To woo an immortal,
Cold, cold the moon’s light
For sleep at this portal,
Bold lover of night.
Fair is the mortal
In soft, silken white,
Who seeks an immortal.
Ah, lover of night,
Be warned at the portal,
And save thee in flight!
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All that I had I brought,
A poor rhyme roughly wrought,A rose to match thy snow:All that I had I brought.Little enough I sought:But a word compassionate,A passing glance, or thought,For me outside the gate:Little enough I sought.Little enough I found:All that you had, perchance!With the dead leaves on the ground,I dance the devil’s dance.All that you had I found.
See how the trees and the osiers lithe
The meadows have donned their cape of flowers,The air is soft with the sweet May showers,And the birds make melody:But the spring of the soul, the spring of the soul,Cometh no more for you or for me.The lazy hum of the busy beesMurmureth through the almond trees;The jonquil flaunteth a gay, blonde head,The primrose peeps…
When this, our rose, is faded,
In lands profoundly shadedFrom tempest and from sun:Ah, once more come together,Shall we forgive the past,And safe from worldly weatherPossess our souls at last?Or in our place of shadowsShall still we stretch an handTo green, remembered meadows,Of that old pleasant land?And vainly there foregathered,Shall we regret the sun?The rose of love, ungathered?The bay, we have…
Strange grows the river on the sunless evenings!
Long was the day; at last the consoling shadows come:_Sufficient for the day are the day’s evil things!_Labour and longing and despair the long day brings;Patient till evening men watch the sun go west;Deferred, expected night at last brings sleep and rest:_Sufficient for the day are the day’s evil things!_At last the tranquil Angelus of…
Because I am idolotrous and have besought
The admirable image that my love has wroughtOut of her swan’s neck and her dark, abundant hair:The jealous gods who brook no worship save their own,Turned my live idol marble and her heart to stone.
Let be at last; give over words and sighing,
Better at last to find a place for lying,Only dead.Silence were best, with songs and sighing over;Now be the music mute;Now let the dead, red leaves of autumn coverA vain lute.Silence is best: for ever and for ever,We will go down and sleep,Somewhere beyond her ken, where she need neverCome to weep.Let be at last:…