Away, sad voices, telling
Of old, forgotten pain!
My heart, at grief rebelling,
To joy returns again.
My life, at tears protesting,
To long delight returns,
Where, close of all my questing,
Her dear eyes love discerns.

O Love , O thou that, for my fealty,
Only in torment dost thy power employ,
Give me, for God's sake, something of thy joy,
That I may learn what good there is in thee.
Yea, for, if thou art glad with grieving me,
Surely my very life thou shalt destroy
When thou renew'st my pain, because the joy
Must then be wept for with the misery.
He that had never sense of good, nor sight,
Esteems his ill estate but natural,
Which so is lightlier borne: his case is mine.
But, if thou wouldst uplift me for a sign,
Bidding me drain the curse and know it all,

Guard thee, my friend, from grimmest devils' jaws,
More dangerous yet are angels softly smiling;
One such I knew, and she my heart beguiling,
Proffered sweet kiss—right soon I felt sharp claws—
Guard thee, my friend, from black old pussy's paws;
More dangerous yet are white young kittens mewing—
One such I took for Love, to my undoing—
My heart was torn to rags—my Love the cause—
Oh sweet beguiler! wondrous lovely maiden!
How could thine eyes of clearest blue deceive me?
Could thy soft paw of my heart's flesh bereave me?

Lightsome as convey'd by sparrows,
Love and Beauty cross'd the plains,
Flights of little pointed arrows
Love dispatch'd among the swains:
But so much our shepherds dread him,
(Spoiler of their peace profound)
Swift as scudding fawns they fled him,
Frighted, though they felt no wound.

Now the wanton God grown slyer,
And for each fond mischief ripe,
Comes disguis'd in Pan's attire,
Tuning sweet an oaten pipe:
Echo, by the winding river,
Doubles his delusive strains;
While the boy conceals his quiver,
From the slow returning swains.

I am lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho' I move within the gloom, love,
Breathe within the gloom!
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child!

What is the grey world, darling,
What is the grey world,
Where the worm lies curled, darling,
The death-worm lies curled?
They tell me of the spring, dear!
Do I want the spring?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
O my little child!

I will not follow you, my bird,
I will not follow you.
I would not breathe a word, my bird,
To bring thee here anew.

I love the free in thee, my bird,
The lure of freedom drew;
The light you fly toward, my bird,
I fly with thee unto.

And there we yet will meet, my bird,
Though far I go from you
Where in the light outpoured, my bird,
Are love and freedom too.

O ye who love today,
Turn away
From Patience with her silver ray:
For Patience shows a twilight face,
Like a half-lighted moon
When daylight dies apace.

But ye who love tomorrow
Beg or borrow
Today some bitterness of sorrow:
For Patience shows a lustrous face,
In depth of night her noon;
Then to her sun gives place.

If I entreat this lady that all grace
Seem not unto her heart an enemy,
Foolish and evil thou declarest me,
And desperate in idle stubbornness.
Whence is such cruel judgement thine, whose face,
To him that looks thereon, professeth thee
Faithful, and wise, and of all courtesy,
And made after the way of gentleness?
Alas! my soul within my heart doth find
Sighs, and its grief by weeping doth enhance,
That, drowned in bitter tears, those sighs depart:
And then there seems a presence in the mind,
As of a lady's thoughtful countenance

Let the light flame consume them and be done
While their charred fragments in the embers lie,
The old, sweet record of the days gone by.
Read them and burn them, lingering, one by one;
The swift months gather and the seasons run
With none to tell us of the when or why;
Let them as ashes vanish in the sky,
Since this our courtship has but just begun.

Better to miss them when we parted be
Than through some fault or lapsing of the years,
To have them made a target for the sneers
Or jest, or scorn, of Curiosity;

Like a willow, like a reed
Is my Love's grace:
And her face

Like a soft, pale-petaled rose:
And my Love's breast
Like the rest

Of a snow-drift bright and white:
And to kiss there—
Ah! what compare

Can I find in rhyme for that!
Where is Love's own
Jewelled throne.