Quotes by Robert Bridges

And thou, O lover, that art on the watch, Where, on the banks of the forgetful streams, The pale indifferent ghosts wander, and snatch The sweeter moments of their broken dreams,-- Thou, when the torchlight gleams, When thou shalt see the slow procession, And when thine ears the fitful music catch, Rejoice, for thou art near to thy possession. 15 RONDEAU His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips In juice of plants that no bee sips, He takes, and with his bow renown'd Goes out upon his hunting ground, Hanging his quiver at his hips. He draws them one by one, and clips Their heads between his finger-tips, And looses with a twanging sound His poisoned shafts. But if a maiden with her lips Suck from the wound the blood that drips, And drink the poison from the wound, The simple remedy is found That of their deadly terror strips His poisoned shafts. 16 TRIOLET When first we met we did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master; Of more than common friendliness When first we met we did not guess. Who could foretell this sore distress, This irretrievable disaster When first we met?--We did not guess That Love would prove so hard a master. 17 TRIOLET All women born are so perverse No man need boast their love possessing. If nought seem better, nothing's worse: All women born are so perverse. From Adam's wife, that proved a curse Though God had made her for a blessing, All women born are so perverse No man need boast their love possessing. BOOK II TO THE MEMORY OF G. M. H. 1 MUSE. Will Love again awake, That lies asleep so long? POET. O hush! ye tongues that shake The drowsy night with song. MUSE. It is a lady fair Whom once he deigned to praise, That at the door doth dare Her sad complaint to raise. POET.

With gentle flaws the western breeze Into the garden saileth, Scarce here and there stirring the single trees, For his sharpness he vaileth: So long a comrade of the bearded corn, Now from the stubbles whence the shocks are borne, O'er dewy lawns he turns to stray, As mindful of the kisses and soft play Wherewith he enamoured the light-hearted May, Ere he deserted her; Lover of fragrance, and too late repents; Nor more of heavy hyacinth now may drink, Nor spicy pink, Nor summer's rose, nor garnered lavender, But the few lingering scents Of streakèd pea, and gillyflower, and stocks Of courtly purple, and aromatic phlox. And at all times to hear are drowsy tones Of dizzy flies, and humming drones, With sudden flap of pigeon wings in the sky, Or the wild cry Of thirsty rooks, that scour ascare The distant blue, to watering as they fare With creaking pinions, or--on business bent, If aught their ancient polity displease,-- Come gathering to their colony, and there Settling in ragged parliament, Some stormy council hold in the high trees. 5 So sweet love seemed that April morn, When first we kissed beside the thorn, So strangely sweet, it was not strange We thought that love could never change. But I can tell--let truth be told-- That love will change in growing old; Though day by day is nought to see, So delicate his motions be. And in the end 'twill come to pass Quite to forget what once he was, Nor even in fancy to recall The pleasure that was all in all. His little spring, that sweet we found, So deep in summer floods is drowned, I wonder, bathed in joy complete, How love so young could be so sweet. 6 LARKS What voice of gladness, hark! In heaven is ringing? From the sad fields the lark Is upward winging. High through the mournful mist that blots our day Their songs betray them soaring in the grey. See them! Nay, they In sunlight swim; above the furthest stain Of cloud attain; their hearts in music rain Upon the plain. Sweet birds, far out of sight Your songs of pleasure Dome us with joy as bright As heaven's best azure.

Ye lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires: That are my soul herself in pangs sublime Rising and flying to heaven before her time: What doth tempt you forth To drown in the south or shiver in the frosty north? What seek ye or find ye in your random flying, Ever soaring aloft, soaring and dying? Joy, the joy of flight! They hide in the sun, they flare and dance in the night; Gone up, gone out of sight: and ever again Follow fresh tongues of fire, fresh pangs of pain. Ah! they burn my soul, The fires, devour my soul that once was whole: She is scattered in fiery phantoms day by day, But whither, whither? ay whither? away, away! Could I but control These vague desires, these leaping flames of the soul: Could I but quench the fire: ah! could I stay My soul that flieth, alas, and dieth away! 2 LONDON SNOW When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, 'O look at the trees!

Their mighty offerings at thy shrine Shamed me, who nothing bore Their suits were mockeries of mine, I sued for so much more. Full many I met that crowned with bay In triumph home returned, And many a master on the way Proud of the prize I scorned. I wished no garland on my head Nor treasure in my hand; My gift the longing that me led, My prayer thy high command, My love, my muse; and when I spake Thou mad'st me thine that day, And more than hundred hearts could take Gav'st me to bear away. 11 Love on my heart from heaven fell, Soft as the dew on flowers of spring, Sweet as the hidden drops that swell Their honey-throated chalicing. Now never from him do I part, Hosanna evermore I cry: I taste his savour in my heart, And bid all praise him as do I. Without him noughtsoever is, Nor was afore, nor e'er shall be: Nor any other joy than his Wish I for mine to comfort me. 12 The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May. But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier. A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak. Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling: And the shadowy pine-trees sighed. 13 THE WINDMILL The green corn waving in the dale, The ripe grass waving on the hill: I lean across the paddock pale And gaze upon the giddy mill. Its hurtling sails a mighty sweep Cut thro' the air: with rushing sound Each strikes in fury down the steep, Rattles, and whirls in chase around. Beside his sacks the miller stands On high within the open door: A book and pencil in his hands, His grist and meal he reckoneth o'er. His tireless merry slave the wind Is busy with his work to-day: From whencesoe'er, he comes to grind; He hath a will and knows the way.

Now dewy nights again and rain in gentle shower At root of tree and flower have quenched the winter's drouth: On high the hot sun smiles, and banks of cloud uptower In bulging heads that crowd for miles the dazzling south. 7 Gáy Róbin is seen no more: He is gone with the snow, For winter is o'er And Robin will go. In need he was fed, and now he is fled Away to his secret nest. No more will he stand Begging for crumbs, No longer he comes Beseeching our hand And showing his breast At window and door:-- Gay Robin is seen no more. Blithe Robin is heard no more: He gave us his song When summer was o'er And winter was long: He sang for his bread and now he is fled Away to his secret nest. And there in the green Early and late Alone to his mate He pipeth unseen And swelleth his breast; For us it is o'er:-- Blithe Robin is heard no more. 8 Spring goeth all in white, Crowned with milk-white may: In fleecy flocks of light O'er heaven the white clouds stray: White butterflies in the air; White daisies prank the ground: The cherry and hoary pear Scatter their snow around. 9 My eyes for beauty pine, My soul for Goddës grace: No other care nor hope is mine; To heaven I turn my face. One splendour thence is shed From all the stars above: 'Tis namèd when God's name is said, 'Tis Love, 'tis heavenly Love. And every gentle heart, That burns with true desire, Is lit from eyes that mirror part Of that celestial fire. 10 O Love, my muse, how was't for me Among the best to dare, In thy high courts that bowed the knee With sacrifice and prayer? Their mighty offerings at thy shrine Shamed me, who nothing bore Their suits were mockeries of mine, I sued for so much more. Full many I met that crowned with bay In triumph home returned, And many a master on the way Proud of the prize I scorned.

With brightest visions our fond hopes repair, Or crown our melancholy with despair; From death, still death, still would a comfort come: Since of this world the essential joy must fall In all distributed, in each thing some, In nothing all, and all complete in all; Till pleasure, ageing to her full increase, Puts on perfection, and is throned in peace. Yea, sweetest peace, unsought-for, undesired, Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here: Though in most black habiliments attired, Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear. Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sit And praise the annihilation of the pit. Nor quickly disenchanted will my feet Back to the busy town return, but yet Linger, ere I my loving friends would greet, Or touch their hands, or share without regret The warmth of that kind hearth, whose sacred ties Only shall dim with tears my dying eyes. 11 DEJECTION Wherefore to-night so full of care, My soul, revolving hopeless strife, Pointing at hindrance, and the bare Painful escapes of fitful life? Shaping the doom that may befall By precedent of terror past: By love dishonoured, and the call Of friendship slighted at the last? By treasured names, the little store That memory out of wreck could save Of loving hearts, that gone before Call their old comrade to the grave? O soul, be patient: thou shall find A little matter mend all this; Some strain of music to thy mind, Some praise for skill not spent amiss. Again shall pleasure overflow Thy cup with sweetness, thou shalt taste Nothing but sweetness, and shalt grow Half sad for sweetness run to waste. O happy life! I hear thee sing, O rare delight of mortal stuff! I praise my days for all they bring, Yet are they only not enough. 12 MORNING HYMN O golden Sun, whose ray My path illumineth: Light of the circling day, Whose night is birth and death: That dost not stint the prime Of wise and strong, nor stay The changeful ordering time, That brings their sure decay: Though thou, the central sphere, Dost seem to turn around Thy creature world, and near As father fond art found; Thereon, as from above To shine, and make rejoice With beauty, life, and love, The garden of thy choice, To dress the jocund Spring With bounteous promise gay Of hotter months, that bring The full perfected day; To touch with richest gold The ripe fruit, ere it fall; And smile through cloud and cold On Winter's funeral.

54 Since not the enamour'd sun with glance more fond Kisses the foliage of his sacred tree, Than doth my waking thought arise on thee, Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond; Nay, since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bond Is writ my promise of eternity; Since to such high hope thou'st encouraged me, That if thou look but from me I despond; Since thou'rt my all in all, O think of this: Think of the dedication of my youth: Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss: Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth, My sheer annihilation if I miss: Think--if thou shouldst be false--think of thy truth. 55 These meagre rhymes, which a returning mood Sometimes o'errateth, I as oft despise; And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude, See them as others with contemptuous eyes. Nay, and I wonder less at God's respect For man, a minim jot in time and space, Than at the soaring faith of His elect, That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace. O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love, Most infinitely tender, so to touch The work that we can meanly reckon of: Surely--I say--we are favour'd overmuch. But of this wonder, what doth most amaze Is that we know our love is held for praise. 56 Beauty sat with me all the summer day, Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye; Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by, Love in her train stood ready for his prey. She, as too proud to join herself the fray, Trusting too much to her divine ally, When she saw victory tarry, chid him--'Why Dost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?' Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee, Told of our ancient truce: so from the fight We straight withdrew our forces, all the three. Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flight Scheming new tactics: Love came home with me, And prompts my measured verses as I write. 57 In autumn moonlight, when the white air wan Is fragrant in the wake of summer hence, 'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereon In melancholy and godlike indolence: When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal prime To fond pretence of immortality, Vieweth all moments from the birth of time, All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent, The ruin of old life is full of yearning, Mingling poetic rapture of lament With flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning; Only in visions of the white air wan By godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

Heracleitus, spending his youth In search of wisdom, had less of truth. Flame of fire was the poet's desire: The thinker found that life was fire. O my love! my song is done: My kiss hath both their fires in one. 8 To my love I whisper, and say Knowest thou why I love thee?--Nay: Nay, she saith; O tell me again.-- When in her ear the secret I tell, She smileth with joy incredible-- Ha! she is vain--O nay-- Then tell us!--Nay, O nay. But this is in my heart, That Love is Nature's perfect art, And man hath got his fancy hence, To clothe his thought in forms of sense. Fair are thy works, O man, and fair Thy dreams of soul in garments rare, Beautiful past compare, Yea, godlike when thou hast the skill To steal a stir of the heavenly thrill: But O, have care, have care! 'Tis envious even to dare: And many a fiend is watching well To flush thy reed with the fire of hell. 9 My delight and thy delight Walking, like two angels white, In the gardens of the night: My desire and thy desire Twining to a tongue of fire, Leaping live, and laughing higher; Thro' the everlasting strife In the mystery of life. * * * Love, from whom the world begun, Hath the secret of the sun. Love can tell, and love alone, Whence the million stars were strewn, Why each atom knows its own, How, in spite of woe and death, Gay is life, and sweet is breath: This he taught us, this we knew, Happy in his science true, Hand in hand as we stood Neath the shadows of the wood, Heart to heart as we lay In the dawning of the day. 10 SEPTUAGESIMA Now all the windows with frost are blinded, As punctual day with greedy smile Lifts like a Cyclops evil-minded His ruddy eyeball over the isle. In an hour 'tis paled, in an hour ascended A dazzling light in the cloudless grey. Steel is the ice; the snow unblended Is trod to dust on the white highway.

Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hid A million buds but stay their blossoming; And trustful birds have built their nests amid The shuddering boughs, and only wait to sing Till one soft shower from the south shall bid, And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring. 7 In thee my spring of life hath bid the while A rose unfold beyond the summer's best, The mystery of joy made manifest In love's self-answering and awakening smile, Whereby the lips in wonder reconcile Passion with peace, and show desire at rest,-- A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst, That bloom'd to immortalize the Tuscan style: When first the angel-song that faith hath ken'd Fancy pourtray'd, above recorded oath Of Israel's God, or light of poem pen'd; The very countenance of plighted troth 'Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blend The hope of one and happiness of both. 8 For beauty being the best of all we know Sums up the unsearchable and secret aims Of nature, and on joys whose earthly names Were never told can form and sense bestow; And man hath sped his instinct to outgo The step of science; and against her shames Imagination stakes out heavenly claims, Building a tower above the head of woe. Nor is there fairer work for beauty found Than that she win in nature her release From all the woes that in the world abound: Nay with his sorrow may his love increase, If from man's greater need beauty redound, And claim his tears for homage of his peace. 9 Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look, That late dismay'd her faithless faith forbore; And wins again her love lost in the lore Of schools and script of many a learned book: For thou what ruthless death untimely took Shalt now in better brotherhood restore, And save my batter'd ship that far from shore High on the dismal deep in tempest shook. So in despite of sorrow lately learn'd I still hold true to truth since thou art true, Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'd: Nor come the heavenly sun and bathing blue To my life's need more splendid and unearn'd Than hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.

By day no sun appeared; by night The hidden moon shed thievish light In the misty air. We fed the birds that flew around In flocks to be fed: No shelter in holly or brake they found. The speckled thrush on the frozen ground Lay frozen and dead. We skated on stream and pond; we cut The crinching snow To Doric temple or Arctic hut; We laughed and sang at nightfall, shut By the fireside glow. Yet grudged we our keen delights before Maurice should come. We said, In-door or out-of-door We shall love life for a month or more, When he is home. They brought him home; 'twas two days late For Christmas day: Wrapped in white, in solemn state, A flower in his hand, all still and straight Our Maurice lay. And two days ere the year outgave We laid him low. The best of us truly were not brave, When we laid Maurice down in his grave Under the snow. 12 NIGHTINGALES Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom Ye learn your song: Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air Bloom the year long! Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, A throe of the heart, Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, For all our art. Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, As night is withdrawn From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, Dream, while the innumerable choir of day Welcome the dawn. 13 A song of my heart, as the sun peered o'er the sea, Was born at morning to me: And out of my treasure-house it chose A melody, that arose Of all fair sounds that I love, remembered together In one; and I knew not whether From waves of rustling wheat it was, Recoveringly that pass: Or a hum of bees in the queenly robes of the lime: Or a descant in pairing time Of warbling birds: or watery bells Of rivulets in the hills: Or whether on blazing downs a high lark's hymn Alone in the azure dim: Or a sough of pines, when the midnight wold Is solitary and cold: Or a lapping river-ripple all day chiding The bow of my wherry gliding Down Thames, between his flowery shores Re-echoing to the oars: Or anthem notes, wherever in archèd quires The unheeded music twires, And, centuries by, to the stony shade Flies following and to fade: Or a homely prattle of children's voices gay 'Mong garden joys at play: Or a sundown chaunting of solemn rooks: Or memory of my books, Which hold the words that poets in many a tongue To the irksome world have sung: Or the voice, my happy lover, of thee Now separated from me.

if it were only for thee, thou restless ocean Of waves that follow and roar, the sweep of the tides; Wer't only for thee, impetuous wind, whose motion Precipitate all o'errides, and turns, nor abides: For you sad birds and fair, Or only for thee, bleak cliff, erect in the air; Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature. But far away, I think, in the Thames valley, The silent river glides by flowery banks: And birds sing sweetly in branches that arch an alley Of cloistered trees, moss-grown in their ancient ranks: Where if a light air stray, 'Tis laden with hum of bees and scent of may. Love and peace be thine, O spirit, for ever: Serve thy sweet desire: despise endeavour. And if it were only for thee, entrancèd river, That scarce dost rock the lily on her airy stem, Or stir a wave to murmur, or a rush to quiver; Wer't but for the woods, and summer asleep in them: For you my bowers green, My hedges of rose and woodbine, with walks between, Then well could I read wisdom in every feature, O well should I understand the voice of Nature. 4 ON A DEAD CHILD Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee. Thy mother's treasure wert thou;--alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father's pride;--ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger. To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty. Thy hand clasps, as 'twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if 'Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it. So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,-- Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!-- Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.

There in the summer evening I would bedeck the moon; I would float down and screen her From the sun's rays at noon; And if her flowers should languish, Or wither in the drought Upon her tall white lilies I'd pour my heart's blood out: So if she wore one only, And shook not out the rain, Were I a cloud, O cloudlet, I had not lived in vain. [_A cloud speaks._ A CLOUD. But were I thou, O ocean, I would not chafe and fret As thou, because a limit To thy desires is set. I would be blue, and gentle, Patient, and calm, and see If my smiles might not tempt her, My love, to come to me. I'd make my depths transparent, And still, that she should lean O'er the boat's edge to ponder The sights that swam between. I would command strange creatures, Of bright hue and quick fin, To stir the water near her, And tempt her bare arm in. I'd teach her spend the summer With me: and I can tell, That, were I thou, O ocean, My love should love me well. * * * But on the mad cloud scudded, The breeze it blew so stiff; And the sad ocean bellowed, And pounded at the cliff. 5 I heard a linnet courting His lady in the spring: His mates were idly sporting, Nor stayed to hear him sing His song of love.-- I fear my speech distorting His tender love. The phrases of his pleading Were full of young delight; And she that gave him heeding Interpreted aright His gay, sweet notes,-- So sadly marred in the reading,-- His tender notes. And when he ceased, the hearer Awaited the refrain, Till swiftly perching nearer He sang his song again, His pretty song:-- Would that my verse spake clearer His tender song! Ye happy, airy creatures! That in the merry spring Think not of what misfeatures Or cares the year may bring; But unto love Resign your simple natures, To tender love. 6 Dear lady, when thou frownest, And my true love despisest, And all thy vows disownest That sealed my venture wisest; I think thy pride's displeasure Neglects a matchless treasure Exceeding price and measure.

2 LONDON SNOW When men were all asleep the snow came flying, In large white flakes falling on the city brown, Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; Hiding difference, making unevenness even, Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. All night it fell, and when full inches seven It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: The eye marvelled--marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder, 'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!' With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, Following along the white deserted way, A country company long dispersed asunder: When now already the sun, in pale display Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: But even for them awhile no cares encumber Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. 3 THE VOICE OF NATURE I stand on the cliff and watch the veiled sun paling A silver field afar in the mournful sea, The scourge of the surf, and plaintive gulls sailing At ease on the gale that smites the shuddering lea: Whose smile severe and chaste June never hath stirred to vanity, nor age defaced.

She must be fair of face, As bold of heart she seems, If she would match her grace With the delight of dreams. MUSE. Her beauty would surprise Gazers on Autumn eves, Who watched the broad moon rise Upon the scattered sheaves. POET. O sweet must be the voice He shall descend to hear, Who doth in Heaven rejoice His most enchanted ear. MUSE. The smile, that rests to play Upon her lip, foretells What musical array Tricks her sweet syllables POET. And yet her smiles have danced In vain, if her discourse Win not the soul entranced In divine intercourse. MUSE. She will encounter all This trial without shame, Her eyes men Beauty call, And Wisdom is her name. POET. Throw back the portals then, Ye guards, your watch that keep, Love will awake again That lay so long asleep. 2 A PASSER-BY Whither, O splendid ship, thy white sails crowding, Leaning across the bosom of the urgent West, That fearest nor sea rising, nor sky clouding, Whither away, fair rover, and what thy quest? Ah! soon, when Winter has all our vales opprest, When skies are cold and misty, and hail is hurling, Wilt thóu glíde on the blue Pacific, or rest In a summer haven asleep, thy white sails furling. I there before thee, in the country that well thou knowest, Already arrived am inhaling the odorous air: I watch thee enter unerringly where thou goest, And anchor queen of the strange shipping there, Thy sails for awnings spread, thy masts bare; Nor is aught from the foaming reef to the snow-capped, grandest Peak, that is over the feathery palms more fair Than thou, so upright, so stately, and still thou standest. And yet, O splendid ship, unhailed and nameless, I know not if, aiming a fancy, I rightly divine That thou hast a purpose joyful, a courage blameless, Thy port assured in a happier land than mine.

But seeing thee with me now, his task at close He knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay, And work confusion of so many foes: The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay, Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goes Unto what great reward I cannot say. 62 I will be what God made me, nor protest Against the bent of genius in my time, That science of my friends robs all the best, While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme. Be they our mighty men, and let me dwell In shadow among the mighty shades of old, With love's forsaken palace for my cell; Whence I look forth and all the world behold, And say, These better days, in best things worse, This bastardy of time's magnificence, Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse, To crown new love with higher excellence. Curs'd tho' I be to live my life alone, My toil is for man's joy, his joy my own. 63 I live on hope and that I think do all Who come into this world, and since I see Myself in swim with such good company, I take my comfort whatsoe'er befall. I abide and abide, as if more stout and tall My spirit would grow by waiting like a tree; And, clear of others' toil, it pleaseth me In dreams their quick ambition to forestall. And if thro' careless eagerness I slide To some accomplishment, I give my voice Still to desire, and in desire abide. I have no stake abroad; if I rejoice In what is done or doing, I confide Neither to friend nor foe my secret choice. 64 Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoy The purchase of those tears, the world's disdain, Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy, Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain? Have ye no springtide, and no burst of May In flowers and leafy trees, when solemn night Pants with love-music, and the holy day Breaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light? What make ye and what strive for?