Is this obscurity not quite unbroken,
As though the heart of night had bled away,
This quietness before a bird has spoken
Really the day?

And is this depth of darkness redefined,
The safe diurnal washing-stand and soap,
This first small stir of the awakened mind,
Possibly hope?

I go my way complacently,
As self-respecting persons should.
You are to me the rebel thought,
You are the wayward rebel mood.

What shall we share who are separate?
We part—as alien persons should.
But oh, I have need of the rebel thought,
And a wicked urge to the rebel mood!

Thou hast loved and thou hast suffer'd!
Unto feeling deep and strong,
Thou hast trembled like a harp's frail string—
I know it by thy song!

Thou hast loved—it may be vainly—
But well—oh! but too well—
Thou hast suffer'd all that woman's breast
May bear—but must not tell.

Thou hast wept and thou hast parted,
Thou hast been forsaken long,
Thou hast watch'd for steps that came not back—
I know it by thy song!

By the low clear silvery gushing
Of its music from thy breast,
By the quivering of its flute-like swell—

While pilgrims on this earthly ball,
Our sweetest joys are ting'd with gall;
The distant things, which promise rest,
Prove less than nothing when possest.

Pleasure, while we pursue it, flies,
And fancy'd bliss deludes our eyes;
While grace bedews with many a tear
The ground which sin has sown with care.

But in the glorious worlds on high
No sorrows spring, no comforts die;
Immortal pleasures feast the soul,
And joys in endless rivers roll.

No more the check turn'd pale with fear,
The rising sigh, the falling tear;
The sinners no more

Rise, ye saints, and sing below
The prospect of the joys above;
Think while you mourn where sorrows grow,
Yonder world of light and love!

Jesus, the God that once came down,
And liv'd a man of sorrows here,
Who wears in heav'n th' imperial crown,
And waits to bid us welcome there.

And, ere we reach the happy shore,
His Spirit condescends to bring
Taste, to make us long for more,
That which makes the angels sing.

And, if the earnest of his love
We find, while yet on earth so sweet,
What must the full possession prove

The saints above, in spotless white,
For ever sing and shine;
Our clothing oft abhors the light,
And we in darkness pine.

Yet we all eat one living bread,
And share one noble birth;
Though they in heav'n are richly fed,
And we supply'd on earth.

They all were once as vile as we,
And wore the chains of sin;
Like us they struggled to be free,
And mourn'd the plague within.

And soon shall we, as bright as they,
In robes of honour shine.
And spend with them an endless day,
In pleasures all divine.

Do you think, when you plan for to-morrow,
That the morrow you may not see,
That long ere the dawn of the morrow's morn,
You may be in eternity.

Do you tread in the foot-steps of Jesus,
In the darkness as well as the light?
Should the death angel come, to summons you home—
Say, would it be glory, or night?

Tell me, dear Garcilasso,—thou
Who ever aimedst at good,
And in the spirit of thy vow
So swift her course pursued
That thy few steps sufficed to place
The angel in thy loved embrace,
Won instant soon as wooed,—
Why took'st thou not, when winged to flee
From this dark world, Boscán, with thee?

Why, when ascending to the star
Where now thou sit'st enshrined,
Left'st thou thy weeping friend afar,
Alas! so far behind?
Oh, I do think, had it remained
With thee to alter aught ordained
By the Eternal Mind,
Thou wouldst not on this desert spot

In my youth,
I too was fond of singing and dancing
I went west to the Capital
And frequented the Li's and the Zhao's
Before the fun came to an end,
I realized time had been wasted.
On my return journey,
I looked back at the riverside district
Where I had squandered a great deal,
So that not a coin was left
Coming to the Taihang mountain path,
I was afraid of again losing my way.

The first and the last art thou—
The Morning and Evening Star;
The dawn and the sunset gleam
On the dim horizon bar;

The bud and the perfect flower;
The seed and the ripened grain;
Spring-time and harvest art thou—
The cloud and the latter rain!

Thou art the word of the Prophet,
And the Prophet's word fulfilled;
Thou art Miriam's song of triumph,
And the anthem not yet stilled.

Thou art the throne and the sceptre,
Thou art freedom's latest sign;
The cry of the martyred people,
And the grasp of the Hand Divine!