IV.

I have known some bitter things,-
Anguish, anger, solitude.

Year by year an evil brings,
Year by year denies a good;
March winds violate my springs.

V.

I have known how sickness bends,
I have known how sorrow breaks,-
How quick hopes have sudden ends,
How the heart thinks till it aches
Of the smile of buried friends.

VI.

Last, I have known thee, my brave
Noble thinker, lover, doer!
The best knowledge last I have.
But thou comest as the thrower
Of fresh flowers upon a grave.

VII.

Count what feelings used to move me! Can this love assort with those?

Thou, who art so far above me,

Wilt thou stoop so, for repose? Is it true that thou canst love me?

VIII.

Do not blame me if I doubt thee.
I can call love by its name
When thine arm is wrapt about me;
But even love seems not the same,
When I sit alone, without thee.

IX.

In thy clear eyes I descried
Many a proof of love, to-day;
But to-night, those unbelied
Speechful eyes being gone away,
There's the proof to seek, beside.

X.

Dost thou love me, my belovéd?
Only thou canst answer yes!
And, thou gone, the proof's disprovéd,
And the cry rings answerless-
Dost thou love me, my belovéd?

INCLUSIONS.

I.

Оn, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in

thine?

As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie

and pine.

...

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, . . . unfit to plight with thine.

II.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by man tear run down.

Now leave a little space, Dear, . . lest it should

thine own.

III.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul?—

Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand,.. the part is in the whole!

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

INSUFFICIENCY.

I.

THERE is no one beside thee and no one above thee, Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings! And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,

For none can express thee though all should approve thee.

I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

II.

Say, what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee? Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?

Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad? Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve thee. I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

FROM

SONNETS

THE PORTUGUESE.

I.

I THOUGHT Once how Theocritus had sung
Of the sweet years, the dear and wished for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears
To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair,
And a voice said in mastery while I strove, . .
'Guess now who holds thee?'-'Death,' I said.
But, there,

The silver answer rang.. 'Not Death, but Love.'

Of which, no more. But never say 'no more'
To Italy's life. Her memories undismayed
Still argue 'evermore,'-her graves implore
Her future to be strong and not afraid;
Her very statues send their looks before.

We do not serve the dead-the past is past!
God lives, and lifts his glorious mornings up
Before the eyes of men, awake at last,
Who put away the meats they used to sup.
And down upon the dust of earth outcast
The dregs remaining of the ancient cup,

Then turn to wakeful prayer and worthy act.
The dead, upon their awful 'vantage ground,

The sun not in their faces,-shall abstract No more our strength: we will not be discrowned As guardians of their crowns; nor deign transact A barter of the present, for a sound

Of good, so counted in the foregone days.

O Dead, ye shall no longer cling to us

With rigid hands of dessiccating praise, And drag us backward by the garment thus,

To stand and laud you in long-drawn virelays!

We will not henceforth be oblivious

Of our own lives, because ye lived before,

Nor of our acts, because ye acted well.

We thank you that ye first unlatched the door,

But will not make it inaccessible

By thankings on the threshold any more.

We hurry onward to extinguish hell

With our fresh souls, our younger hope, and God's Maturity of purpose. Soon shall we

Die also! and, that then our periods

Of life may round themselves to memory,