Death, the lover of Life,
Frees us for ever.
Inevitable, silent, unseen,
Everywhere always,
Shadow by night and as light in the day,
Signs she at last to her chosen;
And, as she waves them forth,
Sorrow and Joy
Lay by their looks and their voices,
Set down their hopes, and are made
One in the dim Forever.
Into the winter’s grey delight,
Into the summer’s golden dream,
Holy and high and impartial,
Death, the mother of Life,
Mingles all men for ever.
When, as the kirks were ringing in,And the grey city teemedWith Sabbath feelings and aspects,LEWIS–our LEWIS then,Now the whole world’s–and you,Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,Laden with BALZACS(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),The first of many timesTo that transformed back-kitchen where I laySo long, so many centuries –Or years is it!–ago?Dear CHARLES,…
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,But I love him best of all.For his song is all of the joy of life,And we in the mad, spring weather,We two have listened till he sangOur hearts and lips together.
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,As in the tumult of a witches’ round.Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.The artist’s teeth gleam from his bearded lip.High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.The music reels and hurtles, and the nightIs full of stinks and cries; a…
Why does the great sea ebb and flow? –Why does the round world spin?Geraldine, Geraldine,Bid me my life renew:What is it worth unless I win,Love–love and you?Why, my heart, when we speak her name(Geraldine, Geraldine!)Throbs the word like a flinging flame? –Why does the Spring begin?Geraldine, Geraldine,Bid me indeed to be:Open your heart, and take…
A histrion angular and profound?A priest? a porter?–Child, althoughI have forgotten clean, I knowThat in the shade of Fujisan,What time the cherry-orchards blow,I loved you once in old Japan.As here you loiter, flowing-gownedAnd hugely sashed, with pins a-rowYour quaint head as with flamelets crowned,Demure, inviting–even so,When merry maids in MiyakoTo feel the sweet o’ the…
And own that, if her aspirates take their ease,She ever makes a point, in washing glass,Handling the engine, turning taps for tots,And countering change, and scorning what men say,Of posing as a dove among the pots,Nor often gives her dignity away.Her head’s a work of art, and, if her eyesBe tired and ignorant, she has…
