Thursday, August 13, 2009

Rondel.

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naughty see i fixed or sure in thee!
I do not know thee, - nor what deeds are thine :
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me :
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!

Loss And Gain

When I compare
What I have lost with what I have
gained,
What I have missed with what
attained,
Little room do i find for pride.

I am a ware
How many days have been idly
spent;
How like an arrow the good intent
Has fallen short or been turned
aside.

But who shall dare
To measure loss and gain in this
wise?
Defeat may be victory in disguise;
The lowest ebb is the turn of the
tide.

The Artist.

Nothing the greatest artist can conceive
That every marble block doth not confine
within itself; and only its design
The hand that follows intellect can achieve.
the ill I flee, the good that I believe,
Thus hidden lie; and so that death be mine
Art, of desired success, doth me bereave.
Love is not guilty, then, nor thy fair face,
Nor fortune, cruelty, nor great disdain,
Of my disgrace, nor chance, nor destiny,
If in thy heart both death and love find place
At the same time, and if my humble brain,
Burning, can nothing draw but death from thee.

Silent Love.

Who love would seek,
Let him love evermore
And seldom speak:
For in love's domain
Silence must reign;
or it bring the heart
Smart
And pain.

The Broken Oar

Once upon Iceland's solitary strands
A poet wandered with his book and pen,
Seeking some final word, some sweet Amen,
Wherewith to close the volume in his hand.
The billows rolled and plunged upon the sand,
The circling sea-gulls swept beyond his ken,
And from the parting cloud-rack now and then
Flashed the red sunset over sea and land.
Then by the billows at his feet was tossed
A broken oar; and carved thereon he read,
'Oft was I weary, when I toiled at thee';
And like a man, who findeth what was lost,
He wrote the words, then lifted up his head,
And flung his useless pen into the sea.

The Meeting

After so long an absence
At last we meet again :
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three
berries
In the top of the uppermost
bough.

We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not
say it,
How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year;
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the
guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.

The Image Of God

O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image,
see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!
Eternal Sun! the warmth with thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast
decays;
Yet, in the hoary winter of my
days,
For ever green shall be my trust
in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence
pass
Before my spirit, and an image
fair
Shall meet that look of mercy
from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
Doth meet the look of him who
seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer's
eye.