Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The stream was loud and turbid,
The sombre sky was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Upon the lonely moorland,
Ah, what a weary day!
The town was grey below me,
Beyond, the sea was grey;
And though the gorse was golden,
My love was far away.

Over the lonely moorland
There stole at last a ray
Of sunlight through the rifting
Of sombre clouds and grey;
Though sun and gorse were golden,
My love was far away.

Across the barren moorland

The breezy morning breath'd perfume.
The wakening flow'rs unveil'd their bloom,
Up with the sun, from short repose,
Gay Health and lusty Labour rose;
The milk-maid caroll'd at her pail,
And shepherds whistled o'er the dale,
When Love, who led a rural life,
Remote from bustle, state, and strife,
Forth from his thatch'd-roof cottage stray'd,
And stroll'd along the dewy glade.
A nymph, who lightly tripp'd it by,
To quick attention turn'd his eye;
He mark'd the gesture of the fair,
Her self-sufficient grace and air,

Full of the fever of a hopeless love,
My heart's wild worship still is all thine own:
Unchanged—unchangeable—though doomed to move
O'er life's dim waste alone.

Ah! all too deep for words of mortal breath,
My lonely love is one perpetual smart;
Fain would I woo the quiet sleep of death
For this unquiet heart!

'Tis death to see thee in thy joyousness—
To meet thine eye, the smile upon thy lips,
And feel this world a blighted wilderness,
And life a vast eclipse!

So sad and weary! I would ask no more

My heart! my pulse! my flame!
O the gloom, O the pain!
He has no wish to save me
Who will not come again.

Love! Love! Love!
The fair cheek, the dark hair,
The promise forgotten;
'Twill go with me there.

False! false! false!
O, youth is false for ever:
He loves far more than living me—
The lifeless heather.

The hunting field,
The greenwood tree,
The trout, the running deer, he loves,
Far more than me.

He loves—loves—loves
To stalk the frightened doe;
He never heeds the pain he gives,
His skill to show.

Dear, we have sat with Beauty, you and I,
And trembled with a thought of viewless things,
So fleet, so frail, so seeming-sure to die,
Yet strong with wonder of ethereal wings;

Have sat in trance to Loveliness, with Love
Beside us, in a precious pact of three:
Love, loveliness and you—it sounds above
All earthly discords, like a song to me!


And though we transiently are driven apart,
And absence is an ache and an alloy;
We carry that shy music in our heart,
And we return to find but deeper joy.

Go, idle boy, I quit thy power,
Thy couch of many a thorn and flower,
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd surprise, the roguish leer,
The tender smile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs—no joys for me,
So, fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,
Or take thy beverage from the rose,
Or on Louisa's breast repose,
I wish thee well for pleasures past,
Yet bless the hour I'm free at last!
But sure methinks the alter'd day

Time was when Love's dear ways I used to know—
That time's at end, and Love has passed me by:
Be merciful, dear God, and let me die—
How can I lift my head from this last blow?

I cannot bear this life whence Faith has fled—
This jostling world in which I walk alone—
Where through long, lonesome nights old memories moan,
With human voices, that the dead is dead.

I cannot bear to meet the day's cold eyes—
The lonesome nights are bitter with my tears—
Shuddering I face the empty hideous years,
Sure that no trumpet's call will bid my dead arise.

The Man, whose lady-love is virgin Truth,
Must woo a lady that is hard to win:
She smiles not on the wild and wordy din
Of all-confiding, all-protesting Youth;
The Sceptic's apathy; the garb uncouth,
And Cynic sneer of o'er-experienced Sin,
The Serpent, writhing in its worn-out skin,
Craving again to flesh its sated tooth,
She quite abhors. She is not fond, nor coy—
Self-seeking love, and self-appraising scorn,
She knows not. She hath utterly forsworn,
Her worldly dower of wealth, and pride, and joy—
Her very beauty none but they discover,

(My God) who dids't thy glorious throne forsake,
And from a Virgin pure thy manhood take,
That Thou, thereby mights't us thy brethren make:
Was ever love like thine?

Both Men, and Angells, at thy birth did sing,
And thy propicious starre did tideings bring,
That Night departed, and the day did spring:
Was ever love &c.

Though by the Fathers side, thou well mighs't clayme
The whole worlds empire, yet thou didst not ayme
At soveraignty, which makes us to exclayme:
Was ever love &c.

And though, thy Mother was of Jesse's stemme,

If you will tell me what love is for,
If you will tell me why the one man and the one woman are for each other,
If you will tell me why bodies may be thousands of miles apart and may not meet but why love that is just as far apart may meet at will,
If you will tell me why dreams of lovers that may never come true in the flesh still come true somehow,
If you will tell me why nothing can stay love from love's purpose, nothing in seas or lands or laws,
If you will tell me why a dream of love will thrill you like the flesh of love itself,