Drawn o'er the airy sapphire of the day
⁠In vague perpetual way,
He sees one dulling film of dreary gray.
The fragrant sward, or dewy leaves that shine,
⁠Flower, bird, or lissom vine,
All hold weird hints of something saturnine!
Big weights of wrong and insult, always pressed
⁠Upon his tired-out breast,
Imperiously distract him with unrest!
And through his mind quick ghastly fancies float,
⁠Where sometimes he can note
His enemy's loathsome shape, and clutch its throat!

For him alone the exultant thrushes call,
⁠The grand suns rise and fall,
And the sweet winds blow benedictional!
A sovereign sense his being seems to brim,
⁠Thrilling heart, brain, and limb,
That all this radiant world was wrought for him!
One blissful faith his life divinely cheers
⁠With heavenly joys and fears,
That sometimes leave his sight in holy tears!
And through his soul, rich-warmed by sacred heat,
⁠Dear memories move and meet,
Like shadowy ripples over golden wheat.

When death — the dreadful shadow of the earth —
⁠Rests on the mortal face of Love's twin star,
⁠Love turns dismayed, as if that shadowy bar
Could shut him off forever in his dearth;
He turns within, and lo! a shy, new birth,
⁠A spark of light from near, or from afar,
⁠Pierces the darkness till, a fiery car,
It lifts him into light more wonder-worth.
Sad love! bewail not tho? you be bereft,
⁠Nor faint not for the weary road you fare;
The spark enkindled when your heart is cleft,
The strength that grows from burthens that you bear,
Are gifts of grace for many that were left
⁠Undowered, but for treasure you must share.

O ye elect of sorrow and of love
⁠Who bear for others' weal a double strain,
⁠And share the surplus of love's costly gain
With hearts his presence doth more feebly move,
Count not your grief's excess too far above
⁠The worth of those you serve, nor all disdain
⁠The lesser pressure of the barren pain
The light of love in love's surcease may prove.
Pity the poor who are by God's decree
⁠Your pensioners, and fear not, for your part,
To harbor love, how dear soe’er he be.
⁠O love that cometh, love that may depart,
The gates of life are set so wide by thee!
⁠The lord of love can enter where thou art!

Fight not dead gods, nor think the incense-cloud
Which in our day hides the Eternal Face
Comes from a priestly hand. The heavenly grace
Thou see'st in a bare room or city's crowd,
Abides no less within the costliest fane
Which humble worshippers with patience rear
To speak their thought, and tell them God is near.
They have done what they could, and not in vain.
But love of wealth and of luxurious ease, —
These are our idols now. Poet, fight these!

She sat beneath an ancient spreading oak
⁠At close of day, the while the young May moon
⁠Rose like a queen to grant the promised boon;
He lying at her feet, his purple cloak
Beside him, while delicious silence woke
⁠Heart-echoes. Fronds of fairy ferns made tune
⁠In the soft-sighing wind, and foxgloves soon
Answered the strains, and the sweet silence broke.
Around them bloomed primrose and violet,
⁠The daffodil, and dear forget-me-not;
The while the fragrant woodruff made regret
⁠That they so soon should leave the charmed spot;
And the fond lovers looked with lips apart —
Summer in nature, summer in each heart.