Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder, What, there's nothing in the moon note-worthy? Use, to charm him (so to fit a fancy) All her magic ('t is the old sweet mythos) Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats, — him, even! Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved-work, What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure, the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, This I say of me, but think of you, Love! O, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it, T MEETING AT NIGHT. HE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each! PARTING AT MORNING. ROUND a suddle mountain rim, OUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And straight was a path of gold for him, FEAR PROSPICE. ☛EAR death? —to feel the fog in my throat, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote The power of the night, the press of the storm, Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, For the journey is done and the summit attained, Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, I was ever a fighter, so, one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace, then a joy, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest! I MAY AND DEATH. WISH that when you died last May, A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps ! So, for their sakes, be May still May! Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Save a sole streak which, so to speak, Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between, – That, they might spare; a certain wood Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. |