That seeking Prelude found its unforetold
Unguessed intention, trend;
Though needing no fulfilment, did enfold
This exquisite end.

Bach led his notes up through their delicate slope
Aspiring, so they sound,
And so they were, in some strange ignorant hope
Thus to be crowned.

What deep soft seas beneath this buoyant barque!
What winds to speed this bird!
What impulses to toss this heavenward lark!
Thought—then the word.

Lovely the tune, lovely the unconsciousness
Of him who promised it.
Lovely the years that joined in blessedness

He was a boy when first we met
His eyes were mixed of dew and fire
And on his candid brow was set
The sweetness of a chaste desire.
But in his Veins the pulses beat
Of passion waiting, for its wing,
As ardent veins of summer heat
Throb through the innocence of spring.

As manhood came, his stature grew,
And fiercer burned his restless eyes
Until I trembled, as he drew
From wedded hearts their young disguise.
Like wind-fed flame his ardor rose
And brought, like flame, a stormy rain:
In tumult, sweeter than repose

A sad sweet song at even-tide
Came from the neighb'ring grove;
It was no song of sorrow, nor was it a lay of love,
It was no song of sorrow,
Nor was it a lay of love.
'Twas but a pretty Robin's trill,
With melancholy strain,
Among the leafy branches sung.
They said, portending rain
Among the leafy branches sung, they said, portending rain
The sky was bright with rosy red
And dusky mists were hanging low;
Than that sweet song at even-tide,
No sweeter sadder song we know.

Dear lovely Death
That taketh all things under wing—
Never to kill—
Only to change
Into some other thing
This suffering flesh,
To make it either more or less,
But not again the same—
Dear lovely Death,
Change is thy other name.

What though it please you light my heart with fire
(Heart that is yours, your subject, your domain),
With fire of Furies, not with Love's sweet pain,
To waste me body and bone till life expire!

The ill that others deem too cruel-dire
Is sweet to me—I will not once complain,
For I love not my life, nor hold it fain
Save as to love it pleases your desire.

But yet, if Heaven hath made me, Lady mine,
To be your victim, may it not suffice
To lay my loyal service at your shrine?

'Twere better you should have my service meet

I am not afraid to turn the corner:
I know what is round where and am satisfied:
I know that hate is round there and cruelty and that I must suffer as well as enjoy,
But I know that love also is round there, ceaseless love.
I hear voices: voices that caution me against my loyal journeys.
But no matter what are the warnings they post on the uncertain road,
I go my way without a stop, in the full knowledge of love's loss and love's gain,
My way to the end and the beginning again without a stop,
My soul and my body agreed that neither is to falter or retreat.

Help me to hold the Vision Undefiled;
To love, and, taught by Love, to understand.
Lord, as a Father with a Backward child,
Guide Thou the Pen within my wavering hand!

Above a low mound at the cedar tree's root
Is carved on a stone that is moldering dark,
“The Dove found no rest for the sole of her foot,
And returned unto Him in the Ark.”

In the old garden-path
Sorely care needing,
Fadeth a plant away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

In the old manor-house,
Listless, scarce heeding,
Fadeth a life away:
“Love-lies-a-bleeding.”

I saw a vision of the morning age
A farm with mammoths in the stable fed
A man stroking strange hounds: and o'er his head
A pterodactyl singing in a cage.

Gigantic elks dragged ploughs on uplands high
All the world's wild youth wrought around him rose
Huge and half-witted things, to chaos close
He loved them: and I knew that it was I.

Bearing this snail I stand on crags above
And cry aloud to all the worlds that fell—
Daring the darkness of the brain of hell
To breed one horror that I cannot love.

Fain would I change that note
To which fond love hath charm'd me
Long long to sing by rote,
Fancying that that harm'd me:
Yet when this thought doth come,

"Love is the perfect sum
Of all delight,'
I have no other choice
Either for pen or voice
To sing or write.

O Love, they wrong thee much
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss,
Where truest pleasure is,
I do adore thee;
I know thee what thou art,
I serve thee with my heart,
And fall before thee.