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They know me not, as on I glide,
That with Arch Sorrow I abide.
They haggard are, and drooped of mien,
And round their brows have cypress tied :
Such shows I leave to light Grief's peers,
I shall go softly all my years.

Yea, softly! heart of hearts unknown.
Silence hath speech that passeth moan,
More piercing-keen than breathed cries
To such as heed, made sorrow-wise.
But save this voice without a tone,
That runs before me to the skies,
And rings above thy ringing spheres,
Lord, I go softly all my years!


I SORROWED, slept; and this


dream : I looked, and saw large Hesper gleam Right in the east, above the bar Of morning mists, – a morning star. Full-lustred, tremulous, he stood, Throbbing on silent stream and wood. 6 Behold !” I cried, “ that watcher bright, Who trims the lamp of jealous Night, Hath on a stolen errand gone, To do the service of the Dawn.”

Then spake a voice, serene in air : “ Thou art new-come, nor yet aware How the calm heavens of the dead Above thee and around are spread; So marvelest thou that Hesper clear Doth in the van of Dawn appear. But from thy brow chase vexing thought, And be thou apt, and soothly taught: The star of eve to sorrowing men Is morning star in spirits' ken. Thou seest the other face of Night, And planets flushed with Orient light.”

I dreamed, and woke, and did rejoice,
So dwelt with me the blessed voice.


Out of the West what word,
What word out of the West?

(O voiceful wind!)
Say - and thy flight be blest -

Say if the elfin bird
Still pours from its nest in the breast of my

Flute-note and caroled song,

All the day long!

Out of the West this word,
This word out of the West:

(O lover blind !)
Sorrow, a sullen guest,

Hath hunted the elfin bird
Out of its nest in the breast of thy Best ;
Silence there, and no song
All the day long!


THE mail from the east and the mail from the west

A thunder of wheels a rushing blast! The drowsy travelers never guessed

What voices arose as the two trains passed.

“ Tell him you met me, tell him I fly!

“ That will I! Tell her I stay not nor rest! Thus greeted Love's messengers speeding by, One from the east and one from the west.



The root is hard to loose From hold of earth by mortals ; but Gods' power Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower As white as milk. (CHAPMAN's Homer.)

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TRAVELER, pluck a stem of moly,

If thou touch at Circe's isle, -
Hermes' moly, growing solely

To undo enchanter's wile !
When she proffers thee her chalice,
Wine and spices mixed with malice,
When she smites thee with her staff
To transform thee, do thou laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
Close it grows beside her portal,
Springing from a stock immortal,
Yes! and often has the Witch
Sought to tear it from its niche ;
But to thwart her cruel will
The wise God renews it still.
Though it grows in soil perverse,
Heaven hath been its jealous nurse,
And a flower of

Springs from root and sheathing dark;


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