University of Virginia Library

SONNETS.

I.

[Shall I forget thee when the Spring comes back]

Shall I forget thee when the Spring comes back,
And the green mists begin about the trees,
And cling, and brighten; when no heart has lack
Of living, and no ear of melodies,
And no eyes weary of the rainless air?
The world grows sweeter than a heart can bear,
'Live with white violets, whose breath has made
Earth like a pillow where young heads are laid,
Fragrant and frail and hid in their warm hair;
When all sweet flower-scents rise, like happy rhymes
From golden memories of olden times,
And out of death springs life, and joy from pain,
And laughter to young lips, and love to men—
Shall I forget thee then, forget thee then?

II.

[Nature, when I deplore the fates that bind]

Nature, when I deplore the fates that bind
My spirit to a life unlov'd by thee,
My limbs to pace this narrow room, my mind
To hour on hour of dull monotony,
When I recall how glorious and how free,
Lost on thy mountains amid wave and wind,
To learn the blessedness of hearts that find,
Of ears that hear thee, and of eyes that see—
Then dream that I am fall'n beneath thy frown,
Doom'd to be no more with thee, no more wise—
What joy to think, thine too these common skies,
This field—thy finger wove its floral crown;
Oh! mother, thine this silence that comes down,
And bears the nightingale's great song, and dies!

III.

[Schumann, who dares to mount with thee, must dare]

Schumann, who dares to mount with thee, must dare
Of pain and peril all a man may know,
Battle and the cry to them that will not spare
Their charioting—glory and blood and woe;
And inarticulate passion moaning low,
Mix'd with mute calms and holy quietings,
That one might say, “fire and the flight of wings
Through heaven beside his feet are slack and slow;”—
Hope, with an utter sadness creeping through,
Joy, that for ever coming comes not quite,
And seething of black clouds more black than night,
And heights of blessedness more pure than snow,
Where one plunge downward bringeth to the brink
Of passionless despair—but who would shrink?

IV.

[I saw a lark mount up from earth to heaven]

V.

[Whenas my heart would fain break out in song]

VI.

[Lift high the torch of Science; let it wave!]

Lift high the torch of Science; let it wave!
Search out the coming and the going wind;
Read ye the secrets of the eternal Mind,
And go forget the eternal heart that gave!
Ev'n now men sow and reap, and thank not God;
“Earth and her cloud obey but natural laws—
What need of thanks?—Effect but follows cause,
And suns must shine upon the moisten'd sod.”
Ah! not for these the song of the wild lark,
And worship, and the worth of all that is!
But, God, thou knowest in Love is our best bliss,
In Knowledge not, albeit a heavenly spark.
Give Light and Love—else, if they will not this,
Put out their candle, God, and leave them dark.

VII.

[I saw in dream where met proud rivers twain]

I saw in dream where met proud rivers twain
From the East and West—one without storm or stain,
Clear-eyed and paved with crystal, as to glass
The merest speck that in the air might pass
Above it; the other, from remoter springs,
Soil'd with long travel and passionate outgoings,
Full-vein'd and swoll'n with ore from the iron rock,
Impetuous sped to meet it: at the shock
Earth reeled, and heaven grew dark with sudden gloam
Above the impenetrable spray. What wonder,
If men's eyes, baffled by the blinding foam,
Saw not beyond, where 'scaped the smoke and thunder,
Through prosperous fields, bright-blazon'd fold on fold,
One clear strong stream their glorious course they hold?

VIII.

[Sorrow, I have one word to sing to thee]

Sorrow, I have one word to sing to thee,
So beautiful thou seemest: I would say
That, ev'n as the dim twilight passeth day,
So art thou fairer than all joys that be.
A long time hast thou sojourn'd here with me,
Dwelling in this deep soul, when no man thought;
And it is twilight there, and I can see
The pure stars and the splendour noon hath not.
Men do not love thee nor thy tearful face,
Perceiving not the grace
That from those downcast eyes doth meekly shine:
They love their foolish pleasures—mirth and noise—
But I love thee, and would no more rejoice,
For thou art of the Silence—Be thou mine!

IX.

[O sing, sing, sing, O nightingale, sing on!]

O sing, sing, sing, O nightingale, sing on!
None knowing why is it thou dost cry to God,
Thus voiceful 'mid the voiceless all alone
At midnight, with no gentle thing abroad.
Singest at this still hour, that He may hear
Far up thy frequent voice and none but thine?
Or is it sorrow moves thee? dost thou pine
For that earth is not purer, being so fair?
Or lovest thou for itself this quiet air?
Or hath the moon bewitched thee, 'scaped her cloud,
With sad complaint and soon with laughter loud
To mourn by turns and mock thine own despair?—
Whatever bids thee, sing till night is gone:
I only am awake—sweet bird, sing on!

X.

[This is the charmèd hour and noon of night]

This is the charmèd hour and noon of night:
A rich earth-fragrance rides upon the gale,
Mingled with heaven's own dews, and moonbeams pale
Float down, and flood the lawn with faery light.
How loud the stillest day would seem, how bright
The softest, to this hour of spirit-rest!
See! where above the black fir's slendering crest,
In sky-abysses calm and infinite,
Ever one star with pure and perfect ray
Shines as through tears! Far off the night-bird cries;
And low winds whisper of the glad surprise
Of death, and regions very far away—
While thou, poor Spirit, from this prison-clay
May'st look and long, but hast no wings to rise.

XI.

[Soft lights on sleeping meadows, the first cry]

Soft lights on sleeping meadows, the first cry
Of birds that break the hallow'd hush of dawn,
Or leaping of white waves, or windy sky,
With many a bold cloud-gesture over-drawn,
Bright forest-glades, where springs the fearful fawn,
And quiet noises all day long surprise,
Laughter of sudden brook, or silent eyes
Cluster'd in heaven, or wandering moon forlorn—
If each of these with rare and several grace
Do sometimes win my very heart away,
Oh! how to tell of her, in whose sweet face
I count their sum of sweetness every day,
And know each smile, each look of love, I see,
Is true as heaven, and all for only me?

XII.

[Death, and the pour'd-out fury of driven seas]

Death, and the pour'd-out fury of driven seas,
Or a blind multitude madden'd by despair,
Or winds that drag down forests by the hair,
Until they howl for agony—before these
Frail perishable flesh must quake and cower:
Thus far with trembling knees
We bow before great Nature's energies,
Worshipping the resistlessness of Power.
Thus far indeed, wild mob and seas and wind,
Avails ungovernable Fury blind—
Yet deem not this the highest! as if man's soul
Would stoop to tremble for her storm and shaking!—
Man, that has learnt, all meaner force forsaking,
The sublime strength that can itself control.

XIII.

[O thou that comest on earth to spoil and sting]

O thou that comest on earth to spoil and sting,
More joyless from remember'd joys of Spring,
Paler and sicklier for red Summer's health,
And ten-fold fruitless after Autumn's wealth,
Winter! once more thou'rt with us on that fierce foot
That stamps the swift stream to a marble slab,
And from thy quiver the frozen lightnings stab
Down through earth's armour to the deep tree-root.
There is in all the world no flower or tune
Where thou abidest, but barren hoar-frost white,
And snow-blooms blown from heaven, till the aching light
Has darken'd from swift noon to after-noon—
Then lo! the subtle-broider'd tent of Night,
Full of gold buds and one white flower, the Moon!

XIV.

[Methinks my heart is cold and earthly grown]

Methinks my heart is cold and earthly grown,
So little doth the sight of any tree,
Or voice of winds that rave all night alone,
Or glories of the mountain, profit me.
The world becomes too wise: yet wiser far
Was He that fixed in heaven yon burnish'd star,
And thought to glad us with His morning-skies:
But nothing now hath any new surprise;
Daylight is common, and the darkness naught;
We cannot read God's silence, as we ought,
And Nature's voice falls oftenest on deaf ears—
Yet can I sometimes lift enraptur'd eyes,
And sometimes, too, divine immortal thought,
Alone, upon a starry night, with tears.

XV.

[O brave sweet bird! how dost thou lift my heart!]

O brave sweet bird! how dost thou lift my heart!
Which singest on thy green bough above the snow—
Thy one green bough, no frost can from thee part—
To the dear Summer-months that lag so slow.
“Be quick, be quick,” thou sayest, and yet I know
Summer will come not for thy cry, but first
Sad nights a-many, and sharp winds to and fro
Devouring, in dark caves of Northland nurs'd;
And hail, not flowers; and ice, not murmuring wave;
Low-flapping clouds for the high-tented heaven—
All these for many a day, ere Spring be given!
Yet Spring must come, thou sayest, sweet bird and brave!
Think, Poet, to sing like this—how great it were!
High-based on living thought, when all things else are bare.

XVI.

[Ye that inhabit there above the sea!]

Ye that inhabit there above the sea!
In all our storms holy and silent still,
My soul's soul from a place of boundless ill
Springs to you, sorely travailing to be free.
All night ye swim through heaven's immensity,
Beholding that which is: nothing can kill,
Or darkly blind you that ye should not see,
On Goodness, Truth, and Love unspeakable
Gazing enrapt—But I call from this Deep,
Where nothing real abideth—a dark place
Where Death is, and we cannot see God's face—
Where Silence comes not, nor the rest of sleep.
Yet, when mine eyes behold you, they can bless,
They bless and strive to that high saintliness.

XVII.

[How pleasant through the long, dark winter-hour]

XVIII.

[Sweet Pity, sister's self to Charity]

Sweet Pity, sister's self to Charity,
Come down and with us dwell: they would not miss
Thy face in heaven, for heaven is full of bliss,
As our poor Earth o'erflows with misery.
Sweet Pity, come: we have such need of thee!
Not each for self, but all for one-another:
Thy name amongst us should be sister, mother,
Or loving wife—the tenderest names that be.
Thou, more than all thy peers, should'st cleave to Earth,
Without whose weariness thou hadst not been,
In whose quench'd brightness was thy brightness seen—
For this fall'n star, a new star's glorious birth!
Come then, for thine own sake, come quickly down!
Thou that art least, yet most of all our own.

XIX.

[Man stands apart from Nature; he is lord]

XX.

[Dark Spirit, oh listen! thou that fiercely flowest]

Dark Spirit, oh listen! thou that fiercely flowest,
So fierce, and so impatient to be gone!
Is it fear, or some wild vengeance that thou owest?
Or doth the fiend of madness drive thee on?
Nay—for that stormy heart has been my own—
Thou art full of glorious passion from the hills,
And in thy strength goest forth to conquer ills,
Not thinking how thou must be overthrown.
Yet chafe not, noble river, nor seek to mend
God's purpose in thee and thine own far end,
Lest those proud waves o'erflow in sluggish mire:
His be the grief, who would not brook control,
Within whose heart has ceased the great desire,
And stagnant are the waters of his soul.

XXI.

[How is it that so oft it sweeter seems]

How is it that so oft it sweeter seems
To mourn lost bliss than win what yet may be,
To sink absorb'd in melancholy dreams
Far sweeter than to feast on mirth and glee,
And solitude than all gay company,
And winter, with her wind, than summer's beams,
And dead cold ice than the dear living streams,
And fallen leaves than green leaves on the tree?—
Is Sorrow in herself a thing divine,
That we should take her for our utmost goal?
Or like a star's soft reflex on the soul
Is it her semblance, not herself, doth shine?
Or does she lie far past our human sight,
Strange as man's doom, and deep as day or night?

XXII.

[From morn till noon here on this mountain-side]

From morn till noon here on this mountain-side
In lonely meditation have I spent,
Beholding three fair valleys winding wide,
Beholding all, yet with no one content.
And shall I ask my heart what here is meant?—
What fault or change, that it should beat so slow,
Which used to bound in thought of such a show,
Thrill'd through with wonder and with ravishment?
Or shall I bend my steps by yon sweet way
Dark-opening on a land—perchance how fair?—
So, having found it, turn in grief away,
Or satisfy my soul with beauties there?
Nay, let it rest unseen! since dearer far
Is the sweet doubt of what those beauties are.

XXIII.

[O stars, my silent teachers! and thou, moon]

O stars, my silent teachers! and thou, moon,
That dost triumphant walk the wide heavens through,
I have lov'd your glorious travels late and soon,
Your still deep drownings in the waters blue:
How is it that ye forsook me? ye, that knew
I could not join for ever all your joy!
“O come, while life is beautiful and new,
Light-hearted child,” ye said, “and merry boy:”
So evermore I shunned the world's annoy,
And ever toward your silent blisses grew;
But ah! though silent, plain ye speak, and well,
Your unimpassion'd utterance of pure light;
Whilst I am dumb for ever—I may not tell
What God has whisper'd in mine ear to-night.

XXIV.

[Love-time and flower-time for this year are dead—]

Love-time and flower-time for this year are dead—
Bright wealth of Summer, and fervent pulse of Spring—
But thou art bleaker than sharp winds that shed
The last frail feather from the warm year's wing.
Ah! well, 'tis left to dream of and to sing;
We two shall gather no more flowers again,
Nor watch the river leap like a living thing
To catch the cold bright kisses of the rain,
Then madden'd with insatiable desire
Flash out among the rocks in foam like fire—
But when we hear the unfed wind complain
In barren hollows where are no more flowers,
Each will remember that old love of ours
Grown with the dead leaves a departed pain.

XXV.

[O calm great brows! clear forehead unconfin'd!]

O calm great brows! clear forehead unconfin'd!
Fever'd by no day's heat nor dreams of night!
Whose myriad perfect eyes absorbing light—
The light indwelling of the eternal Mind—
Sleep not, nor faint, with their high watch oppress'd—
All truth, all beauty, like a land outspread
Before them, and, beneath and overhead,
That moving Order which is more than rest!—
We are full of broken beauties; with strong pain
Here 'mid this finite throbs the infinite,
Like pent-up fire that bursts the mountain's brain:
Yet patient still, still waiting to attain
Full stature for the flame's expanding might,
We feed it, and we keep it burning bright.

XXVI.

[There is a peak that soars in silent air]

There is a peak that soars in silent air
Silent, above the mountains, crown'd with cloud,
Disrobed of sunrise, and of sunset bare—
Upon whose neck the heav'ns are darkly bow'd:
Far under chafe the waves of memory loud,
Driving Man's feet to his last refuge there—
Memory, whose stream, for ever flowing and fed,
Fills the long desert and the drouth of Time
With murmurs of the eternal watershed—
Then, slowly swoll'n to a pursuing flood,
Deepens from solitude to solitude:
But not the clamour of all her waves can climb
To that calm refuge whither all men press—
The silent forehead of Forgetfulness.