O! the white rose of friendship 'twixt us twain
Spreading out scentful; O! the frail, fresh leaves
Of fervid youth, that fights and fears and grieves
And laughs and loves and hopes through all its pain!

O! friend I am but poor for all my praise
And love of you, 'tis but a book I bring,
About that Land, where our dreams, wing to wing,
Drift seeking shelter from earth's sordid days.

O! friend whose soul is swift to understand
If life is difficult and cold and sad—
Some are together still … and some are glad

Long ago, in the young moonlight,
I lost my heart to a hero;
Strong and tender and stern and right,
Darker than night,
And terribler than Nero.
Heigh, but he was dear, O!

And there, to bind our fellowship,
I laughed at him; and a moment after.
I laughed again till he bit his lip,
For the test of love is laughter.

“Lord and master, look up!” I cried;
“I wreathe your brow with a laurel!
Gloom and wisdom and right and pride
Cast them aside,
And kiss, and cure our quarrel.
Never mind the moral!”

Then , fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!
The pain of parting thus.

Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this.
Dear love!
The deep, deep pain of this.

But no, alas, we've never seen
One glimpse of pleasure's ray,
But still there came some cloud between,
And chased it all away,
Dear love!
And chased it all away.

“To look on happiness through others' eyes,”
So mused I, not without a secret pain,
For lovers passed me in the twilight lane,
As arm in arm they murmured soft replies.
How sweetly Love can gild the winsome lies
Whispered in Youth! But oh! to us in vain
He calls, if in our heart that barb remain,—
“To look on happiness through others' eyes.”
Joy is a jewel-casket locked to Age,
Youth and Love only have the golden key;
Bliss is a bubble, bursting as it flies:
Now evening comes, and what is left to me?
This is the pathos of life's pilgrimage,—

They say there is
A still pool even in the middle of
The rushing whirlpool,—
Why is there none in the whirlpool of my love?

My heart is happy now, beloved,
Albeit thy form is far away;
A joy that will not be removed
Broods on me like a summer's day.
Whatever evil Fate may do,
It cannot change what has been thine;
It cannot cast those words anew,
The gentle words I think divine.

No touch of time can blight the glance
That blest with early hope my love;
New years are dark with fearful chance,
That moment is with God above:
And never more from me departs
Of that sweet time the influence rare,
When first we looked into our hearts

A Friend there is—your voices join,
Ye saints, to praise his name!—
Whose truth and kindness are divine,
Whose love's a constant flame.

When most we need his helping hand,
This friend is always near;
With heav'n and earth at his command,
He waits to answer prayer.

His love no end or measure knows,
No change can turn its course;
Immutably the same it flows
From one eternal source.

When frowns appear to veil his face,
And clouds surround his throne,
He hides the purpose of his grace,
To make it better known.

The moonlight is a silver sea
Where shadow-ships at anchor ride,
And on the wind there seems to be
A rhythmic murmur, far and wide,
As if the heaving Ocean still
Raised toward his white love in the sky
A following tide of dreams, that fill
The slumbering forest with their sigh.

All quiet lie the shadow-ships
Athwart the silver sea of night;
Its waveless flood around them slips,
A star their only riding light.
As if, where all alone she rides,
The Moon recalled her love, the Sea;
And all her dreams are silver tides

Every day I muse upon thee:
Life and joy thou art to me.
If a faithful heart could win thee,
Soon my own love thou wouldst be.
Ah, how sweet to dwell with thee!

Swift my years would glide away;
All around would laugh with pleasure;
Rich would be the priceless treasure.
Art could find no words to say,
How my bounding thoughts would play.

Let me then be ever nigh thee.
Youth shall be our spring of love;
Mild as any mother dove,
Age shall sit in quiet by thee.
Never may misfortune try thee.

I am Misanthropos, and hate mankind.
For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog,
That I might love thee something.