Love faded in my heart,
I thought it was dead;
Now new flowers start,
Fresh leaves outspread.
Why do these flowers upstart
And again the leaves spread?
Oh, when will it be dead
This root that tears my heart!

I do not ask for love, ah! no,
Nor friendship's happiness,
These were relinquished long ago;
I search for something less.

I seek a little tranquil bark
In which to drift at ease
Awhile, and then quite silently
To sink in quiet seas.

The fault is not mine if I love you too much,
—I loved you too little too long,
Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,
—And the music the heart gave the tongue.

A time is now coming when Love must be gone,
—Though he never abandoned me yet.
Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,
—Our follies (ah can you?) forget.

What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee,
If thine eyes shut me out whereby I live,
Thou, who unto my calmer soul dost give
Knowledge, and Truth, and holy Mystery,
Wherein Truth mainly lies for those who see
Beyond the earthly and the fugitive,
Who in the grandeur of the soul believe,
And only in the Infinite are free?
Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare
As yon dead cedar on the sea-cliff's brow;
And Nature's teachings, which come to me now,
Common and beautiful as light and air,
Would be as fruitless as a stream which still

But one—but I! whose amorous flow
On my long earth-travel I shall not miss
Till Death through the temple of Love shall go.

As rose in my heart the deep love-strife
For that sweet girl-blossom in clematis-snow,
To woo her and win her, a darling wife.

I am too near, too clear a thing for you,
A flower of mullein in a crack of wall,
The villagers half-see, or not at all,
Part of the weather, like the wind or dew.
You love to pluck the different, and find
Stuff for your joy in cloudy loveliness;
You love to fumble at a door, and guess
At some strange happening that may wait behind.
Yet life is full of tricks, and it is plain,
That men drift back to some worn field or roof,
To grip at comfort in a room, a stair;
To warm themselves at some flower down a lane:
You, too, may long, grown tired of the aloof,

Life we find is nevermore
What at first we thought;
When deceit beclouds it o'er,
Sad the change that's wrought.

Confidence with drooping heart
Sadly takes its flight;
Fondest love will sure depart—
Day seems dark as night.

All the love of tender years
Turns to bitter hate;
Though repentance comes with tears,
It may be “too late”—

Though the heart in anguish yearn,
Lay in sackcloth low;
Confidence will not return,
Shattered by a blow.

Then while you possess it whole,
Strive it to retain;

Come back and soul's ally Unto my bosom strait be;
Unto this blighted heart A confidant and mate be.

Of yonder wine they sell In Love-liking its tavern,
Give us two cups or three, Though Ramazan-tide may't be.

O wise wayfaring sage, Since thou hast burned the patchcoat,
An effort make and chief Of topers small and great be.

Unto that friend, who said, “My heart for thee is looking,”
Say thou, “Behold, I come In peace: upon the wait be.”

My heart's ableed for love Of that life-giving ruby:
O casket thou of Love, In this same seal and state be!

These times deserve no song—they but deride
The poet's holy craft,—nor his alone;
Methinks as little courtesy is shown
To what was chivalry in days of pride:
Honor but meets with mock:—the worldling shakes
His money-bags, and cries—“My strength is here;
O'erthrows my enemy, his empire takes,
And makes the ally serve, the alien fear!”
Is love the object? Cash is conqueror,—
Wins hearts as soon as empires—puts his foot
Upon the best affections, and will spur
His way to eloquence, when Faith stands mute;
And for Religion,—can we hope for her,