There runs a pathway by the hedge
And up across the clearing,
A ribbon through the woodland's edge,
Appearing, disappearing,
That fades beyond the hills of gray
Where red the west is burning;
And many men have passed this way,
And few who came returning.

Full many men have followed it,
The path beside the shanty;
And some there were with wealth or wit,
And some who sang a chanty;
And some were sad and some were gay,
And there were some who flattered;
Yes, many men have passed this way—
But only one who mattered.

The wind sweeps over the corn,
The wind sweeps over my heart,
It lifts me up and it blows
My soul and body apart;

And I run, I run by its side
In bodiless liberty—
I touch the tops of the trees,
And dapple and darken the sea;

I rush through populous streets,
I eddy through glade and glen—
And now the wind dies down,
And I am my body again.

A Sea that foams against untrodden sands;
A voyaged ship with high, sky-moving spars;
A casement opened by pale hidden hands;
A hill lost in a multitude of stars.

O FOR a summer day when time was young
And o'er the hills Aurora led the morn,
While olive groves and fir-dark mountains rung
To the clear winding of Diana's horn!
And on the woody heights, his Nymphs among,
Or Fauns eluding, in some cave forlorn,
Great Pan from woven reeds sweet music flung
To the soft winds that curled Demeter's corn.
And, lapt in languor, by the crystal springs
The white-armed Naiads leaned upon their urns,

And Sylphs flew past on silent, rainbow wings,
And Dryads whispered by the drooping ferns,

While other Females trifle Life away
In Dress and Scandal, Equipage and Play;
Stella, with Sense exalted and refin'd,
And each superior Grace adorns her Mind;
There Friendship, Honour, Truth, and Virtue live,
With all the Charms that Art or Nature give.

O how shall Words my Tenderness impart!
Or speak the Dictates of a grateful Heart!
To thee, fair Patroness! who could'st descend,
My Character thus nobly to defend.
Who would not wish to have sustain'd a Wrong,
To have their Cause supported by thy Tongue?
So disappointed Malice drops its Aim,

Go whisper to her gentle winds,
While you are passing by,
The mighty secret of my heart,
The burden of my sigh.

Take to her from this blushing rose,
Such sweets of scented air,
As are befitting for a queen,
And one divinely fair.

And from this lily of the vale,
Take her who is to me,
The emblem of all that is good,
And sweetest purity.

The violets of azure eyes,
Which ever sweets impart,
Take her their gentle modesty,
So like her guileless heart.

Take all the sweets which you can find
Along your airy way,

I KNOW , my love, you are not far away;
Your footfall matches mine along the floor;
You enter still with me at every door;
Though hushed, the old, familiar things you say
That thrilled my waiting heart but yesterday,
And I am full of peace,—and more and more
My soul perceives what death is fashioned for
To which the body only is the prey.
Strange: oft we touched not for the wall between
When hand in hand we went, and side by side,—
Often there seemed some let, some thwarting screen,
Some corner for the living soul to hide,

Achant of dark betrayals: song betrayed
By those who turned their backs against its morn;
Of art conceived, yet left at birth forlorn
By hearts that feared the thing their dreams had made,
Of an unsanctioned parentage afraid;
Of music silenced by the world's dumb scorn;
Of banners up the light no longer borne
Lest mock of fools might darken the parade.

And yet who dares to chide them—these, who failed,
Reluctant, at the opening verge of bliss,
Because the censures of the world prevailed?
For who has not betrayed enough to know

As we rode through the village, the houses every one
Were open to the west wind and merry with the sun;
All except the one house, shuttered from the day,
Like a soul in sorrow who hides his face away.

As we rode past the village it would not quit my mind—
The little house in trouble that we had left behind;
Smoke lifted from the chimney, but the closed door cried,
“Oh, hurry by, oh, hurry by, nor seek the grief I hide.”

O little house in trouble, when back again I ride,
God grant I see your windows shine, your door flung wide,

Come a little nearer! Now we part,
Why should you seem dearer to my heart?

Troublesome, unruly, discontent—
Were you ever truly heaven-sent?

Made of grief and blisses, hopes and fears,
I have known your kisses and your tears.

Joy, when joy compelled you, day by day;
Grief, when duty held you from your way.

Every fancy wooing, false or true;
Every wind pursuing—that is you.

Now the years grow riper—why romance?
Child, we owe the piper for this dance.

Yours is all the riot, pipes and drums—
Now I long for quiet; evening comes.