Oh , in what lonely valley, dimly seen
Through dusky aisles of immemorial trees,
Or on what lovely island, couched serene
In azure zones of unfrequented seas,
Blossoms the Lotus, fabled flower of ease?

For none have found it in the city street,
Among the wicked weeds that rankle there,
The matted sins that snare unwary feet,
The poison growth of slander, shame and care,
The hemlock leaves of anguish and despair.

Even in the fair, benignant face of heaven,
On sunny plain or solitary hill,

Love was primeval; from forgotten time
Come hints of common lives by love made great,
In pastoral song or fragmentary rhyme,
While fades the fame of many a warlike state.
Love lives forever, though we pass away;
Still shall there be hot hearts and longing eyes,
Hyperion youths and maids more fair than they,
Loath lips and lingering hands and parting sighs,
When we have vanished and our simple doom
Is blended with the themes of old romance.
Ay, from our dust young buds and flowers shall bloom,
To deck bright tresses in the spring-tide dance

Thou strokest back my heavy hair
With smothered praises in thy touch,
Thy long, proud look doth call me fair
Before thy lips have vowed me such.

And when between each long caress
Thou gazest at me held apart,
And with impulsive tenderness
Refoldest closer to thy heart,

Over love's deep, within thine eyes,
I see the artist's rapture brood;
And sometimes will this thought arise;
(O Love, why must a fear intrude!)

What if some sudden thing, as dread
As that which happened yesterday,

I lie on my pallet bed,
And I hear the drip of the rain;
The rain on my garret roof is falling,
And I am cold and in pain.

I lie on my pallet bed,
And my heart is wild with delight;
I hear her voice through the midnight calling,
As I lie awake in the night.

I lie on my pallet bed,
And I see her bright eyes gleam;
She smiles, she speaks, and the world is ended,
And made again in a dream.

Good to be loved and to love for a little, and then
Well to forget, be forgotten, ere loving grow life!
Dear, you have loved me, but was I the man among men?
Sweet, I have loved you, but scarcely as mistress or wife.

Message of Spring in the hearts of a man and a maid,
Hearts on a holiday: ho! let us love: it is Spring.
Joy in the birds of the air, in the buds of the glade,
Joy in our hearts in the joy of the hours on the wing.

Well, but to-morrow? To-morrow, good-bye: it is over.
Scarcely with tears shall we part, with a smile who had met.

Oh ! what a world it might be,
If hearts were always kind;
If, Friendship, none would slight thee,
And Fortune prove less blind!
With Love's own voice to guide us —
Unchangingly and fond —
With all we wish beside us,
And not a care beyond.
Oh! what a world it might be;
More blest than that of yore:
Come, learn, and 'twill requite ye,
To love each other more.

Oh! what a world of beauty

Her eyes are haunted, eyes that were
Scarce sad when last we met.
What thing is this has come to her
That she may not forget?

They loved, they married: it is well!
But ah, what memories
Are these whereof her eyes half tell,
Her haunted eyes?

Light of heart am I,
Nothing more shall grieve me;
Wherefore should I sigh?
Sighing can't relieve me!
When the blight is shed
Tears cannot efface it;
When the bloom hath fled
Weeping can't replace it!
Light of heart am I,
Nothing more shall grieve me;
Wherefore should I sigh?
Sighing can't relieve me!

Wherefore feel for those
Who feel not for others! —
Hearts that will be foes —
When they should be brothers!
Those we loved — are gone;
Who love us — we find not!
Let the world frown on

There is a friend, a secret friend,
 In every trial, every grief,
To cheer, to counsel, and defend,—
 Of all we ever had the chief!—
A friend, who watching from above,
 Whene'er in Error's path we trod,
Still sought us with reproving love;
 That friend, that secret friend, is God !

There is a friend, a faithful friend,
 In every chance and change of fate,
Whose boundless love doth solace send,
 When other friendships come too late!
A friend, that when the world deceives,
 And wearily we onward plod,

If to be wishful still to linger near thee
 And in thine absence every moment tell,
If when thou speak'st—I think it heaven to hear thee!
 If this be love —why, then, I love thee well.

If to gaze on when unaware thou seemeth;
 Toying with hawk or hound, by rock or fell;
Moving or lingering, still, like one that dreameth!
 If this be love—then do I love thee well.

To deem her blest, who, as her own might claim thee,
 And round thy path be privileged to dwell;
To be all tremor if I hear one name thee—