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Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?
What love was ever as deep as a grave?

They are loveless now as the grass above them,

Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers,

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers

In the air now soft with a summer to be.

Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter,
We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again forever;

Here change may come not till all change end.

From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,
Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing

Roll the sea;

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,

Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.

A MATCH.

IF love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf,
Our lives would grow together
In sad or singing weather,
Blown fields or flowerful closes,

Green pleasure or gray grief:
If love were what the rose is,
And I were like the leaf.

If I were what the words are,

And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are

That get sweet rain at noon; If I were what the words are

And love were like the tune.

If you were life, my darling.
And I your love were death,
We'd shine and snow together
Ere March made sweet the weather
With daffodil and starling

And hours of fruitful breath;
If you were life, my darling,
And I your love were death.

If you were thrall to sorrow,

And I were page to joy,
We'd play for lives and seasons,
With loving looks and treasons
And tears of night and morrow,
And laughs of maid and boy;
If you were thrall to sorrow.
And I were page to joy.

If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours. And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day; If you were April's lady,

And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.

FROM" CHRISTMAS ANTIPHONES."

IN CHURCH.

THOU whose birth on earth Angels sang to men, While thy stars made mirth, Saviour, at thy birth,

This day born again;

As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very Light of light,
Turn the wild world's night
To thy perfect day.

God, whose feet made sweet Those wild ways they trod, From thy fragrant feet Staining field and street With the blood of God;

God, whose breast is rest In the time of strife, In thy secret breast Sheltering souls opprest

From the heat of life;

God, whose eyes are skies,
Love-lit as with spheres,
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes,
Orbed lights of tears;

God, whose heart hath part
In all grief that is,
Was not man's the dart
That went through thine heart,
And the wound not his ?

Where the pale souls wail,

Held in bonds of death, Where all spirits quail, Came thy Godhead pale

Still from human breath,

Pale from life and strife,

Wan with manhood, came Forth of mortal life, Pierced as with a knife, Scarred as with a flame.

Thou, the Word and Lord In all time and space Heard, beheld, adored, With all ages poured

Forth before thy face;

Lord, what worth in earth

Drew thee down to die? What therein was worth, Lord, thy death and birth ? What beneath thy sky?

Light, above all love,

By thy love was lit,

And brought down the dove Feathered from above

With the wings of it.

From the height of night, Was not thine the star That led forth with might By no worldly light

Wise men from afar?

Yet the wise men's eyes

Saw thee not more clear Than they saw thee rise Who in shepherd's guise

Drew as poor men near.

Yet thy poor endure,

And are with us yet; Be thy name a sure Refuge for thy poor Whom men's eyes forget.

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Nor, though the sun of day be shrouded quite,

Swerve from the narrow path to left or right.

ON THE HILL-SIDE.

THE winds behind me in the thicket sigh,

The bees fly droning on laborious wing,

Pink cloudlets scarcely float across the sky.

September stillness broods o'er everything.

Deep peace is in my soul: I seem to hear

Catullus murmuring, "Let us live and love;

Suns rise and set, and fill the rolling year

Which bears us deathward, therefore let us love;

Pour forth the wine of kisses, let them flow,

And let us drink our fill before we die."

Hush! in the thicket still the breezes blow; [sky; Pink cloudlets sail across the azure The bees warp lazily on laden wing;

Beauty and stillness brood o'er everything.

THE WILL.

BLAME not the times in which we

live.

Nor Fortune frail and fugitive; Blame not thy parents, nor the rule Of vice or wrong once learned at school;

But blame thyself, O man!

Although both heaven and earth combined

To mould thy flesh and form thy

mind,

Though every thought, word, action,

will,

Was framed by powers beyond thee,

still

Thou art thyself, O man!

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