What once to me was fierce and sweet
Is bitter now: the road my feet
Took once in such gay hardihood
My spirit cannot compass it.

And the old sin I huggled once
Is now grown easy to renounce,
So to the source of power and peace
Backward my erring spirit runs.

Now to the hills whence help may come,
Where wild bees shape their honeycomb,
To a little bed of watercress
I would go back … I would go home.

Lips you were not anhungered for,
And those that won your praises,
A century hence will blossom out
In careless purple daisies.

Eyes that smiled lightly into yours,
And eyes that wept for you—
Ah, soon, not Love himself might know
The brown eyes from the blue.

For even he will come to dust,
And even longing passes,
That crumbling flesh may feed the growth
Of the hungry-rooted grasses.

Tho' in the festive circle, gay,
You see me move in frolic measure;
Mark on my cheek, in purple play,
The bloom of youth and smile of pleasure;

Ah! think not I am free from care.
But think how hard it is to cover
With smiles the anguish of despair,
And pity an unhappy lover.

“Was I at Eureka?” His figure was drawn to a youthful height,
And a flood of proud recollections made the fire in his grey eyes bright;
With pleasure they lighted and glistened, though the digger was grizzled and old,
And we gathered about him and listened while the tale of Eureka he told.

“Ah, those were the days,” said the digger; “'twas a glorious life that we led,
When fortunes were dug up and lost in a day in the whirl of the years that are dead.
But there's many a veteran now in the land—old knights of the pick and the spade,

How long can this floating life last?
A formless creature chasing empty glory.
Better to brew a lot of wine,
To tip your cup often in a bamboo grove

The Seventh Month—
the sixth day, too, is different
from the usual night

Sky-lover!
Embracer of the hiving stars!
The swarms of golden bees!
I feel the strength of thine ancient arms
And the power of thy going forth through endless night.

In the gross darkness thou hast spun a widening spiral of light,
Moons, stars and glowing suns:
But through these thou goest forth into the unadventured abysses,
Chaos unconquered,
We going with thee.

From a beautiful lake on the mountain
Two rivulets came down,
Prattling awhile to the violets,
Mid shadows green and brown.

Over beds of golden lustre,
Around by rock and tree,
They sang the same tune with their silvery tongues,
And clapped their hands in glee.

Over rocks with mosses mantled,
They eddied and whirled, like a waltzing pair,
Till, hand in hand, with laughter and leap
They mingled their misty hair.

Over the self-same ledges,
Singing the self-same tune,
They passed from April to breezy May,

It is the season when the light of dreams
Around the year in golden glory lies;—
The heavens are full of floating mysteries,
And down the lake the veilèd splendour beams!
Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,
Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,
While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance
The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,
Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake
Here the frail maples and the faithful firs
By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake
Skirts the low pool; and starred with open burrs

In a temple built by God,
The bright and boundless heaven,—
Its pavement the green sod,
With the woods to wave around,
In a harmony of sound,
To his favorites only given,—
Only given to those ears
Who can catch the chiming spheres,—
Only given to those hearts
Who can feel him in the flowers,
Who with high and holy arts
Know to steal away the hours
From the blank of vulgar men,—
We are spirits only then,
And with voices pure and free
Only then can worship thee,—
Then can only at thy throne,
Thou unseen, invisible One!