Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust,
And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things;
Grow rich in that which never taketh rust;
Whatever fades, but fading pleasure brings.
Draw in thy beams, and humble all thy might
To that sweet yoke where lasting freedoms be,
Which breaks the clouds, and opens forth the light
That doth both shine and give us sight to see.
O take fast hold, let that light be thy guide
In this small course which birth draws out to death,
And think how ill becometh him to slide

Acacias' gold and red are falling.
Falling at dusk, in the autumn light.
One-sided love, light flannel, my melancholy,
as I walk by the water in " Towboat. "
Your soft sighs are falling.
Acacias' gold and red are falling.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:

Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."

"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,

Cyanogen seas are surging
On fierce cinnabarine strands,
Where white Amazons are marching,
Through the radiance of the sands.

Oh, could only lambent love-flame
Be like the surging sea,
Deluge the red of the desert
And drown the white virgins in me!

It’s often those
who talk a streak

on world affairs
and love and peace

who seem to love
and peace the least.

“And dost thou love me not a whit the less:
And is thy heart as tremulous as of yore,
And do thine eyes mirror the wonderfulness,
And do thy lips retain their magic lore?”
What, Sweet, can these things be, ev'n in thy thought,
And I so briefly gone, so swiftly come
Nay, if the pulse of life its beat forgot
This speaking heart would not thereby be dumb.
I love thee, love thee so, O beautiful Hell
That dost consume heart, brain, nerves, body, soul
That even my immortal birthright I would sell
Were Heaven to choose, or Thee, as my one goal.

With wasps and bees my busy bill
Sucks ill from good, and good from ill:
Humility makes my pride to grow,
And pride aspiring lays me low.

My standing does my fall procure,
My falling makes me stand more sure.
My poison does my physic prove,
My enmity provokes my love.

My poverty infers my wealth,
My sickness issues in my health.
My hardness tends to make me soft,
And killing things to cure me oft.

While high attainments cast me down,
My deep abasement raise me soon.
My best things oft have evil brood;

Dear David Harum, your quaint wisdom comes
Fresh from the land we love to call our own.
It is the bird that sings, the bee that hums,
The wind that blows across a grove o'ergrown;
In him who voices you, you live again,
We know not which is Harum,—
Which is Crane!

I AM the Comic Muse,
Soft as the summer rain,
Come the children I bear
Out of the breath of my brain;
Love,—and Laughter that lifts,
Joy with the lilt of a song,
Beauty that's born of praise,
And Faith that has righted wrong.
I am the heart of a child,
I am the trust of a maid,
Spirit and passion of man,
Love that is unbetrayed;
I am the Muse that smiles,
Lo! and gladness is rife,
Comedy, I am called,
I am the mirror of Life.

Lovely kind, and kindly loving,
Such a mind were worth the moving;
Truly fair, and fairly true—
Where are all these, but in you?

Wisely kind, and kindly wise;
Blessëd life, where such love lies!
Wise, and kind, and fair, and true—
Lovely live all these in you.

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet;
Blessëd, where these blessings meet!
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessëd, true—
Blessëd be all these in you!