ONE

ΤΟ

NE word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it,
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

SWIFTLY

TO NIGHT

WIFTLY walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave

Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought,

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;

Kiss her until she be wearied out.

Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land, Touching all with thine opiate wandCome, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried, "Would'st thou me?"

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee,

"Shall I nestle near thy side?

Would'st thou me?" — And I replied, "No, not thee."

Death will come when thou art dead, Soon, too soon

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovèd Night -
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

TO THE MOON

RT thou pale for weariness

AR

Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth,And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?

SONG

RARELY, rarely comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?

Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near, And reproach thou wilt not hear.