English

All saints revile her, and all sober men
Ruled by the God Apollo's golden mean —
In scorn of which we sailed to find her
In distant regions likeliest to hold her
Whom we desired above all things to know,
Sister of the mirage and echo.

It was a virtue not to stay,
To go our headstrong and heroic way
Seeking her out at the volcano's head,
Among pack ice, or where the track had faded
Beyond the cavern of the seven sleepers:
Whose broad high brow was white as any leper's,
Whose eyes were blue, with rowan-berry lips.

Always the same, when on a fated night
At last the gathered snow lets down as white
As may be in dark woods, and with a song
It shall not make again all winter long
Of hissing on the yet uncovered ground,
I almost stumble looking up and round,
As one who overtaken by the end
Gives up his errand, and lets death descend
Upon him where he is, with nothing done
To evil, no important triumph won,
More than if life had never been begun.

Yet all the precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried

A LONG the pastoral ways I go,
To get the healing of the trees,
The ghostly news the hedges know;
To hive me honey like the bees,
Against the time of snow.

The common hawthorn that I see,
Beside the sunken wall astir,
Or any other blossoming tree,
Is each God's fair white gospeller,
His book upon the knee.

A gust-broken bough; a pilfered nest;
Rumors of orchard or of bin;
The thrifty things of east and west, —
The countryside becomes my Inn,
And I its happy guest.

Spring
Another four I've left yet to bring on,
Of four times four the last Quaternion,
The Winter, Summer, Autumn and the Spring,
In season all these Seasons I shall bring:
Sweet Spring like man in his Minority,
At present claim'd, and had priority.
With smiling face and garments somewhat green,
She trim'd her locks, which late had frosted been,
Nor hot nor cold, she spake, but with a breath,
Fit to revive, the nummed earth from death.
Three months (quoth she) are 'lotted to my share

Along the avenue of cypresses,
All in their scarlet cloaks and surplices
Of linen, go the chanting choristers,
The priests in gold and black, the villagers. . . .

And all along the path to the cemetery
The round dark heads of men crowd silently,
And black-scarved faces of womenfolk, wistfully
Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery.

And at the foot of a grave a father stands
With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands;
And at the foot of a grave a mother kneels
With pale shut face, nor either hears nor feels

The angels in high places
— Who minister to us,
Reflect God's smile, — their faces
— Are luminous;
Save one, whose face is hidden,
— (The Prophet saith),
The unwelcome, the unbidden,
— Azrael, Angel of Death.
And yet that veiled face, I know
— Is lit with pitying eyes,
Like those faint stars, the first to glow,
— Through cloudy winter skies.

That they may never tire,
— Angels, by God's decree,
Bear wings of snow and fire, —
— Passion and purity;
Save one, all unavailing,

A LONE on the shore in the pause of the night-time
I stand and I hear the long wind blow light;
I view the constellations quietly, quietly burning;
I hear the wave fall in the hush of the night.

Long after I am dead, ended this bitter journey,
Many another whose heart holds no light
Shall your solemn sweetness hush, awe and comfort,
O my companions, Wind, Waters, Stars, and Night.

Angel spirits of sleep,
White-robed, with silver hair;
In your meadows fair,
Where the willows weep,
And the sad moonbeam
On the gliding stream
Writes her scattered dream:

— Angel spirits of sleep,
Dancing to the weir
In the hollow roar
Of its waters deep;
Know ye how men say
That ye haunt no more
Isle and grassy shore
With your moonlit play;
That ye dance not here,
White-robed spirits of sleep,
All the summer night
Threading dances light?

ANN , Ann!
 Come! quick as you can!
There's a fish that talks
 In the frying-pan.
Out of the fat,
 As clear as glass,
He put up his mouth
 And moaned ‘Alas!’
Oh, most mournful,
 ‘Alas, alack!’
Then turned to his sizzling,
 And sank him back.

And " Science" said,
" Attention, Child, to me!
Have I not taught you all
You touch; taste; hear; and see?

" Nought that's true knowledge now
In print is pent
Which my sole method
Did not circumvent.

" Think you, the amoeba
In its primal slime
Wasted on dreams
Its destiny sublime?

" Yet, when I bid
Your eyes survey the board
Whereon life's How, When, Where
I now record,

" I find them fixed
In daydream; and you sigh;
Or, like a silly sheep,