How still she was! She only knew
His love. She saw no life beyond.
She loved with love that only lives
Outside itself and selfishness,—
A love that glows in its excess;
A love that melts pure gold, and gives
Thenceforth to all who come to woo
No coins but this face stamped thereon,—
Ay, this one image stamped upon
Pure gold, with some dim date long gone.

It was frosty winter-season,
And fair Flora's wealth was geason.
Meads that erst with green were spread,
With choice flowers diaper'd,
Had tawny veils; cold had scanted
What the springs and nature planted.
Leafless boughs there might you see,
All except fair Daphne's tree;
On their twigs no birds perch'd,
Warmer coverts now they search'd;
And by nature's secret reason.
Fram'd their voices to the season,
With their feeble tunes bewraying,
How they griev'd the spring's decaying.
Frosty winter thus had gloom'd
Each fair thing that summer bloom'd;

Sitting by a river side,
Where a silent stream did glide,
Muse I did of many things,
That the mind in quiet brings.
I gan think how some men deem
Gold their god, and some esteem
Honour is the chief content,
That to man in life is lent;
And some others do contend,
Quiet none, like to a friend.
Others hold, there is no wealth
Compared to a perfect health;
Some man's mind in quiet stands,
When he is lord of many lands.
But I did sigh, and said all this
Was but a shade of perfect bliss.
And in my thoughts I did approve,

Product of reason and of faith combin'd,
The life, the health, the beauty of the mind;
God's image on an human soul imprest,
The source of joy, and glory of the blest;
That makes 'em lovely, and that makes 'em love,
Brings heaven to earth, and forms their heaven above:
O how I do thy god-like charms admire!
O how I to thy god-like joys aspire!

I 've a letter from mother today, boys,
A letter of love untold,
Tho' t'was hard to read all the words, boys,
For the dear eyes are dim and old;
Ah! sometimes, boys, when I read, I fear
My eyes grow dim, for I felt the tears
Springing up like rain from the words so clear,
For she said, she said she was praying for me.
Mother said she was praying for me, boys,
She said that she loved me still,
And she asked was I true to my words, boys,
All my promises to fulfill;
I promised, boys, when I said good-by,
I'd try to meet her beyond the sky;—

Loved, on a sudden thou didst come to me
On our own doorstep, still I see thee stand
In thy bleared welcome, with the grim command
From Heaven that we must sever presently;
And no farewell was in the misery …
So you condemned me; did not understand
O lovely and gay-coloured tulip-land,
I would not break on thee my wrathful sea;
Back to the flood-gates, firm to my defence—
So hard, as thou complainest, so apart;
But had I not held tight from thee my sense,
My memory, my will against my heart,
But one defeat, the rupture of one sigh

What shall we do now, Mary being dead,
Or say or write that shall express the half?
What can we do but pillow that fair head,
And let the Spring-time write her epitaph!—

As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet,
Wind-flower and columbine and maiden's tear;
Each letter of that pretty alphabet,
That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.

She was a maiden for a man to love;
She was a woman for a husband's life;
One that has learned to value, far above
The name of love, the sacred name of wife.

Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,

O might I load my arms with thee,
Like that young lover of Romance
Who loved and gained so gloriously
The fair Princess of France!

Because he dared to love so high,
He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed
To where the mountain touched on sky:
So the proud king decreed.

Unhalting he must bear her on,
Nor pause a space to gather breath,
And on the height she will be won;—
And she was won in death!

Red the far summit flames with morn,
While in the plain a glistening Court
Surrounds the king who practised scorn

Sweet is the woodbine's fragrant twine;
Sweet the ripe burthen of the vine;
The pea-bloom sweet, that scents the air,
The rose-bud sweet, beyond compare;
The perfume sweet of yonder grove;
Sweeter the lip of Her I love!

Soft the rich meadow's velvet green,
Where cowslip-tufts are early seen;
Soft the young cygnet's snowey breast;
Or down that lines the linnet's nest;
Soft the smooth plumage of the dove;
Softer the breast of Her I love!

Bright is the star that opes the day;
Bright the mid-noon's refulgent ray;

By the Vizier's soul and the ancient right And the covenant firm I swear,
My wont in the dawn for thy happiness Is still to offer prayer!

My tears, that Noah his flood surpass, From the tablet of my heart
A vail not to wash the script of love For thee that's graven there.

Come, traffic with me and buy this heart; For, broken though it be,
An hundred thousand hearts 'tis worth, Unworn of love and care.

Blame thou me not for debauchery; For Love, the Pilgrim's guide,
The tavern, upon Creation day, Appointed me to share.