Awake, my heart, to be loved, awake, awake!
The darkness silvers away, the morn doth break,
It leaps in the sky: unrisen lustres slake
The o'ertaken moon. Awake, O heart, awake!

She too that loveth awaketh and hopes for thee;
Her eyes already have sped the shades that flee,
Already they watch the path thy feet shall take:
Awake, O heart, to be loved, awake, awake!

And if thou tarry from her, — if this could be, —
She cometh herself, O heart, to be loved, to thee;
For thee would unashamed herself forsake:

At first awhile sits he,
With calm, unruffled brow;
His features then I see,
Distorted hideously, —
An owl's they might be now.
What is it, askest thou?
Is't love, or is't ennui?
'Tis both at once, I vow.

As in the cool-air'd road I come by,
--in the night,
Under the moon-clim'd height o' the sky,
--in the night,
There by the lime's broad lim's I did staÿè,
While in the air dark sheädes wer at plaÿè
Up on the window-glass, that did keep
Lew vrom the wind my true love asleep,
--in the night.

While in the grey-wall'd height o' the tow'r,
--in the night,
Sounded the midnight bell wi' the hour,
--in the night,
There come a bright-heäir'd angel that shed
Light vrom her white robe's zilvery thread,

Another year has struck the vibrant chime
And still you sleep; roots stir beneath the tomb,
And yet you do not know, immune to time,
Beyond the reach of spring's returning bloom;
Yet still, at times, our love, O Washington,
Must penetrate the very walls of breath;
A father surely hears a loving son
Beyond the barrier of time . . . and death.
And so we speak again; perhaps you hear
The echo of an echo, and you know
How through the fateful years you grow more dear,
Your name a symbol; be it ever so.
Now, more than ever, in our time of need,

And what is love? It is a doll dressed up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Till Cleopatra lives at Number Seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warmed the world,
If queens and soldiers have played deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies

All a green willow, willow, willow ,
All a green willow is my garland.
Alas! by what mean may I make ye to know
The unkindness for kindness that to me doth grow?
That one who most kind love on me should bestow,
Most unkind unkindness to me she doth show,
For all a green willow is my garland.

To have love and hold love, where love is so sped,
Oh, delicate food to the lover so fed!
From love won to love lost, where lovers be led,
Oh, desperate dolour, the lover is dead!
For all a green willow is his garland.

A LAS ! that men must see
Love, before Death!
Else they content might be
With their short breath;
Aye, glad, when the pale sun
Showed restless Day was done,
And endless Rest begun.

Glad, when with strong, cool hand
Death clasped their own,
And with a strange command
Hushed every moan;
Glad to have finished pain,
And labor wrought in vain,
Blurred by Sin's deepening stain.

But Love's insistent voice
Bids Self to flee —
" Live that I may rejoice,
Live on, for me! "
So, for Love's cruel mind,

Alas, how easily things go wrong!
A sigh too much, or a kiss too long,
And there follows a mist and a weeping rain,
And life is never the same again.

Alas, how hardly things go right!
'Tis hard to watch in a summer night,
For the sigh will come, and the kiss will stay;
And the summer night is a wintry day.

And yet how easily things go right,
If the sigh and a kiss of a summer's night
Come deep from the soul in the stronger ray
That is born in the light of the winter's day.

And things can never go badly wrong

Adored, invalid autumn, you will
die when the hurricane
blows in the rose
parks, when the snow will have come
among orchards

Poor autumn,
die in the whiteness and richness of ripe
fruit and snow
At the top of the sky hawks
glide and hover
over silly young nymphs
with short green hair
who have never loved

On the far edges of wood the stags
have belled And oh season, season, I
love your dins
Fruits falling unpicked, the wind
and the woods that weep all of their
tears in the fall, leaf by leaf
The leaves

The definition of love in many languages
Quaintly establishes
Identities of episodes
And makes the parallel
Of myth colloquial.

But, untranslatable,
Love remains
A future in brains.
Speech invents memory
Where there has been
Neither oblivion nor history.
And we remembering forget,
Mistake the future for the past,
Worrying fast
Back to a long ago
Not yet to-morrow.