819. To Manon, on his Fortune in loving Her
It was Love Mine eyes were blind
DID not choose thee, dearest. That made the choice, not I. As a rude shepherd's who to some lone grove His offering brings and cares not at what shrine He bends his knee. The gifts alone were mine ; The rest was Love's. He took me by the hand, And fired the sacrifice, and poured the wine, And spoke the words I might not understand. I was unwise in all but the dear chance
Which was my fortune, and the blind desire Which led my foolish steps to Love's abode, And youth's sublime unreason'd prescience Which raised an altar and inscribed in fire Its dedication To the Unknown God.
St. Valentine's Day
"O-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave company
On this side in its glory lay the sea,
On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.
The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone, And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:
And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.
I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even Better than all by this, that through my chase In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven I seem'd to see and follow still your face.
Your face my quarry was. My horse a thing of wings,
For it I rode, myself a god.
EVEN weeks of sea, and twice seven days of storm Upon the huge Atlantic, and once more
We ride into still water and the calm
Of a sweet evening, screen'd by either shore Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are o'er, Our exile is accomplish'd. Once again We look on Europe, mistress as of yore Of the fair earth and of the hearts of men.
Ay, this is the famed rock which Hercules And Goth and Moor bequeath'd us. At this door England stands sentry. God! to hear the shrill Sweet treble of her fifes upon the breeze, And at the summons of the rock gun's roar To see her red coats marching from the hill!
WORLD, in truth thou art too young; When wilt thou learn to wear the garb of age ? World, with thy covering of yellow flowers, Hast thou forgot what generations sprung Out of thy loins and loved thee and are gone? Hast thou no place in all their heritage Where thou dost only weep, that I may come Nor fear the mockery of thy yellow flowers?
O world, in very truth thou art too young. The heroic wealth of passionate emprize Built thee fair cities for thy naked plains: How hast thou set thy summer growth among
The broken stones which were their palaces! Hast thou forgot the darkness where he lies Who made thee beautiful, or have thy bees Found out his grave to build their honeycombs ?
O world, in very truth thou art too young: They gave thee love who measured out thy skies, And, when they found for thee another star, Who made a festival and straightway hung The jewel on thy neck. O merry world, Hast thou forgot the glory of those eyes Which first look'd love in thine? Thou hast not furl'd One banner of thy bridal car for them.
O world, in very truth thou art too young. There was a voice which sang about thy spring, Till winter froze the sweetness of his lips, And lo, the worms had hardly left his tongue Before thy nightingales were come again. O world, what courage hast thou thus to sing? Say, has thy merriment no secret pain,
No sudden weariness that thou art young?
The Two Highwaymen
LONG have had a quarrel set with Time Because he robb'd me. Every day of life Was wrested from me after bitter strife: I never yet could see the sun go down But I was angry in my heart, nor hear The leaves fall in the wind without a tear Over the dying summer. I have known
No truce with Time nor Time's accomplice, Death.
The fair world is the witness of a crime Repeated every hour. For life and breath Are sweet to all who live; and bitterly The voices of these robbers of the heath Sound in each ear and chill the passer-by.
-What have we done to thee, thou monstrous Time? What have we done to Death that we must die?
A Garden Song
HERE in this sequester'd close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose,
Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach and apricot and fig Here will ripen and grow big; Here is store and overplus,— More had not Alcinous !
Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,— Now that mood and moment please,- Find the fair Pierides!
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honour'd dust, I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky; I shall not hear the night-wind sigh; I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!
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