The yellow thirst that maddens men,
Doth lead them over bog and fen,
Through sullen seas to climes of cold,
Where wait the fertile fields of gold.

O life, O love, O hope, O fate,
Unceasing ever, early, late,
We see in dreams, by night, by day,
Some Eldorado—far away.

Oh , trust not Love—the wayward boy,
But haste, if you'd detain him,
Ere time can beauty's bond destroy,
Or other eyes and lips decoy,
With Hymen to enchain him.

The humming-bird the blossom leaves
Whene'er its sweets are failing;
The silken web the spider weaves
Yields up the prey to which she cleaves,
When autumn winds are wailing.

And Love, when beauty's bloom decays,
Will spread his fickle pinion,
And prove the web in which he plays
Too weak against the rude world's ways
To hold the roving minion.

Each man is limited by inborn traits;
—Beyond a certain point he cannot go;
The wise excel in high or low estates;
—The good mock not good workers just below.

If one can lift a weight of half a ton,
—Give him full credit, yet not praise him more
Than one who, lifting less, his best has done,
—Nor give the latter less than actual score.

We grant that each has striven toward the best,
—Yet judge by failure, not by worth or toil.
The “highest” is not worthier than the rest,
—And none should other's worthy effort spoil.

A single night,
that is all
one needs to know
it was a lie;
what am I hoping for,
then,
to persevere

My very life
I would give
in pursuit
of the one I love.
Why then
do I begrudge
the ruin
of my good name?

Behold the tree, the lordly tree,
That fronts the four winds of the storm,
A fearless and defiant form
That mocks wild winter merrily!
Behold the beauteous, budding tree
With censers swinging in the air,
With arms in attitude of prayer,
With myriad leaves, and every leaf
A miracle of color, mold,
More gorgeous than a house of gold!
Each leaf a poem of God's plan,
Each leaf as from His book of old
To build, to bastion man's belief:
Man's love of God, man's love of man.

Aye, love His trees, leaf, trunk, or root,

O fast we hold to those we love
And clutch them to our hearts
But still the soul desires the whole—
And what are these but parts?

O fast we hold to those we love
As we would drink them dry—
But still our hearts are not sufficed
And still for hunger cry—

Sweet is the love of man and maid—
The mother for the child
But there's a love more tender far;
More passionate and wild.

Close is the love of one for one
But there is larger worth
In the dear love of human kind
All over the green earth.

When the sweet air grows bitter,
And the leaf falls from the branch,
And the birds change their chatter,
I also sigh and sing here
Of love which holds me tied and bound,
For I have never had it in my power.

Alas! I have never gained anything from love
Except the suffering and the anguish,
And nothing is so hard to win over
As that which I desire;
And nothing fills me with such desire
As does that which I cannot have.

I exult for a fine jewel,
And nothing have I ever loved as much;
When I am with her, I am so overcome

A butterfly alights
On a bright green hedge,
Sways with grace
On its very edge:
Like an airy spectre it seems to cling,
Then, off again upon the wing.

Ah, Love, is yours
The same wily art,
Poised with grace
On the edge of my heart,
Just for a moment there to cling,
Then off again upon the wing?

The sweet-mouthed shore hath wed the singing sea,
And winds are joyous with their kissing chime.
The voice-beseeching rapture of the time
An utterance hath found in every tree,
In bursts of happy rhyme.

All nature loves, and loves are all fulfilled.
Me only hope deferred and waitings long
Keep silent; me these rich completions wrong:
Ah! when shall I have leave my lips to gild
With a sweet marriage-song?

From scenes of glad love crownéd, long gone down
The droning-billowed reaches of the years,
The lotus-flutes are shrilling in mine ears,