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OH for a voice that in a single song
Could quiver with the hopes and moan the fears
And speak the speechless secret of the years,
And rise, and sink, and at the last be strong!
Oh for a trumpet-call to stir the throng
Of doubtful fighting-men, whose eyes and ears
Watch till a banner in the East appears
And the skies ring that have been still so long!
O age of mine, if one could tune for thee
A marching music out of this thy woe!
If one could climb upon a hill and see
Thy gates of promise on the plain below,
And gaze a minute on the bliss to be
And knowing it be satisfied to know!

WOMAN whose familiar face I hold

In my most sacred thought as in a shrine, Who in my memories art become divine Dost thou remember now those years of old When out of all thine own life thou didst mould This life and breathe thy heart in this of mine, Winning, for faith in that fair work of thine, To rest and be in heaven?—Alas, behold!Another woman coming after thee Hath had small pity,—with a wanton kiss Hath quite consumed my heart and ruined this The life that was thy work: O Mother, see; Thou hast lived all in vain, done all amiss; Come down from heaven again, and die with me!


THIS is the glamour of the world antique;

| The thyme-scents of Hymettus fill the air And in the grass narcissus-cups are fair. The full brook wanders through the ferns to seek The amber haunts of bees and on the peak Of the soft hill, against the gold-marged sky, She stands, a dream from out the days gone by. Entreat her not. Indeed she will not speak. Her eyes are full of dreams and in her ears There is the rustle of immortal wings; And ever and anon the slow breeze bears The mystic murmur of the song she sings. Entreat her not: she sees thee not nor hears Aught but the sights and sounds of bygone Springs.


FAIR angel, I have sought thee many a day,
Through many mingling ways of smiles and tears,
And watched thy shadow flutter throu gh the years.
Ay, evermore, the outline cool and grey
Of thy soft pinions on the landscape lay,
Softening the mocking sunlight and the spears
Of the cold silver moon; and still, with ears
Eager and strained, I listened for the sway
Of thy wide wings across the trembling air.
Ah! never to my sight thy presence came,
Nor in the midnight nor the noonday's flame;
But on the ecstasy of my despair,
Worn down to silence, falls the shade the same,
A far faint angel with outfluttering hair.


IS there no sweetness save of ripened fruit?
Lies all men's gladness in fulfilled desire?
Is no flame blander than fruition's fire,
That with swift flowerage burns away its root?
Life passes by, and still my heart is mute.
Day follows night; and yet the sky no nigher
Leans to my hope. Shall all my days expire
And all my soul grow grey with the pursuit?
Shall life waste alway in this torrid blast
Of unstayed passion? Oh! it cannot be
But that some day the spirit shall have cast
Its slough of lusts, that in some luminous sea
Surely a man's desire shall purged be,
Surely the early peace come back at last.

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