Lonely at night my watch I keep,
While all the world is hush'd in sleep.
Then tow'rd my home my thoughts will rove;
I think upon my distant love.

When to the wars I march'd away,
My hat she deck'd with ribbons gay;
She fondly press'd me to her heart,
And wept to think that we must part.

Truly she loves me, I am sure,
So ev'ry hardship I endure;
My heart beats warm, though cold's the night;
Her image makes the darkness bright.

Now by the twinkling taper's gleam,
Her bed she seeks, of me to dream,
But ere she sleeps she kneels to pray

A lovely woman rolls up
The delicate bamboo blind.
She sits deep within,
Twitching her moth eyebrows.
Who may it be
That grieves her heart?
On her face one sees
Only the wet traces of tears.

I can remember our sorrow, I can remember our laughter;
I know that surely we kissed and cried and ate together;
I remember our places and games, and plans we had—
The little house and how all came to naught—
Remember well:
But I cannot remember our love,
I cannot remember our love.

Who shall sing of the bridal in valleys of autumn, among the vineyards and the cornfields,
Or tell of the scent of apples on the night of love?
Who shall chant of the blood-red harvest-moon above the granaries and the wine-press,
And dropping fruits and the kiss of Adam and Eve?

O white miraculous bodies that becoming one, change to a channel
For all fire of all suns, the ecstasy of Creation:
And by no love of a sterile God in the heavens,
And by no love of a memory or an idol of the Past,
But by strong love of the living God, even the Life in each other,

Lord, from whose glorious presence came
The truth that made our fathers free,
And kindled in their hearts the flame
Of love to man and love to thee.

Bow the great heavens, thy throne of light,
And fill these walls, as once, of yore,
Thy spirit rested in its might
Upon the ark that Israel bore.

Here, let thy love be strong to draw
Our wavering hearts to do thy will,
And hush them with the holy awe
That makes the rebel passions still.

And while thy children, frail and blind,
Here bend in humble prayer to thee,

I cannot make less red the rose's fold,
Less white the wave,
Less blue the sea, less bright the garner's gold,
Less dark the grave,
Nor make thy soul less beautiful and bold,
Queen of the brave.

Lay your hand, sweet wife, in mine;
Half divine
Was the love of long ago.
Dawn's bright hues no longer glow,
And we watch, with fading sight,
Day turn night.

Sitting here at twilight's fall,
I recall
All our days of changing weather;
How we met black care together—
Fought him till he turned to fly,
You and I.

And the hours of glad content
We have spent!
Perfect love and perfect life,
We have run their round, sweet wife,
But of all those hours so blest,
This is best.

For at first, ah, well we knew
We were two,

Ah! I know it, my darling,—but who can say nay to you?
Who can say nay to those eyes when they pray to you?
Who can say nay to those lips when they say to you—
“On a rose, on a glove, on a jewel I am thinking”?

Were we strong, were we wise, had but virtue the hold of us,
Were we cold to behold such a love's glance unblinking,
Were it aught but such stuff as it is, sweet, the mould of us—
Ah! then we might smile and beguile you with smiling,
Yea, then were we proof against all the beguiling,
Of even those eyes and that exquisite lip's curve.

Up from the South come the birds that were banished,
Frightened away by the presence of frost.
Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished,
Back to the forest the leaves that were lost.
Over the hillside the carpet of splendor,
Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again;
Along the horizon, the tints that were tender,
Lost hues of Summer time, burn bright as then.

Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,
To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key.
Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story
Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea.

Beautiful children of the woods and fields!
That bloom by mountain streamlets 'mid the heather,
Or into clusters, 'neath the hazels, gather,—
Or where by hoary rocks you make your bields,
And sweetly flourish on through summer weather,—
I love ye all!

Beautiful flowers! to me ye fresher seem
From the Almighty hand that fashion'd all,
Than those that flourish by a garden-wall;
And I can image you as in a dream,
Fair modest maidens nursed in hamlets small:—
I love ye all!

Beautiful gems! that on the brow of earth