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A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I 've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good by, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
O, give, to strengthen me.

1839.

MY LOVE.

I.

NOT as all other women are
Is she that to my soul is dear;
Her glorious fancies come from far,
Beneath the silver evening-star,
And yet her heart is ever near.

II.

Great feelings hath she of her own,
Which lesser souls may never know;
God giveth them to her alone,
And sweet they are as any tone
Wherewith the wind may choose to
blow.

HI.

Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot,

Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses,

Which most leave undone, or despise ;
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart intwines and
clings,

And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

VI.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless

VII.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

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And, ere the next heart-beat, the windhurled pile,

That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;

Against the windows the storm comes dashing,

Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,

The blue lightning flashes,
The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,
And, in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling
A rock-bristled shore,
The thunder is rumbling
And crashing and crumbling, -
Will silence return never more?

Hush! Still as death,

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The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will;

The rain stopsshort, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,

All is so bodingly still;

Again, now, now, again

Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,
The crinkled lightning
Seems ever brightening,
And loud and long

Again the thunder shouts

His battle-song,
One quivering flash,
One wildering crash,

Followed by silence dead and dull,
As if the cloud, let go,
Leapt bodily below

To whelm the earth in one mad overthrow,

And then a total lull.

Gone, gone, so soon!
No more my half-crazed fancy there
Can shape a giant in the air,

No more I see his streaming hair, The writhing portent of his form ;The pale and quiet moon Makes her calm forehead bare, And the last fragments of the storm, Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea, Silent and few, are drifting over me.

1839.

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As is the golden mystery of sunset, 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, it sees but Heaven-granted 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:

Great spirits need them not: their earnest look

Pierces the body's mask of thin dis

guise,

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.

1840.

TO PERDITA, SINGING.

THY Voice is like a fountain,
Leaping up in clear moonshine;
Silver, silver, ever mounting,
Ever sinking,
Without thinking,

To that brimful heart of thine

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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 feelingsquivered 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;
O, thus forever sing to me!
O, thus forever!
The green, bright grass of childhood
bring to me,

Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above!
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,-
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,
Of that never cold time,

The joy, that, like a clear breeze,

went

Through and through the old time!

Peace sits within thine eyes, With white hands crossed in joyful rest,

While, through thy lips and face,

arise

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