Are like the voices of returning birds
Filling the soul with summer, or a bell
That calls the weary and the sick to prayer.
Even as thy thought, so let thy speech be fair.
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All day upon the garden bright
But in my heart there is no light,Or any song.Voices of merry life go by,Adown the street;But I am weary of the cryAnd drift of feet.With all dear things that ought to pleaseThe hours are blessed,And yet my soul is ill at ease,And cannot rest.Strange spirit, leave me not too long,Nor stint to give,For if…
Oh ye, who found in men’s brief ways no sign
Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true,Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line,Seeing before you that divine face shine;Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few,Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you,White souls whose beauty made their world divine:Yet still across life’s tangled storms we see,Following…
From plains that reel to southward, dim,
Up the steep hill it seems to swimBeyond, and melt into the glare.Upward half-way, or it may beNearer the summit, slowly stealsA hay-cart, moving dustilyWith idly clacking wheels.By his cart’s side the wagonerIs slouching slowly at his ease,Half-hidden in the windless blurOf white dust puffiing to his knees.This wagon on the height above,From sky to…
One moment, the slim cloudflakes seem to lean
And longing lips set downward brighteningTo take the last sweet hand kiss of the king,Gone down beyond the closing west acold;Paying no reverence to the slender queen,That like a curved olive leaf of goldHangs low in heaven, rounded toward sun,Or the small stars that one by one unfoldDown the gray border of the night begun.
Broad shadows fall. On all the mountain side
By the long beach the high-piled hay-carts come,Splashing the pale salt shallows. Over wideFawn-coloured wastes of mud the slipping tide,Round the dun rocks and wattled fisheries,Creeps murmuring in. And now by twos and threes,O’er the slow spreading pools with clamorous chide,Belated crows from strip to strip take flight.Soon will the first star shine; yet ere…
The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side
Serene and gently smiling like the eyesOf tender children long beatified,The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glideLike sparks of fire above the wavering grass,And swing and toss with all the airs that pass,Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown,I scarce can think of pleasure without these.Even to dream of them…