I room at Sodos'—in the little green room that was Bennie's—
With Sadie
And her old father and her mother,
Who is not so old and wears her own hair.

Old Sodos no longer makes saddles.
He has forgotten how.
He has forgotten most things—even Bennie who stays away and sends wine on holidays—
And he does not like Sadie's mother
Who hides God's candles,
Nor Sadie
Whose young pagan breath puts out the light—
That should burn always,
Like Aaron's before the Lord.

Time spins like a crazy dial in his brain,
And night by night

My bower is in a green dell
Amid the hills so high
That angels, from their huge swell,
Might step into the sky.

For silence or for sorrow,
For meditation made,
Ev'n joy itself must borrow
A sadness from its shade.

For all adown its steep side
The antlered oak doth grow,
And darkles o'er the dim tide
That raves and rolls below;

The sable yew, the sear tree
That loves to sigh alone,
When deep in earth they've left thee
And all thy friends are gone;

The pine wrapped up in grim pall,

2.

Press onward, quickened souls, who mounting move,
Press onward, upward, fire with mounting fire;
Gathering volume of untold desire
Press upward, homeward, dove with mounting dove.
Point me the excellent way that leads above;
Woo me with sequent will, me too to aspire;
With sequent heart to follow higher and higher,
To follow all who follow on to love.
Up the high steep, across the golden sill,
Up out of shadows into very light,
Up out of dwindling life to life aglow,
I watch you, my beloved, out of sight;—

1.

Beyond this shadow and this turbulent sea,
Shadow of death and turbulent sea of death,
Lies all we long to have or long to be:—
Take heart, tired man, toil on with lessening breath,
Lay violent hands on heaven's high treasury,
Be what you long to be thro' life-long scathe:
A little while hope leans on charity,
A little while charity heartens faith.
A little while: and then what further while?
One while that ends not and that wearies not,
For ever new whilst evermore the same:

O Were my Love yon Lilack fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the Spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing.

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By Autumn wild, and Winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

[O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa'!
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,
Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh, there beyond expression blesst
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Ladies, I do here present you
That which sure will well content you,
A Queen like Closet rich and brave;
(Such) not many Ladies have,
Or Cabinet in which doth set
Gems richer than in Karkanet;
(They) only Eyes and Fancies please,
These keep your Bodies in good ease,
They please the Taste, also the Eye;
Would I might be a stander by,
Yet rather would I wish to eat,
Since 'bout them I my Brains do beat;
And 'tis but reason you may say,
If that I came within your way;
I sit here sad while you are merry,

Summer glows warm on the meadows, and speedwell, and gold-cups, and daisies,
Darken 'mid deepening masses of sorrel, and shadowy grasses
Show the ripe hue to the farmer, and summon the scythe and the hay-makers
Down from the village; and now, even now, the air smells of the mowing,
And the sharp song of the scythe whistles daily; from dawn, till the gloaming
Wears its cool star; sweet and welcome to all flaming faces afield now;
Heavily weighs the hot season, and drowses the darkening foliage,

Art thou indeed forever gone,
Forever, ever, lost to me?
Must this poor bosom beat alone,
Or beat at all, if not for thee?
Ah! why was love to mortals given,
To lift them to the height of Heaven,
Or dash them to the depths of Hell?
Yet I do not reproach thee, dear!
Ah, no! the agonies that swell
This panting breast, this frenzied brain,
Might wake my —'s slumb'ring tear.
Oh! Heaven is witness I did love,
And Heaven does know I love thee still,
Does know the fruitless sick'ning thrill,
When reason's judgment vainly strove

What was the shriek that struck Fancy's ear
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?
Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.
It is the Benshie's moan on th storm,
Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin,
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,
Winged with the power of some ruthless king,
And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate plain.
It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell
That poured its low moan on the stillness of night:

It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away,
Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind;
How long will horror nerve this frame of clay?
I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.
Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell,
And yet that may not ever, ever be,
Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell;
Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me;
Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge,
I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes,
The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge,