'Twas said of old, and still the ages say,
“The lover's path is full of doubt and woe.”
Of me they spake : I know not, nor can know,
If she I sigh for will my love repay.
My head sinks on my breast; with bitter strife
My heart is torn, and grief she cannot see.
All unavailing is this agony
To help the love that has become my life.

Rosy days of youth and fancy,
Happy hours of long ago!
Ah, the flickering sunbeam visions—
How they waver to and fro!

Galaxies of blue-eyed Marys,
With a Julia and a Jane,
And a troop of little Lauras,
Blush, and laugh, and romp again.

Moonlight meetings, dreamy rambles,
In the balm of summer night,
When our hearts were full of rapture
And our senses of delight;—

Those remember,—and remember
How the fond stars shone above,
Keeping, in their mellow splendor,
Watch and ward upon our love.

Love never dies, that harbors in a jest!
Love never lives, that only words can tell!
And so light looks and smiles are ever best,—
Since love that speaks must only say Farewell!

All the people of the earth
Have a common death and birth;
All the men beneath the sky
Hope and love as thou and I;
Some are weak and some are strong,
Some are right and some are wrong,
But as dusk is after day,
We must journey in one way.
Of the hosts of humankind,
Some have vision, some are blind,
But the poorest child of fate
Doth outline the kingly state;
Over land and over sea,
Life, and death, and mystery;
Childhood, age, and from the steep,
All must make the final leap,
All must crumble into clay,
In one calm and peaceful way;

In other arms I found content. In yours
Only an infinite torment and unrest.
Always the chill surrender of your breast
Spurned me to madder quests, remoter lures.
Always I bore upon my soul the scars
Seared by the terrible magic of your kiss.
You were Circe … Helen … Semiramis,
Potent, austere, indifferent as the stars.

These bread-and-butter passions, cinnamon-sweet,
Have stayed my hunger for a little space.
Why must I blunder on reluctant feet
Back to the dead-sea fruit of your embrace?
Why must I nurse a marsh-fire in my grate,

Not of steep mountain trails or perilous ascents
Will I complain, but of the hard, hard ways of love!
Ice melting in far streams beats a refrain,
Snow on cold, distant peaks recalls your lineaments;
Loathing light songs, sick of spring wine,
I bid no guests to evening chess
Our vows were of the greenness of the pine,
of the rock's steadfastness;
Sometimes even the One-winged Birds remain too long as twain.
Hating to walk alone when winter sunsets fade,
Eager for meeting when the moon is full above,
What can I give you, O Departed Love of mine?

Forgive, O Lord, our severing ways,
The rival altars that we raise,
The wrangling tongues that mar thy praise!

Thy grace impart! In time to be
Shall one great temple rise to thee.—
Thy Church our broad humanity.
Alleluia!

White flowers of love its walls shall climb.
Soft bells of peace shall ring its chime,
Its days shall all be holy time.
Alleluia!

A sweeter song shall then be heard,
Confessing, in a world's accord,
The inward Christ, the living Word.
Alleluia!

That song shall swell from shore to shore,

When in the death of love,
The lovers part,
With saddened quiet in their eyes,
And brief low words,
They do not wonder at the autumn's dying,
Nor at the fall of leaves in the late wind,
Nor wooded hills in winter.

A sadness steeps the sky,
A greyness glistens in the air,
And the Earth's bosom is barren, bleak and brown …
When in the death of love
The lovers part.

O loved and lovely on the mountain crest,
O auburn hair the clouds are shining on,
White arms uplifted to the setting sun,
Prophetic eyes that see beyond the west,
O whispering voice, my tumult and my rest,
Star of the twilight next that burning one
Which yonder in heaven holds bright dominion,
Through song of mine shalt thou be manifest!

For from my wings thy fire hath purged the pain,
For on my eyes thy light hath poured the light,
And on my mouth is thine immortal kiss;
Nor can thy presence be bestowed in vain
On me, the Lyrist's eager acolyte,

If Love be nothing but an idle name,
A vain device of foolish Poets' skill:
A feigned fire, devoid of smoke and flame;
Then what is that which me tormenteth still?
If such a thing as love indeed there be,
What kind of thing, or which, or where is he?

If it be good, how causeth it such pain?
How doth it breed such grief within my breast?
If nought, how chance the grief that I sustain
Doth seem so sweet amidst my great unrest?
For sure, methinks it is a wondrous thing,
That so great pain should so great pleasure bring.