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m life should teach me this,

life shall live for evermore,.

earth is darkness at the core, and ashes all that is;

of green, this orb of flame, astic beauty; such as lurks me wild Poet, when he works conscience or an aim.

were God to such as I?

re hardly worth my while to choose

ings all mortal, or to use

tience ere I die;

st at once to sink to peace,

birds the charming serpent draws,

rop head-foremost in the jaws

darkness and to cease.

XXXV.

YET if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow hou

The cheeks drop in; the body bows Man dies nor is there hope in dust :

Might I not say, yet even here,

But for one hour, O Love, I strive

To keep so sweet a thing alive? But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea,

The sound of streams that swift or slo

Draw down Eonian hills, and sow

The dust of continents to be;

And Love would answer with a sigh,

The sound of that forgetful shore

Will change my sweetness more and m Half dead to know that I shall die.'

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-hat profits it to put

dle case? If Death were seen irst as Death, Love had not been, in narrowest working shut,

owship of sluggish moods,

In his coarsest Satyr-shape

bruised the herb and crush'd the grape,

'd and batten'd in the woods.

XXXVI.

THO' truths in manhood darkly join,
Deep-seated in our mystic frame,

We yield all blessing to the name
Of Him that made them current coin;

For wisdom dealt with mortal powers,

Where Truth in closest words shall fai

When Truth embodied in a tale

Shall enter in at lowly doors.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought

With human hands the creed of creeds

In loveliness of perfect deeds,

More strong than all poetic thought;

Which he may read that binds the sheaf,

Or builds the house, or digs the grave,

And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef.

XXXVII.

URANIA speaks with darken'd brow :

'Thou pratest here where thou art least ;

This faith has many a purer priest,

And many an abler voice than thou:

Go down beside thy native rill,

On thy Parnassus set thy feet,

And hear thy laurel whisper sweet

About the ledges of the hill.'

And my Melpomene replies,

A touch of shame upon her cheek:

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I am not worthy but to speak

Of thy prevailing mysteries;

For I am but an earthly Muse,

And owning but a little art

To lull with song an aching heart,

And render human love his dues ;

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