LoveBlessed are the Dead Wanderer's Night-Songs Remorse
Forsaken
Allah
From the Anglo-Saxon. The Grave
Beowulf 's Expedition to Heort
The Soul's Complaint against the Body
From the French
Song: Hark! Hark!
Song: "And whither goest thou, gentle sigh" The Return of Spring
Spring
The Child Asleep
Death of Archbishop Turpin The Blind Girl of Castel-Cuille A Christmas Carol
Consolation
To Cardinal Richelieu
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The Angel and the Child
On the Terrace of the Aigalades
To my Brooklet
Barreges
Will ever the dear days come back again? At La Chaudeau
A Quiet Life
The Wine of Jurancon
Friar Lubin
Rondel
My Secret
From the Italian.
The Celestial Pilot
The Terrestrial Paradise
Beatrice
To Italy
Seven Sonnets and a Canzone
I. The Artist
II. Fire.
III. Youth and Age
IV. Old Age
V. To Vittoria Colonna VI. To Vittoria Colonna VII. Dante
VIII. Canzone
The Nature of Love
From the Portuguese.
Song: If thou art sleeping, maiden
From Eastern sources.
The Fugitive
The Siege of Kazan The Boy and the Brook To the Stork
From the Latin.
Virgils First Eclogue
Ovid in Exile
VOICES OF THE NIGHT
<Greek poem here--Euripides.> PRELUDE.
Pleasant it was, when woods were green, And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene.
Where, the long drooping boughs between, Shadows dark and sunlight sheen
Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser grove receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves In one unbroken roof of leaves, Underneath whose sloping eaves The shadows hardly move. Beneath some patriarchal tree
I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
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Clapped their little hands in glee, With one continuous sound;--
A slumberous sound, a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream, As of innumerable wings,
As, when a bell no longer swings, Faint the hollow murmur rings O'er meadow, lake, and stream.
And dreams of that which cannot die, Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie, And gaze into the summer sky, Where the sailing clouds went by, Like ships upon the sea;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage
Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page, Traditions of the saint and sage, Tales that have the rime of age, And chronicles of Eld.
And, loving still these quaint old themes, Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, Water the green land of dreams,
The holy land of song.
Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings
The Spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings, And bishop's-caps have golden rings, Musing upon many things,
I sought the woodlands wide.
The green trees whispered low and mild; It was a sound of joy!
They were my playmates when a child, And rocked me in their arms so wild! Still they looked at me and smiled,
As if I were a boy;
And ever whispered, mild and low, "Come, be a child once more!"
And waved their long arms to and fro, And beckoned solemnly and slow;
O, I could not choose but go
Into the woodlands hoar,-- Into the blithe and breathing air, Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere
Nature with folded hands seemed there
Kneeling at her evening prayer! Like one in prayer I stood. Before me rose an avenue
Of tall and sombrous pines; Abroad their fan-like branches grew,
And, where the sunshine darted through, Spread a vapor soft and blue,
In long and sloping lines.
And, falling on my weary brain, Like a fast-falling shower,
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The dreams of youth came back again, Low lispings of the summer rain, Dropping on the ripened grain,
As once upon the flower.
Visions of childhood! Stay, O stay! Ye were so sweet and wild!
