He lies in the soft earth under the grass,
Where they who love him often pass.
And his grave is under a tall young lime,
In whose boughs the pale green hop-flowers climb;
But his spirit—where does his spirit rest?
It was God who made him—God knows best.

I have a garden in the city's grime
Where secretly my heart keeps summer-time;

Where blow such airs of rapture on my eyes
As those blest dreamers know in Paradise,

Who after lives of longing come at last
Where anguish of vain love is overpast.

When the broad noon lies shadeless on the street,
And traffic roars, and toilers faint with heat,

Where men forget that ever woods were green,
The wonders of my garden are not seen.

Only at night the magic doors disclose
Its labyrinths of lavender and rose;

When from the rose mist of creation grew
God's patient waiting in your wide-set eyes,
The morning stars, and all the host that flies
On wings of love, paused at the wondrous blue
With which the Master, mindful of the hue,
Stained first the crystal dome of summer skies;
And afterward the violet that vies
With amethyst, before He fashioned you.

And I have trembled with those ancient stars,
My heart has known the flame-winged seraphs' song;
For no indifferent, dreamy eyelid bars
Me from the blue, nor veils with lashes long

My love is like a spring among the hills
Whose brimming waters may not be confined
But pour one torrent through the ways that wind
Down to a garden; there the rose distills
Its nectar; there a tall, white lily fills
Night with anointing of two lovers, blind,
Dumb, deaf, of body, spirit, and of mind
From breathless blending of far-sundered wills.

Long ere my love had reached you, hard I strove
To send its torrent through the barren fields;
I wanted you, the lilied treasure-trove
Of innocence, whose dear possession yields

When thou didst think I did not love,
Then thou didst dote on me;
Now, when thou find'st that I do prove
As kind as kind can be,
Love dies in thee.

What way to fire the mercury
Of thy inconstant mind?
Methinks it were good policy
For me to turn unkind,
To make thee kind.

Yet will I not good nature strain
To buy, at so great cost,
That which, before I do obtain,
I make account almost
That it is lost.

And though I might myself excuse
By imitating thee,
Yet will I no examples use
That may bewray in me

Whenas the watches of the night had grown
To that deep loneliness where dreams begin,
I saw how Love, with visage worn and thin,—
With wings close-bound, went through a town alone.
Death-pale he showed, and inly seemed to moan
With sore desire some dolorous place to win;
Sharp brambles passed had streaked his dazzling skin,—
His bright feet eke were gashed with many a stone.
And, as he went, I, sad for piteousness,
Might see how men from door and gate would move
To stay his steps; or womankind would press,

I built me a house, with a mountain above,
A stream and a willow, a bird and a love.

The mountain was high. The stream it was fleet.
The willow was gentle. The bird-song was sweet.

The love she was dark-eyed, and snowy her breast.
And she was my joy, and my dusk, and my rest.

Where did you borrow that last sigh,
—And that relenting groan?
For those that sigh, and not for love,
—Usurp what 's not their own.
Love's arrows sooner armour pierce
—Than your soft snowy skin;
Your eyes can only teach us love,
—But cannot take it in.

Where did you borrow that last sigh,
—And that relenting groan?
For those that sigh, and not for love,
—Usurp what 's not their own.
Love's arrows sooner armour pierce
—Than your soft snowy skin;
Your eyes can only teach us love,
—But cannot take it in.

Who dares to say I am untrue to Spain
Loving this barren land, loving this plain
Scarlet as blood or white as sun-bleached bones,
Loving these flat-roofed mountains and these stones
Round with spring waters where now the bed gapes dry,
Loving these rainbowed storms, this turquoise sky,
Yes, even these Indians in their high mud towns
For all their sacred meal and feathered crowns?
Some of you seek for souls and some for gold
And some for lands that you may seize and hold,
But all is mine on which I set my eyes,

When my little love at purple dusk,
Trips out upon the lawn among the flowers,
The blushing roses quiver in their musk,
Love-smitten through: the feathery, fragrant showers
Of snow-white blossoms drift upon the grass,
Kissing her whispering footsteps as they pass.

When my little love at evening's hush,
Goes dancing down the dell with laugh and song,
The slumbering echoes waken, and a gush
Of silvery voices greet her, and along
The dewy clusters of the trailing vines
In music mingles, murmurs, and repines.