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.

Love is a sour delight, a sugared grief,
A living death, an ever-dying life,
A breach of reason's law, a secret thief,
A sea of tears, an everlasting strife:
A bait for fools, a scourge of noble wits,
A deadly wound, a shot that ever hits.

Love is a blinded god, a wayward boy,
A labyrinth of doubts, an idle lust;
A slave to beauty's will, a witless toy,
A ravenous bird, a tyrant most unjust:
A burning heat in frost, a flattering foe,
A private hell, a very world of woe.

Yet, mighty Love, regard not what I say,

Once the gayest of the gay,
She her castanets would play,
Dance before us in the pride
Of her golden summer tide.

Now she's ill and worn and old,
Gone her lovers, gone her gold,
Those who used to hold her dear
Shrink away to-day in fear.

As the moon in heaven bright
Waxes still with borrowed light,
So to woman comes eclipse
When she is touched by no man's lips.

Must my devoted heart desist to love her?
No: love I may, but I may not confess it.
What harder thing than love, and yet depress it?
Love most concealed, doth most itself discover.
Had I no pen to show that I approve her;
Were I tongue-tied, that I might not address it,
In plaints and prayers unfeigned to express it,
Yet could I not my deep affection cover.
Had I no pen, my very tears would shew it,
Which write my true affection in my face.
Were I tongue-tied, my sighs would make her know it,
Which witness that I grieve at my disgrace.

The lovely Delia smiles again!
That killing frown has left her brow;
Can she forgive my jealous pain,
And give me back my angry vow?

Love is an April's doubtful day;
Awhile we see the tempest lower,
Anon the radiant heaven survey,
And quite forget the flitting shower

The flowers, that hung their languid head,
Are burnish'd by the transient rains;
The vines their wonted tendrils spread,
And double verdure gilds the plains.

The sprightly birds, that droop'd no less
Beneath the power of rain and wind,
In every raptured note express

I care not what my fate shall be,
Burn me with lightning, freeze with ice,
Drown me in Ocean's deepest sea
Or hurl me down the precipice.

For I by Love am worn away
My body spent with fierce desire,
And if his bolt should strike to-day
I would not fear Jove's fire.