LXIII. SWEET Soul! do with me as thou wilt; With "Love 's too precious to be lost, A little grain shall not be spilt." And in that solace can I sing, Till out of painful phases wrought There flutters up a happy thought, Self-balanced on a lightsome wing: Since we deserved the name of friends, A part of mine may live in thee, LXIV. You thought my heart too far diseased; You wonder when my fancies play To find me gay among the gay, Like one with any trifle pleased. The shade by which my life was crossed, Which makes a desert in the mind, Has made me kindly with my kind, And like to him whose sight is lost; Whose feet are guided through the land, Whose jest among his friends is free, Who takes the children on his knee, And winds their curls about his hand : He plays with threads, he beats his chair For pastime, dreaming of the sky; His inner day can never die, His night of loss is always there. LXV. WHEN on my bed the moonlight falls, By that broad water of the west, Thy marble bright in dark appears, The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And closing eaves of wearied eyes I sleep till dusk is dipped in gray : And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the chancel like a ghost Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. LXVI. WHEN in the down I sink my head, Sleep, Death's twin-brother, times my breath; Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead : I walk as ere I walked forlorn, When all our path was fresh with dew, And all the bugle breezes blew Reveillée to the breaking morn. But what is this? I turn about, I find a trouble in thine eye, But ere the lark hath left the lea I wake, and I discern the truth; That foolish sleep transfers to thee. LXVII. I DREAMED there would be Spring no more, The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chattered trifles at the door. I wandered from the noisy town, I found a wood with thorny boughs: I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown. I met with scoffs, I met with scorns From youth and babe and hoary hairs: The fool that wears a crown of thorns. They called me fool, they called me child : The voice was low, the look was bright, |