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Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,— The finger-points look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms 'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass. All round our nest, far as the eye can pass, Are golden kingcup fields with silver edge Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge. 'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:— So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower, This close-companioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.

Sometimes she is a child within mine arms, Cowering beneath dark wings that love must chase,— With still tears showering and averted face, Inexplicably fill'd with faint alarms: And oft from mine own spirit's hurtling harms I crave the refuge of her deep embrace,— Against all ills the fortified strong place And sweet reserve of sovereign counter-charms. And Love, our light at night and shade at noon, Lulls us to rest with songs, and turns away All shafts of shelterless tumultuous day. Like the moon's growth, his face gleams through his tune; And as soft waters warble to the moon, Our answering spirits chime one roundelay.

Not in thy body is thy life at all But in this lady's lips and hands and eyes; Through these she yields thee life that vivifies What else were sorrow's servant and death's thrall. Look on thyself without her, and recall The waste remembrance and forlorn surmise That liv'd but in a dead-drawn breath of sighs O'er vanish'd hours and hours eventual. Even so much life hath the poor tress of hair Which, stor'd apart, is all love hath to show For heart-beats and for fire-heats long ago; Even so much life endures unknown, even where, 'Mid change the changeless night environeth, Lies all that golden hair undimm'd in death.

Like labour-laden moonclouds faint to flee From winds that sweep the winter-bitten wold,— Like multiform circumfluence manifold Of night's flood-tide,—like terrors that agree Of hoarse-tongued fire and inarticulate sea,— Even such, within some glass dimm'd by our breath, Our hearts discern wild images of Death, Shadows and shoals that edge eternity. Howbeit athwart Death's imminent shade doth soar One Power, than flow of stream or flight of dove Sweeter to glide around, to brood above. Tell me, my heart,—what angel-greeted door Or threshold of wing-winnow'd threshing-floor Hath guest fire-fledg'd as thine, whose lord is Love?

What of her glass without her? The blank gray There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face. Her dress without her? The tossed empty space Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away. Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place Without her? Tears, ah me! for love’s good grace, And cold forgetfulness of night or day. What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart, Of thee what word remains ere speech be still? A wayfarer by barren ways and chill, Steep ways and weary, without her thou art, Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart, Sheds doubled darkness up the labouring hill.

Eat thou and drink; to-morrow thou shalt die. Surely the earth, that's wise being very old, Needs not our help. Then loose me, love, and hold Thy sultry hair up from my face; that I May pour for thee this golden wine, brim-high, Till round the glass thy fingers glow like gold. We'll drown all hours: thy song, while hours are toll'd, Shall leap, as fountains veil the changing sky. Now kiss, and think that there are really those, My own high-bosom'd beauty, who increase Vain gold, vain lore, and yet might choose our way! Through many years they toil; then on a day They die not,—for their life was death,—but cease; And round their narrow lips the mould falls close.

Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt die. Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death? Is not the day which God's word promiseth To come man knows not when? In yonder sky, Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: can I Or thou assure him of his goal? God's breath Even at this moment haply quickeneth The air to a flame; till spirits, always nigh Though screen'd and hid, shall walk the daylight here. And dost thou prate of all that man shall do? Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be Glad in his gladness that comes after thee? Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? Go to: Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear.

Think thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die Outstretch'd in the sun's warmth upon the shore, Thou say'st: "Man's measur'd path is all gone o'er: Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, Man clomb until he touch'd the truth; and I, Even I, am he whom it was destin'd for." How should this be? Art thou then so much more Than they who sow'd, that thou shouldst reap thereby? Nay, come up hither. From this wave-wash'd mound Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me; Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd. Miles and miles distant though the last line be, And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,— Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.

Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unutter'd the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that wing'd Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

I will build a house of rest, Square the corners every one: At each angle on his breast Shall a cherub take the sun; Rising, risen, sinking, down, Weaving day’s unequal crown. In the chambers, light as air, Shall responsive footsteps fall: Brother, sister, art thou there? Hush! we need not jar nor call; Need not turn to seek the face Shut in rapture’s hiding-place. Heavy load and mocking care Shall from back and bosom part; Thought shall reach the thrill of prayer, Patience plan the dome of art. None shall praise or merit claim, Not a joy be called by name. With a free, unmeasured tread Shall we pace the cloisters through: Rest, enfranchised, like the Dead; Rest till Love be born anew. Weary Thought shall take his time, Free of task-work, loosed from rhyme. No reproof shall grieve or chill; Every sin doth stand confest; None need murmur, ‘This was ill’: Therefore do they grant us rest; Contemplation making whole Every ruin of the soul. Pictures shall as softly look As in distance shows delight; Slowly shall each saintly book Turn its pages in our sight; Not the study’s wealth confuse, Urging zeal to pale abuse. Children through the windows peep, Not reproachful, though our own; Hushed the parent passion deep, And the household’s eager tone. One above, divine and true, Makes us children like to you. Measured bread shall build us up At the hospitable board; In Contentment’s golden cup Is the guileless liquor poured. May the beggar pledge the king In that spirit gathering, Oh! my house is far away; Yet it sometimes shuts me in. Imperfection mars each day While the perfect works begin. In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest.