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I HELD it truth, with him who sings
But who shall so forecast the years,
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand through time to catch The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief, lest both be drowned,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
OLD Yew, which graspest at the stones
Thy roots are wrapped about the bones,
The seasons bring the flower again,
O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, I seem to fail from out my blood, And grow incorporate into thee.
O SORROW, cruel fellowship!
O Priestess in the vaults of Death! O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip?
"The stars," she whispers, "blindly run, A web iɛ woven across the sky; From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun:
"And all the phantom, Nature, stands,With all the music in her tone, A hollow echo of my own,
A hollow form with empty hands.”
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind?
To Sleep I give my powers away,
And with my heart I muse, and say :
O heart, how fares it with thee now,
Something it is which thou hast lost,
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these infold Is given in outline and no more.
ONE writes, that " Other friends remain,"
That loss is common would not make
O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son ;. A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath stilled the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor, while thy head is bowed, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
O, somewhere, meek unconscious dove,
For now her father's chimney glows
And thinking "this will please him best," She takes a ribbon or a rose;
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her color burns;
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turned, the curse
O, what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
And unto me, no second friend.
DARK house, by which once more I stand,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasped no more,—
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly through the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
A HAPPY lover who has come
To look on her that loves him well, Who lights, and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone, and far from home,