The poet hath to sing though no man hears,
And though the dreary years
Bring nought of sympathy:
He hath the sun and sea.

The poet hath to love though hope be dead
And garlandless his head:
Though no man take his part,
He hath the rose's heart.

The poet hath to sing though all his words
Be as the notes of birds
Flung to the bitter breeze:
Yet hath he the blue seas.

The poet hath to love though all his brain
Be torn with lonely pain:
Devoid of love's delight,
He hath the sweet wild night.

Love, in Rosy Fetters caught,
To my Fair the Muses brought;
Gifts his Mother did prefer
To release the Prisoner;
But hee'd not be gone though free,
Pleas'd with his Captivity.

Now when I see your face, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that through the chilling night
Yearns for the sun, despairingly, when lo!
The sudden warmth, the glorious, great light!

Now when I hear your voice, sweetheart, I know
What the rose feels that drought hath almost slain,
That, thirsting, droops disconsolate, when lo!
The swift, cold air, the rapture of the rain!

M Y heart hath its Springtime, yea,
Its thrill of primal happiness,
Its swift, keen days of gold and gray,
Its crescent moon of promises.

I COME to thee blind, despairing,
I grope where I may not see:
Love, thou worker of miracles,
Open my eyes for me.

I come to thee deaf, unheeding,
Beggared of sound and voice:
Love, thou maker of marvels,
Bid me hear and rejoice.

I come to thee shunned—a leper,
Scorned in the sight of men:
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
Make thou me clean again.

Love, thou worker of miracles,
Maker of marvels sweet,
Love, whose pardon is cleansing,
These my tears on thy feet.

Oh, ask not what is love, she said,
Or ask it not of me;
Or of the heart, or of the head,
Or if at all it be.

Oh, ask it not, she said, she said,
Thou winn'st not word from me!
—Oh, silent as the long long dead,
I, Lady, learn of thee.

I ask,—thou speakest not,—and still
I ask, and look to thee;
And lo, without or with a will,
The answer is in me.

Without thy will it came to me?
Ah, with it let it stay;
Ah, with it, yes, abide in me,
Nor only for today!

Thou claim'st it? nay, the deed is done;

I thought of art, love.
We all must fare
The same kind of muse
As the traveling glare.

The list of eye cannot withhold
The joy of explanation bold
As foreign lands I'll
Never see.

I'll move for comfort;
I'll think a sleep—
And wake the marble perfume
From which my soul stirs inner deep.

Love , since it is thy will that I return
'Neath her usurped control
Who is thou know'st how beautiful and proud;
Enlighten thou her heart, so bidding burn
Thy flame within her soul
That she rejoice not when my cry is loud.
Be thou but once endowed
With sense of the new peace, and of this fire,
And of the scorn wherewith I am despised,
And wherefore death is my most fierce desire;
And then thou'lt be apprised
Of all. So if thou slay me afterward,
Anguish unburthened shall make death less hard.

O Lord, thou knowest very certainly

MOTHER of Mildness! rosey-featur'd May !
In every varied bloom, voluptuous, drest,
I feel, I feel thy vivifying my
Inform, afresh, my animated breast!

My spirit, lighter than the woodlark's wing,
Ascending to salute the dewey dawn,
Pursues thy countless beauties, as they spring
O'er blossom'd bow'r, gay bank, or shaven lawn.

Flush'd with ethereal fervour, all around
Luxuriant landscapes fill the raptur'd sight,
Imagination's wildest wish is crown'd,
And Fancy's self is satiate of delight:

Ev'n the cool streams with blushing radiance glow,

Unto no body my woman saith she had rather a wife bee
then to my self, not though Jove grew a suter of hers.
These be her woordes, but a womans wordes to a love that is eger
in wyndes or waters stremes do require to be writt.

All my past Life is mine no more,
The flying Hours are gone:
Like transitory Dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose Images are kept in store
By Memory alone.

The Time that is to come is not;
How can it then be mine?
The present Moment's all my Lot;
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phillis, is only thine.

The talk not of Inconstancy,
False Hearts, and broken Vows;
If I, by Miracle, can be
This live-long Minute true to thee,
'Tis all that Heav'n allows.