art not.

Yet as that other, wandering there

In those deserted walks, may find A flower beat with rain and wind, Which once she fostered up with care;

So seems it in my deep regret,

O my forsaken heart, with thee,
And this poor flower of poesy,
Which, little cared for, fades not yet.

But since it pleased a vanished eye,
I go to plant it on his tomb,
That if it can it there may bloom,
Or dying there at least may die.


FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean plains,

With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er!

So draw him home to those that mourn,
In vain; a favorable speed

Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn!

All night no ruder air perplex

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright

As our pure love, through early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks!

Sphere all your lights around, above;

Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love I

My Arthur! whom I shall not see

Till all my widowed race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me!


I HEAR the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night;
I see the cabin-window bright;

I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bringest the sailor to his wife;

And travelled men from foreign lands ;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanished life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies: oh, to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains

The chalice of the grapes of God,

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom deep in brine; And hands so often clasped in mine Should toss with tangle and with shells.


CALM is the morn, without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only through the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain,

That sweeps, with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,

To mingle with the bounding main :

Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,

If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,

And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.


Lo! as a dove when up she springs,

To bear through Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below

The wild pulsation of her wings;

Like her I go I cannot stay;

I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away

O'er ocean mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,

And linger weeping on the marge,

And saying, “Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care


And circle moaning in the air:

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"Is this the end? Is this the end?"

And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return
To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away.


TEARS of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these,

Which weep a loss forever new,

A void where heart on heart reposed; And, where warm hands have pressed and closed,

Silence, till I be silent too.

Which weep the comrade of my choice,
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,

A spirit, not a breathing voice.

Come, Time, and teach me many years
I do not suffer in a dream;

For now so strange do these things seem Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;

My fancies time to rise on wing,

And glance about the approaching sails, As though they brought but merchants' bales, And not the burthen that they bring.


F one should bring me this report,
That thou hadst touched the land to-day,
And I went down unto the quay,
And found thee lying in the port;

And standing, muffled round with woe,
Should see thy passengers in rank
Come stepping lightly down the plank,
And beckoning unto those they know;

And if along with these should come
The man I held as half divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;

And I should tell him all my pain,

And how my life had drooped of late,
And he should sorrow o'er my state,
And marvel what possessed my brain;

And I perceive no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange.


TO-NIGHT the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day;
The last red leaf is whirled away,

The rooks are blown about the skies;

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