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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,
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,
“And all the phantom, Nature, stands,—
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,
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark,
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire “ What is it makes me beat so low ? " Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, That grief hath shaken into frost ! Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darkened eyes;
With morning wakes the will, and cries, “Thou shalt not be the fool of loss ! ”
I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel,
For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
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;
And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turned, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drowned in passing through the ford, Or killed in falling from his horse.
0, what to her shall be the end ?
And what to me remains of good ?
To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me, no second friend.
DARK house, by which once more I stand,
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasped no more,
Behold me, for I annot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
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,