My longings unbearable,
I went to see my love—
the winter night's river wind
so cold the plovers cried

How can one man, how can all men,
How can we be like St. Paul,
Like St. John, or like St. Peter,
Like the least of all
Blessed Saints? for we are small.

Love can make us like St. Peter,
Love can make us like St. Paul,
Love can make us like the blessed
Bosom friend of all,
Great St. John, tho' we are small.

Love which clings and trusts and worships,
Love which rises from a fall,
Love which, prompting glad obedience,
Labours most of all,
Love makes great the great and small.

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her labouring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

You cannot choose but love, lad,
From dawn till twilight dreary;
You cannot choose but love, lad,
Though love grows weary, weary.

For, lad, an if you love not,
You'd best have slept unwaking;
But, O, an if you love, lad,
Your heart is breaking, breaking.

Though friends and lovers only
Fill life with joyous breath,
Yet friend or lover only
Can make you pray for death.

Throw open wide your heart then,
Love's road-house for a mile!
And if one turns to leave you
Or stab you—smile, lad, smile.

O, no!—To live when joy was dead,
To go with one, lone, pining thought,
To mournful love her being wed,
Feeling what death had wrought;
To live the child of woe, nor shed a tear,
Bear kindness, and yet share not joy or fear;

She's sleeping in her silent cave,
Nor hears the loud, stern roar above,
Nor strife of man on land or wave.
Young thing! her home of love
She soon has reached! Fair, unpolluted thing!
They harmed her not!—Was dying suffering?

“I'll untie my sash brocaded with a wheel design.
When you come in the evening, be quiet, my love.”
“Let me in quietly, my darling, let me in quietly.
They've all gone to sleep.”
“Like the cloud crossing the face of the moon,
I see you clearly, I see you clearly.”

Pale little princess passionate and shy,
With delicate small hands and heavy hair,
A simple child-like creature wild and fair,
Yet shadowed by a haunting mystery.
Born to, I know not what, high destiny,
And driven out to darkness and despair,
To see at last a love divine and rare
Slain by a jealous husband … and to die!

How listlessly you turned from love and tears,
Yet looking in the eyes of Death you smiled
And stretched out wistful arms, as though once more
Your Pelleas had entered at the door.
And Death was kind to you, a weary child,

Sweet Love is dead,—yes, dead and laid to rest.
Ah, dainty was the fabric of his shroud,
Cut from the pearly edges of a cloud.
They placed a fragrant lily on his breast,
And all the souls his visitings had blest
Followed him to the grave with heads low bowed,
Though there were many great, and good, and proud.
And those by fame and fortune oft caressed.
Poor Love! he could not live when golden dross
Bought the warm kisses that were once his due,
Paid for the tender clasp of clinging hands,
And banished the fair flowers that were the bands

He fell for Spain,—her Spain no more;
For he was gone who made it dear;
And she would seek some distant shore,
Away from strife and fear,
And wait amid her sorrows till the day
His voice of love should call her thence away.