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Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?
What love was ever as deep as a grave?
All are at one now, roses and lovers.
Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
Here death may deal not again forever;
Here change may come not till all change end.
Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.
While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
If you were April's lady,
We'd throw with leaves for hours.
And draw for days with flowers,
Till day like night were shady,
If you were April's lady,
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
FROM" CHRISTMAS Ati'TIPHONES. IN CHURCH.
Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men, While thy stars made mirth, Saviour, at thy birth,
This day born again;
As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
To thy perfect day.
God, whose feet made sweet
From thy fragrant feet
Staining field and street
God, whose breast is rest
In the time of strife, In thy secret breast Sheltering souls opprest
From the heat of life;
God. whose eyes are skies,
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes.
God, whose heart hath part
In all grief that is, Was not man's the dart That went through thine heart,
And the wound not his?
Where the pale souls wail,
Pale from life and strife,
Wan with manhood, came
Thou, the Word and Lord
In all time and space Heard, beheld, adored, With all ages poured
Forth before thy face;
Lord, what worth in earth
Light, above all love,
By thy love was lit,
With the wings of it.
From the height of night,
That led forth with might
By no worldly light
Yet the wise men's eyes
Saw thee not more clear Than they saw thee rise Who in shepherd's guise Drew as poor men near.
Yet thy poor endure,
And are with us yet; Be thy name a sure Refuge for thy poor
Whom men's eyes forget.
Thou whose ways we praise, Clear alike and dark.
Keep our works and ways
This and all thy days
Who shall keep thy sheep.
From the grave-deep wave,
From the sword and flame, Thou, even Thou, shalt save Souls of king and slave Only by thy Name.
Light not born with morn
Or her fires above, Jesus virgin-born, Held of men in scorn.
Turn their scorn to love.
Thou whose face gives grace
As the sun's doth heat,
Bid our peace increase,
Bill oppressions cease;
Bid the night be peace;
We whose days and ways All the night makes dark,
What day shall we praise
Of these weary days
We whose mind is blind,
Fed with hope of nought; Wastes of worn mankind, Without heart or mind, Without meat or thought;
We with strife of life
Want, a whetted knife.
Sharpening strife on strife, How should we love peace?
Ye whose meat is sweet
And your wine-cup red,
Ye whose night is bright
Clothed like day with light;
Us the naked night
Hath your God no rod,
Man on us as God,
God as man hath trod,
We that one by one
What for us hath done
Man beneath the sun,
We whose blood is food
Given your wealth to feed,
How shall we that see
Night-long overhead Life, the flowerless tree, Nailed whereon as we
Were our fathers dead,—
We whose ear can hear.
Not whose tongue can name.
Famine, ignorance, fear,
Bleeding tear by tear,
Till the dry life die
Out of bloodless breast,
Out of seamless eye,
Out of mouths that cry
Till death feed with rest,—
How shall we as ye,
Though ye call, can we
Hear you call, or see,
We whose name is shame, We whose souls walk bare,
Shall we call the same
God as ye by name,
God, forgive and give,
Nay, for ours who live,
How shall we forgive
We whose right to light
Heaven's high noon denies, Whom the blind beams smite That for you shine bright, And but burn our eyes.
With what dreams of beams
Shall we build up day, At what sourceless streams Seek to drink in dreams Ere they pass away?
In what street shall meet,
What one hope shall ope
For us all as ons,
That outburns the sun?
At what shrine what wine,
Salt as blood or brine,
Shall we share in sign
In what hour what power
John Addington Symonds.
That precious, priceless gift, a soul Unto thyself surrendered whole, Withdrawn from all but thy control, Thou hast foregone.
The throne where none might sit but thou,
The crown of love to bind thy brow, Glad homage paid with praise and vow,
Thou hast foregone.
I do not blame thee utterly,
Thou hast foregone.
It was thy folly, not thy crime,
Thou hast foregone.
Blest is the man whose heart and
hands are pure! He hath no sickness that he shall not
No sorrow that he may not well endure:
His feet are steadfast and his hope is sure.
Oh, blest is he who ne'er hath sold
Whose will is perfect, and whose
word is whole, Who hath not paid to common sense
Of self-disgrace, nor owned the world's control!
Through clouds and shadows of the
darkest night He will not lose a glimmering of the
Nor, though the sun of day be
shrouded quite, Swerve from the narrow path to left
ON THE HILLSIDE.
The winds behind me in the thicket
The bees fly droning on laborious wing.
Pink cloudlets scarcely float across the sky.
September stillness broods o'er everything.
Deep peace is in my soul: I seem to hear
Catullus murmuring, "Let us live and love;
Suns rise and set, and fill the rolling year
Which bears us deathward, therefore
let us love; Pour forth the wine of kisses, let
them flow, And let us drink our fill before we
Hush! in the thicket still the breezes blow; [ sky;
Pink cloudlets sail across the azure
The bees warp lazily on laden wing;
Beauty and stillness brood o'er everything.
Blame not the times in which we live.
Nor Fortune frail and fugitive;
Although both heaven and earth
combined To mould lhy flesh and form thy
Though every thought, word, action, will,
Was framed by powers beyond thee, still
Thou art thyself, O man!
And self to take or leave is free,
Say not, "I would, but could not —
Should bear the blame who fashioned me —
Call you mere change of motive choice ?" —
Scorning such picas, the inner voice Cries, "Thine the deed, O man!"
Thou goest: to what distant place
I stay with cold and clouded face:
Where'er thou goest, morn will be:
Thou leavest night and gloom to me.
The night and gloom I can but take: I do not grudge thy splendor:
Bid souls of eager men awake;
Be kind and bright and tender.
Give day to other worlds; for me
It must suffice to dream of thee.
NEW LIFE, NEW LOVE.
April is in;
Death took my dear: