But up the west, like a rock-shivered surge, Climbs a great cloud edged with sunwhitened spray;

Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,

And falling still it seems, and yet it climbs alway.

Suddenly all the sky is hid

As with the shutting of a lid,
One by one great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,

Down the pane they are crookedly crawling,

And the wind breathes low; Slowly the circles widen on the river, Widen and mingle, one and all;

Here and there the slenderer flowers

shiver,

Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this workday world,

Baring its tender feet to every flint,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray
From Beauty's law of plainness and con-
tent;

A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it
must,

And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,

Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth

In bleak November, and, with thankful

heart,

Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit, As full of sunshine to our aged eyes

As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring.

Such is true Love, which steals into the heart

With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark,

And hath its will through blissful gentle

ness,

Not like a rocket, which, with passionate glare,

Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night

Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults,

Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points,

But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith that still forgives;

A love that shall be new and fresh each hour,

As is the sunset's golden mystery,

Or the sweet coming of the evening-star,
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,
And seeming ever best and fairest now;
A love that doth not kneel for what it
seeks,

But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer,
Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts
By a clear sense of inward nobleness;
A love that in its object findeth not
All grace and beauty, and enough to sate
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good
Found there, sees but the Heaven-implanted
types

Of good and beauty in the soul of man,
And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,
A family-likeness to its chosen one,
That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.
For love is blind but with the fleshly eye,
That so its inner sight may be more clear;
And outward shows of beauty only so
Are needful at the first, as is a hand
To guide and to uphold an infant's steps:
Fine natures need them not: their earnest
look

Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise,
And beauty ever is to them revealed,
Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of
clay,

With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,

Yearning to be but understood and loved.

TO PERDITA, SINGING

THY voice is like a fountain,

Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting,

It hath caught a touch of sadness,
Yet it is not sad;

It hath tones of clearest gladness,
Yet it is not glad;

A dim, sweet twilight voice it is
Where to-day's accustomed blue
Is over-grayed with memories,

With starry feelings quivered through.

Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in sunshine bright,
And I never weary counting
Its clear droppings, lone and single,
Or when in one full gush they mingle,
Shooting in melodious light.

Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume;
Oh, thus forever sing to me!
Oh, thus forever!

The green, bright grass of childhood bring

THE MOON

My soul was like the sea,
Before the moon was made,
Moaning in vague immensity,
Of its own strength afraid,
Unrestful and unstaid.
Through every rift it foamed in vain,
About its earthly prison,
Seeking some unknown thing in pain,
And sinking restless back again,

For yet no moon had risen:
Its only voice a vast dumb moan,
Of utterless anguish speaking,
It lay unhopefully alone,

And lived but in an aimless seeking.

So was my soul; but when 't was full
Of unrest to o'erloading,
A voice of something beautiful
Whispered a dim foreboding,
And yet so soft, so sweet, so low,
It had not more of joy than woe;

And, as the sea doth oft lie still,
Making its waters meet,
As if by an unconscious will,

For the moon's silver feet,
So lay my soul within mine eyes
When thou, its guardian moon, didst rise.

And now, howe'er its waves above
May toss and seem uneaseful,
One strong, eternal law of Love,

With guidance sure and peaceful,
As calm and natural as breath,

Moves its great deeps through life and death.

REMEMBERED MUSIC

A FRAGMENT

THICK-RUSHING, like an ocean vast
Of bisons the far prairie shaking,
The notes crowd heavily and fast
As surfs, one plunging while the last
Draws seaward from its foamy breaking.

Or in low murmurs they began,
Rising and rising momently,

As o'er a harp Æolian

A fitful breeze, until they ran
Up to a sudden ecstasy.

And then, like minute-drops of rain
Ringing in water silverly,

They lingering dropped and dropped again,
Till it was almost like a pain

To listen when the next would be.

Thou wast waited on
By the wind and sun;

The rain and the dew for thee took care; It seemed thou never couldst be more fair.

A lily thou wast when I saw thee first,
A lily-bud; but oh, how strange,
How full of wonder was the change,
When, ripe with all sweetness, thy full
bloom burst!

How did the tears to my glad eyes start,
When the woman-flower
Reached its blossoming hour,
And I saw the warm deeps of thy golden
heart!

Glad death may pluck thee, but never before The gold dust of thy bloom divine Hath dropped from thy heart into mine, To quicken its faint germs of heavenly lore; For no breeze comes nigh thee but carries away

Some impulses bright

Of fragrance and light, Which fall upon souls that are lone and

astray,

To plant fruitful hopes of the flower of day.

ALLEGRA

I WOULD more natures were like thine,
That never casts a glance before,
Thou Hebe, who thy heart's bright wine
So lavishly to all dost pour,
That we who drink forget to pine,

And can but dream of bliss in store.

Thou canst not see a shade in life;

With sunward instinct thou dost rise,
And, leaving clouds below at strife,
Gazest undazzled at the skies,
With all their blazing splendors rife,
A songful lark with eagle's eyes.

Thou wast some foundling whom the
Hours

Nursed, laughing, with the milk of
Mirth;

Some influence more gay than ours
Hath ruled thy nature from its birth,
As if thy natal stars were flowers

That shook their seeds round thee on

earth.