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Nor speak it, knowing Death has made His darkness beautiful with thee.
This truth came borne with bier and pall,
I felt it, when I sorrow'd rnost,
'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all.
Sweet after showers, ambrosial air,
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom
Of evening over brake and bloom And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below
Thro' all the dewy-tassellid wood,
And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow
The fever from my cheek, and sigh
The full new life that feeds thy breath
Throughout my frame, till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly
From belt to belt of crimson seas
On leagues of odour streaming far,
To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper “Peace.”
Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
So loud with voices of the birds,
So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men; Jiriczek, Englische Dichter.
Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red
On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead;
Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
A song that slights the coming care,
And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves;
Who wakenest with thy balny breath
To myriads on the genial earth,
Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads more, of death.
O wheresoever those may be,
Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
To-day they count as kindred souls; They know me not, but mourn with me.
Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
Against her beauty? May she mix
With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
But on her forehead sits a fire:
She sets her forward countenance
And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire.
Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain
She cannot fight the fear of death.
What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain
Of Demons? fiery-hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race
For power. Let her know her place; She is the second, not the first.
A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child:
For she is earthly of the mind,
But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
O, friend, who camest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind,
I would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour In reverence and in charity.
There rolls the deep where grew the tree.
O earth, what changes hast thou seen!
There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea.
The hills are shadows, and they flow
From form to form, and nothing stands;
They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
But in my spirit will I dwell,
And dream my dream, and hold it true;
For tho' my lips may breathe adieu, I cannot think the thing farewell.
Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,
So far, so near in woe and weal;
O loved the most, when most I feel There is a lower and a higher;
Known and unknown; human, divine;
Sweet human hand and lips and eye;
Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine;
Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good, And mingle all the world with thee.
Thy voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run;
Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.
What art thou then? I cannot guess;
But tho' I seem in star and flower
To feel thee some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less:
My love involves the love before;
Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou, I seem to love thee more and more.
Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice;
I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee tho' I die.
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
A voice as unto him that hears,
A cry above the conquer'd years
The truths that never can be proved
Until we close with all we loved,
"COME NOT, WHEN I AM DEAD."
[“The Keepsake” 1851.] Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.
I care no longer, being all unblest:
And I desire to rest.
PART I, XXII.
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,