| When men were all asleep the snow came flying, |
| In large white flakes falling on the city brown, |
| Stealthily and perpetually settling and loosely lying, |
| Hushing the latest traffic of the drowsy town; |
| Deadening, muffling, stifling its murmurs failing; |
| Lazily and incessantly floating down and down: |
| Silently sifting and veiling road, roof and railing; |
| Hiding difference, making unevenness even, |
| Into angles and crevices softly drifting and sailing. |
| All night it fell, and when full inches seven |
| It lay in the depth of its uncompacted lightness, |
| The clouds blew off from a high and frosty heaven; |
| And all woke earlier for the unaccustomed brightness |
| Of the winter dawning, the strange unheavenly glare: |
| The eye marvelled - marvelled at the dazzling whiteness; |
| The ear hearkened to the stillness of the solemn air; |
| No sound of wheel rumbling nor of foot falling, |
| And the busy morning cries came thin and spare. |
| Then boys I heard, as they went to school, calling, |
| They gathered up the crystal manna to freeze |
| Their tongues with tasting, their hands with snowballing; |
| Or rioted in a drift, plunging up to the knees; |
| Or peering up from under the white-mossed wonder!' |
| 'O look at the trees!' they cried, 'O look at the trees!' |
| With lessened load a few carts creak and blunder, |
| Following along the white deserted way, |
| A country company long dispersed asunder: |
| When now already the sun, in pale display |
| Standing by Paul's high dome, spread forth below |
| His sparkling beams, and awoke the stir of the day. |
| For now doors open, and war is waged with the snow; |
| And trains of sombre men, past tale of number, |
| Tread long brown paths, as toward their toil they go: |
| But even for them awhile no cares encumber |
| Their minds diverted; the daily word is unspoken, |
| The daily thoughts of labour and sorrow slumber |
| At the sight of the beauty that greets them, for the charm they have broken. |
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| The sea is calm to-night. |
| The tide is full, the moon lies fair |
| Upon the straits; - on the French coast the light |
| Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, |
| Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. |
| Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! |
| Only, from the long line of spray |
| Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, |
| Listen! you hear the grating roar |
| Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, |
| At their return, up the high strand, |
| Begin, and cease, and then again begin, |
| With tremulous cadence slow, and bring |
| The eternal note of sadness in. |
| Sophocles long ago |
| Heard it on the Ægæan, and it brought |
| Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow |
| Of human misery; we |
| Find also in the sound a thought, |
| Hearing it by this distant northern sea. |
| The Sea of Faith |
| Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore |
| Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. |
| But now I only hear |
| Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, |
| Retreating, to the breath |
| Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear |
| And naked shingles of the world. |
| Ah, love, let us be true |
| To one another! for the world, which seems |
| To lie before us like a land of dreams, |
| So various, so beautiful, so new, |
| Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, |
| Nor certitude, not peace, nor help for pain; |
| And we are here as on a darkling plain |
| Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, |
| Where ignorant armies clash by night. |
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| Come into the garden, Maud, |
| For the black bat, night, has flown, |
| Come into the garden, Maud, |
| I am here at the gate alone ; |
| And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, |
| And the musk of the rose is blown. |
| For a breeze of morning moves, |
| And the planet of Love is on high, |
| Beginning to faint in the light that she loves |
| On a bed of daffodil sky, |
| To faint in the light of the sun she loves, |
| To faint in his light, and to die. |
| All night have the roses heard |
| The flute, violin, bassoon ; |
| All night has the casement jessamine stirred |
| To the dancers dancing in tune ; |
| Till a silence fell with the waking bird, |
| And a hush with the setting moon. |
| I said to the lily, ‘There is but one |
| With whom she has heart to be gay. |
| When will the dancers leave her alone ? |
| She is weary of dance and play.’ |
| Now half to the setting moon are gone, |
| And half to the rising day ; |
| Low on the sand and loud on the stone |
| The last wheel echoes away. |
| I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes |
| In babble and revel and wine. |
| O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, |
| For one that will never be thine ? |
| But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose, |
| ‘For ever and ever, mine.’ |
| And the soul of the rose went into my blood, |
| As the music clashed in the hall ; |
| And long by the garden lake I stood, |
| For I heard your rivulet fall |
| From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, |
| Our wood, that is dearer than all ; |
| From the meadow your walks have left so sweet |
| That whenever a March-wind sighs |
| He sets the jewel-print of your feet |
| In violets blue as your eyes, |
| To the woody hollows in which we meet |
| And the valleys of Paradise. |
| The slender acacia would not shake |
| One long milk-bloom on the tree ; |
| The white lake-blossom fell into the lake |
| As the pimpernel dozed on the lea ; |
| But the rose was awake all night for your sake, |
| Knowing your promise to me ; |
| The lilies and roses were all awake, |
| They sighed for the dawn and thee. |
| Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, |
| Come hither, the dances are done, |
| In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, |
| Queen lily and rose in one ; |
| Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, |
| To the flowers, and be their sun. |
| There has fallen a splendid tear |
| From the passion-flower at the gate. |
| She is coming, my dove, my dear ; |
| She is coming, my life, my fate ; |
| The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near ;’ |
| And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late ;’ |
| The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear ;’ |
| And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’ |
| She is coming, my own, my sweet, |
| Were it ever so airy a tread, |
| My heart would hear her and beat, |
| Were it earth in an earthy bed ; |
| My dust would hear her and beat, |
| Had I lain for a century dead ; |
| Would start and tremble under her feet, |
| And blossom in purple and red. |
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