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And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet.

But since it pleased a vanish'd eye,

I go to plant it on his tomb,
That if it can it there may bloom,
Or dying, there at least may die.

XVIII.

'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand
Where he in English earth is laid,
And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

'Tis little; but it looks in truth

As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth.

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.

Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would breathing thro' his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me;

That dies not, but endures with pain,
And slowly forms the firmer mind,
Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.

XXII.

The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well,

Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow:

And we with singing cheer'd the way,

And, crown'd with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,
And glad at heart from May to May:

But where the path we walk'd began

To slant the fifth autumnal slope, As we descended following Hope, There sat the Shadow fear'd of man;

Who broke our fair companionship,

And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull'd the murmur on thy lip,

And bore thee where I could not see
Nor follow, tho' I walk in haste,

And think, that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me..

XXXIV.

My own dim life should teach me this,
That life shall live for evermore,
Else earth is darkness at the core,
And dust and ashes all that is;

This round of green, this orb of flame,
Fantastic beauty; such as lurks
In some wild Poet, when he works
Without a conscience or an aim.

What then were God to such as I? 'Twere hardly worth my while to choose

Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die;

'Twere best at once to sink to peace,
Like birds the charming serpent draws,
To drop head-foremost in the jaws
Of vacant darkness and to cease.

XXXV.

Yet if some voice that man could trust
Should murmur from the narrow house,
"The cheeks drop in; the body bows;
Man dies nor is there hope in dust:"

Might I not say? "Yet even here,

But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive:" But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,

The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be;

And Love would answer with a sigh,
"The sound of that forgetful shore
Will change my sweetness more and more,
Half-dead to know that I shall die."

O me, what profits it to put

An idle case? If Death were seen
At first as Death, Love had not been,
Or been in narrowest working shut,

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods,
Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape

Had bruised the herb and crush'd the grape, And bask'd and batten'd in the woods.

LIV.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

LV.

The wish, that of the living whole

No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams?

So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deeds,
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod,

And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.

LVI.

"So careful of the type?" but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, "A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.

"Thou makest thine appeal to me:

I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more." And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

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