Was’t so with you, O Love and Scorn?
Sweet eyes that smiled,
Now wet and wild:
O Eye and Tear- mother and child.
Well: Love and Pain
Be kinfolks twain;
Yet would, Oh would I could Love again.
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Sometimes in morning sunlights by the river
Light winds from over the moorland sink and shiverAnd sigh as if just blown across a grave.And then I pause and listen to this sighing.I look with strange eyes on the well-known stream.I hear wild birth-cries uttered by the dying.I know men waking who appear to dream.Then from the water-lilies slow uprisesThe still vast face…
Through all that year-scarred agony of height,
His wandy circlet with his bladed bandsDividing every wind, or loud or light,To termless hymns of love and old despite,Yon tall palmetto in the twilight stands,Bare Dante of these purgatorial sandsThat glimmer marginal to the monstrous night.Comes him a Southwind from the scented vine,It breathes of Beatrice through all his blades,North, East or West, Guelph-wind…
In my sleep I was fain of their fellowship, fain
The little green leaves would not let me alone in my sleep;Up-breathed from the marshes, a message of range and of sweep,Interwoven with waftures of wild sea-liberties, drifting,Came through the lapped leaves sifting, sifting,Came to the gates of sleep.Then my thoughts, in the dark of the dungeon-keepOf the Castle of Captives hid in the City…
‘If life were caught by a clarionet,
Should thrill its joy and trill its fret,And utter its heart in every deed,‘Then would this breathing clarionetType what the poet fain would be;For none o’ the singers ever yetHas wholly lived his minstrelsy,‘Or clearly sung his true, true thought,Or utterly bodied forth his life,Or out of life and song has wroughtThe perfect one of…
‘To heal his heart of long-time pain
With Ministers Mind and Sense.`Now what to thee most strange may be?’Quoth Mind and Sense. `All things above,One curious thing I first would see —Hell,’ quoth Love.‘Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out:They searched the ways of man about.First frightfully groaneth Sense.`’Tis here, ’tis here,’ and spurreth in fearTo the top of the hill…
Down mildest shores of milk-white sand,
Twixt billowy pines — a surf asleep on land —And the great Gulf at play,Past far-off palms that filmed to nought,Or in and out the cunning keysThat laced the land like fragile patterns wroughtTo edge old broideries,The sail sighed on all day for joy,The prow each pouting wave did leaveAll smile and song, with sheen…