Deeply the turtle coos; shrilly the owlet halloos ; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly :

Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn Sadly the far kine loweth the glimmering water outfloweth Twin peaks shadowed with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Lowthroned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad

Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The antient poetess singeth, that Hesperus all things bringeth,

Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning and even; she cometh not morning

or even.

False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind? (1830)

X

THE "HOW" AND THE "WHY"

I AM any man's suitor,

If any will be my tutor :

Some say this life is pleasant,

Some think it speedeth fast :

In time there is no present,
In eternity no future,

In eternity no past.

We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die,

Who will riddle me the how and the why?

The bulrush nods unto its brother,

The wheatears whisper to each other :

What is it they say? What do they there?

Why two and two make four? Why round is not square?

Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly?

Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh?

Why deep is not high, and high is not deep?

Whether we wake, or whether we sleep?

Whether we sleep, or whether we die?
How you are you? Why I am I?

Who will riddle me the how and the why?

The world is somewhat; it goes on somehow ;
But what is the meaning of then and now ?

I feel there is something; but how and what?
I know there is somewhat; but what and why?
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I.

The little bird pipeth-" why? why?"

In the summerwoods when the sun falls low
And the great bird sits on the opposite bough,
And stares in his face and shouts, "how? how?"
And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight,
And chaunts, "how? how?" the whole of the night.
Why the life goes when the blood is spilt?

What the life is ? where the soul may lie?
Why a church is with a steeple built;
And a house with a chimneypot ?

Who will riddle me the how and the what?
Who will riddle me the what and the why?
(1830)

XI

MARIANA

"Mariana in the moated grange."-Measure for Measure.
WITH blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all :
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach to the garden-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange :
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.

After the flitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow :
The cock sung out an hour ere light :

From the dark fen the oxen's low

Came to her without hope of change,

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn, Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "The day is dreary,

He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway,

All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,

She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell

Upon her bed, across her brow.

She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,

Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"

(1853)

The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"

ΤΟ

XII

I

CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn,
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain
The knots that tangle human creeds,
The wounding cords that bind and strain
The heart until it bleeds,

Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn

Roof not a glance so keen as thine:
If aught of prophecy be mine,
Thou wilt not live in vain.

2

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow :
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords
Can do away that ancient lie;

A gentler death shall Falsehood die,
Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words.

3

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,

Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,
Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

Until she be an athlete bold,

And weary with a finger's touch

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed;
Like that strange angel which of old,

Until the breaking of the light,

Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel.

(1853)

XIII

MADELINE

I

THOU art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline.

Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change.

2

Smiling, frowning, evermore,

Thou art perfect in love-lore.
Revealings deep and clear are thine
Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?
Whether smile or frown be sweeter,
Who may know?

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,
Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,
Ever varying Madeline.

Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.
All the mystery is thine;
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.

3

A subtle, sudden flame,

By veering passion fann'd,

About thee breaks and dances;

When I would kiss thy hand,

The flush of anger'd shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances,