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Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them?

What love was ever as deep as a grave?
They are loveless now as the grass above them,
Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers.

Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea.
Not a breath of the time that has been hovers

In the air now soft with a summer to be.
Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter

Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep,
When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter,
We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again forever;

Here change may come not till all change end.
From the graves they have made they shall rise up never,

Who have left naught living to ravage and rend.
Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing,

While the sun and the rain live, these shall be;
Till a last wind's breath upon all these blowing
Roll the sea;

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble,
Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink,

Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble
The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink,

Here now in his triumph where all things falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,

As a god self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead.

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If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May,

We'd throw with leaves for hours.

And draw for days with flowers,

Till day like night were shady,
And night were bright like day;

If you were April's lady,
And I were lord in May.

If you were queen of pleasure,

And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying-feather.
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein;
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain.


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,
Very Light of light,
Turn the wild w orld's night

To thy perfect day.

God, whose feet made sweet
Those wild ways they trod,

From thy fragrant feet

Staining field and street
With the blood of God;

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,
Love-lit as with spheres,

By the lights that rise

To thy watching eyes.
Orbed lights of tears;

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,
Held in bonds of death,
Where all spirits quail,
Came thy Godhead pale
Still from human breath,—

Pale from life and strife,

Wan with manhood, came
Forth of mortal life.
Pierced as with a knife,
Scarred as with a flame.

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
Drew thee down to die?
What therein was worth.
Lord, thy death and birth?
What beneath thy sky?

Light, above all love,

By thy love was lit,
And brought down the dove
Feathered from above

With the wings of it.

From the height of night,
Was not thine the star

That led forth with might

By no worldly light
Wise men from afar?

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
Safe inside thine ark.

Who shall keep thy sheep.
Lord, and lose not one?
Who save one shall keep,
Lest the shepherds sleep?
Who beside the Son?

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,
Let thy sunbright face
Lighten time and space
Here beneath thy feet.

Bid our peace increase,
Thou that madest morn;

Bill oppressions cease;

Bid the night be peace;
Bid the day be born.


We whose days and ways All the night makes dark,

What day shall we praise

Of these weary days
That our life-drops mark?

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
Worn till all life cease,

Want, a whetted knife.

Sharpening strife on strife, How should we love peace?

Ye whose meat is sweet

And your wine-cup red,
Us beneath your feet
Hunger grinds as wheat,
Grinds to make you bread.

Ye whose night is bright
With soft rest and heat,

Clothed like day with light;

Us the naked night
Slays from street to street.

Hath your God no rod,
That ye tread so light?

Man on us as God,

God as man hath trod,
Trod us down with might.

We that one by one
Bleed from either's rod,

What for us hath done

Man beneath the sun,
What for us hath God?

We whose blood is food

Given your wealth to feed,
From the Christless rood
Red with no God's blood,
But with man's indeed;

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,
Year by year of shame,

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 bid us. pray?

Though ye call, can we

Hear you call, or see,
Though ye show us day?

We whose name is shame, We whose souls walk bare,

Shall we call the same

God as ye by name,
Teach our lips your prayer?

God, forgive and give,
For His sake who died?

Nay, for ours who live,

How shall we forgive
Thee, then, on our side?

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,
At what market-place,
Your feet and our feet,
with one goal to greet,
Having run one race?

What one hope shall ope

For us all as ons,
One same horoscope.
Where the soul sees hope

That outburns the sun?

At what shrine what wine,
At what board what bread,

Salt as blood or brine,

Shall we share in sign
How we poor were fed?

In what hour what power
Shall we pray for morn,
If your perfect hour,
When all day bears flower,
Not for us is born V

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,
But rather strive to pity thee,
remembering all the empery

Thou hast foregone.

It was thy folly, not thy crime,
To have contemned the call sublime,
The realm more firm than fate or

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

his soul,

Whose will is perfect, and whose

word is whole, Who hath not paid to common sense

the toll

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

or right.


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;
Blame not thy parents, nor the rule
Of vice or wrong once learned at
But blame thyself, O man!

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,
Feeling its own sufficiency:
In spite of science, spite of fate,
The judge within thee, soon or late.
Will blame but thee, O man!

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
Wilt thou thy sunlight carry?

I stay with cold and clouded face:
llow long am I to tarry?

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.


April is in;
New loves begin!
Up, lovers all.
The cuckoo's call!
Winter is by,
Blue shines the sky,
Primroses blow
Where lay cold snow:
Then why should I
sit still and sigh?

Death took my dear:
Oh, pain! Oh, fear!
I know not whither,
When flowers did wither,
My summer love
Flew far above.

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