For the acts correspond; And again on the knee of a mild Mystery O DEATH, O BEYOND, A LAY OF THE EARLY ROSE discordance that can accord. A ROSE Once grew within In her loneness, in her loneness, A white rose delicate On a tall bough and straight: Early comer, early comer, Never waiting for the summer. Her pretty gestes did win South winds to let her in, In her loneness, in her loneness, All the fairer for that oneness. 'For if I wait,' said she, For the moss-rose and the musk-rose, 'What glory then for me In such a company?— Roses plenty, roses plenty, And one nightingale for twenty? 'Nay, let me in,' said she, 'Before the rest are free,In my loneness, in my loneness, All the fairer for that oneness. 'For I would lonely stand 'Upon which lifted sign, What addressing, what caressing, 'A windlike joy will rush 'Insects, that only may To my whiteness, to my whiteness, 'And every moth and bee, Approach me reverently, Wheeling o'er me, wheeling o'er me, Coronals of motioned glory. 'Three larks shall leave a cloud, To my whiter beauty vowed, Singing gladly all the moontide, Never waiting for the suntide. 'Ten nightingales shall flee Their woods for love of me, Singing sadly all the suntide, Never waiting for the moontide. 'I ween the very skies Will look down with surprise, When low on earth they see me With my starry aspect dreamy. 'And earth will call her flowers So praying, did she win But ah,-alas for her! No tree nor bush was seen The little flies did crawl Along the southern wall, Faintly shifting, faintly shifting And what thanks and praise and blessing! | Wings scarce long enough for lifting. The lark, too high or low, The nightingale did please Only the bee, forsooth, The skies looked coldly down As on a royal crown; Then with drop for drop, at leisure, They began to rain for pleasure. Whereat the Earth did seem To waken from a dream, Winter-frozen, winter-frozen, Her unquiet eyes unclosing Said to the Rose, 'Ha, Snow! And art thou fallen so? Thou, who wast enthroned stately All along my mountains lately? 'Vaunting to come before Our own age evermore, In a loneness, in a loneness, And the nobler for that oneness. 'Holy in voice and heart, To high ends, set apart! All unmated, all unmated, Just because so consecrated. 'But if alone we be, Where is our empery? And if none can reach our stature, Who can mete our lofty nature? 'What bell will yield a tone, 'What angel, but would seem 'And thus, what can we do, 'Drop leaf-be silent song! Cold things we come among: We must warm them, we must warm them, Ere we ever hope to charm them. 'Howbeit' (here his face Lightened around the place,- 'Something it is, to hold 'Whether that form respect 'Holy, in me and thee, Rose fallen from the tree,Though the world stand dumb around us, All unable to expound us. 'Though none us deign to bless, Blessed are we, nathless; Blessed still and consecrated, In that, rose, we were created. 'Oh, shame to poet's lays, Sung for the dole of praise,Hoarsely sung upon the highway With that obolum da mihi! 'Shame, shame to poet's soul When Heaven-chosen to inherit 'Sit still upon your thrones, And if, sooth, the world decry you, 'Ye to yourselves suffice, 'In prayers-that upward mount Like to a fair-sunned fount Which, in gushing back upon you, Hath an upper music won you. 'In faith-that still perceives No rose can shed her leaves, Far less, poet fall from mission, With an unfulfilled fruition. 'In hope that apprehends An end beyond these ends, And great uses rendered duly By the meanest song sung truly. 'In thanks for all the good By poets understoodFor the sound of seraphs moving Down the hidden depths of loving, 'For sights of things away Through fissures of the clay, Promised things which shall be given And sung over, up in Heaven,— 'For life, so lovely-vain, For death, which breaks the chain,For this sense of present sweetness,And this yearning to completeness! ' THE POET AND THE BIRD A FABLE I SAID a people to a poet-' Go out from among us straightway! While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of divine. There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the gateway, Makes fitter music to our ear than any song of thine!' II The poet went out weeping-the nightingale ceased chanting, 'Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness done?' -'I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet wanting, Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under sun.' III The poet went out weeping,—and died abroad, bereft there: The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand wails. And, when I last came by the place, THE CRY OF THE HUMAN I 'THERE is no God,' the foolish saith, But none 'There is no sorrow,' And nature oft the cry of faith In bitter need will borrow: Eyes, which the preacher could not school, By wayside graves are raised, And lips say 'God be pitiful,' Who ne'er said 'God be praised.' Be pitiful, O God! II The tempest stretches from the steep Yet, while the cloud-wheels roll and We spirits tremble under!The hills have echoes, but we find No answer for the thunder. III We meet together at the feast, Be pitiful, O God! We name delight, and pledge it round— The battle hurtles on the plains, Be pitiful, O God! We sit together, with the skies, 'And how long will you love us?'- Frank, obedient,-waiting still On the turnings of your will. Moving light, as all young things, As young birds, or early wheat, When the wind blows over it. Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measureTaking love for her chief pleasure. Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Which come softly-just as she, When she nestles at your knee. Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,- He would sing of her with falls He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, He would whisper-'You have done a And a dreamer (did you show him That same picture) would exclaim, |