SONGS OF THE AUTUMN NIGHTS.

I.

  O night, send up the harvest moon
    To walk about the fields,
  And make of midnight magic noon
    On lonely tarns and wealds.

  In golden ranks, with golden crowns,
    All in the yellow land,
  Old solemn kings in rustling gowns,
    The shocks moon-charmed stand.

  Sky-mirror she, afloat in space,
    Beholds our coming morn:
  Her heavenly joy hath such a grace,
    It ripens earthly corn;

  Like some lone saint with upward eyes,
    Lost in the deeps of prayer:
  The people still their prayers and sighs,
    And gazing ripen there.

II.

  So, like the corn moon-ripened last,
    Would I, weary and gray,
  On golden memories ripen fast,
    And ripening pass away.

  In an old night so let me die;
    A slow wind out of doors;
  A waning moon low in the sky;
    A vapour on the moors;

  A fire just dying in the gloom;
    Earth haunted all with dreams;
  A sound of waters in the room;
    A mirror's moony gleams;

  And near me, in the sinking night,
    More thoughts than move in me—
  Forgiving wrong, and loving right,
    And waiting till I see.

III.

  Across the stubble glooms the wind;
    High sails the lated crow;
  The west with pallid green is lined;
    Fog tracks the river's flow.

  My heart is cold and sad; I moan,
    Yet care not for my grief;
  The summer fervours all are gone;
    The roses are but leaf.

  Old age is coming, frosty, hoar;
    The snows of time will fall;
  My jubilance, dream-like, no more
    Returns for any call!

  O lapsing heart! thy feeble strain
    Sends up the blood so spare,
  That my poor withering autumn brain
    Sees autumn everywhere!

IV.

  Lord of my life! if I am blind,
    I reck not—thou canst see;
  I well may wait my summer mind,
    When I am sure of thee!

  I made no brave bright suns arise,
    Veiled up no sweet gray eves;
  I hung no rose-lamps, lit no eyes,
    Sent out no windy leaves!

  I said not "I will cast a charm
    These gracious forms around;"
  My heart with unwilled love grew warm;
    I took but what I found!

  When cold winds range my winter-night,
    Be thou my summer-door;
  Keep for me all my young delight,
    Till I am old no more.

SONGS OF THE WINTER DAYS.

I.

  The sky has turned its heart away,
    The earth its sorrow found;
  The daisies turn from childhood's play,
    And creep into the ground.

  The earth is black and cold and hard;
    Thin films of dry white ice,
  Across the rugged wheel-tracks barred,
    The children's feet entice.

  Dark flows the stream, as if it mourned
    The winter in the land;
  With idle icicles adorned,
    That mill-wheel soon will stand.

  But, friends, to say 'tis cold, and part,
    Is to let in the cold;
  We'll make a summer of the heart,
    And laugh at winter old.

II.

  With vague dead gleam the morning white
    Comes through the window-panes;
  The clouds have fallen all the night,
    Without the noise of rains.

  As of departing, unseen ghost,
    Footprints go from the door;
  The man himself must long be lost
    Who left those footprints hoar!

  Yet follow thou; tread down the snow;
    Leave all the road behind;
  Heed not the winds that steely blow,
    Heed not the sky unkind;

  For though the glittering air grow dark,
    The snow will shine till morn;
  And long ere then one dear home-spark
    Will winter laugh to scorn.

III.

  Oh wildly wild the roaring blast
    Torments the fallen snow!
  The wintry storms are up at last,
    And care not how they go!

  In foam-like wreaths the water hoar,
    Rapt whistling in the air,
  Gleams through the dismal twilight frore;
    A region in despair,

  A spectral ocean lies outside,
    Torn by a tempest dark;
  Its ghostly billows, dim descried,
    Leap on my stranded bark.

  Death-sheeted figures, long and white,
    Rave driving through the spray;
  Or, bosomed in the ghastly night,
    Shriek doom-cries far away.

IV.

  A morning clear, with frosty light
    From sunbeams late and low;
  They shine upon the snow so white,
    And shine back from the snow.

  Down tusks of ice one drop will go,
    Nor fall: at sunny noon
  'Twill hang a diamond—fade, and grow
    An opal for the moon.

  And when the bright sad sun is low
    Behind the mountain-dome,
  A twilight wind will come and blow
    Around the children's home,

  And puff and waft the powdery snow,
    As feet unseen did pass;
  While, waiting in its bed below,
    Green lies the summer grass.

SONGS OF THE WINTER NIGHTS.

I.

  Back shining from the pane, the fire
    Seems outside in the snow:
  So love set free from love's desire
    Lights grief of long ago.

  The dark is thinned with snow-sheen fine,
    The earth bedecked with moon;
  Out on the worlds we surely shine
    More radiant than in June!

  In the white garden lies a heap
    As brown as deep-dug mould:
  A hundred partridges that keep
    Each other from the cold.

  My father gives them sheaves of corn,
    For shelter both and food:
  High hope in me was early born,
    My father was so good.

II.

  The frost weaves ferns and sultry palms
    Across my clouded pane;
  Weaves melodies of ancient psalms
    All through my passive brain.

  Quiet ecstasy fills heart and head:
    My father is in the room;
  The very curtains of my bed
    Are from Love's sheltering loom!

  The lovely vision melts away;
    I am a child no more;
  Work rises from the floor of play;
    Duty is at the door.

  But if I face with courage stout
    The labour and the din,
  Thou, Lord, wilt let my mind go out
    My heart with thee stay in.

III.

  Up to my ear my soul doth run—
    Her other door is dark;
  There she can see without the sun,
    And there she sits to mark.

  I hear the dull unheeding wind
    Mumble o'er heath and wold;
  My fancy leaves my brain behind,
    And floats into the cold.

  Like a forgotten face that lies
    One of the speechless crowd,
  The earth lies spent, with frozen eyes,
    White-folded in her shroud.

  O'er leafless woods and cornless farms,
    Dead rivers, fireless thorps,
  I brood, the heart still throbbing warm
    In Nature's wintered corpse.

IV.

  To all the world mine eyes are blind:
    Their drop serene is—night,
  With stores of snow piled up the wind
    An awful airy height.

  And yet 'tis but a mote in the eye:
    The simple faithful stars
  Beyond are shining, careless high,
    Nor heed our storms and jars.

  And when o'er storm and jar I climb—
    Beyond life's atmosphere,
  I shall behold the lord of time
    And space—of world and year.

  Oh vain, far quest!—not thus my heart
    Shall ever find its goal!
  I turn me home—and there thou art,
    My Father, in my soul!

SONGS OF THE SPRING DAYS.

I.

  A gentle wind, of western birth
    On some far summer sea,
  Wakes daisies in the wintry earth,
    Wakes hopes in wintry me.

  The sun is low; the paths are wet,
    And dance with frolic hail;
  The trees—their spring-time is not yet—
    Swing sighing in the gale.

  Young gleams of sunshine peep and play;
    Clouds shoulder in between;
  I scarce believe one coming day
    The earth will all be green.

  The north wind blows, and blasts, and raves,
    And flaps his snowy wing:
  Back! toss thy bergs on arctic waves;
    Thou canst not bar our spring.

II.

  Up comes the primrose, wondering;
    The snowdrop droopeth by;
  The holy spirit of the spring
    Is working silently.

  Soft-breathing breezes woo and wile
    The later children out;
  O'er woods and farms a sunny smile
    Is flickering about.

  The earth was cold, hard-hearted, dull;
    To death almost she slept:
  Over her, heaven grew beautiful,
    And forth her beauty crept.

  Showers yet must fall, and waters grow
    Dark-wan with furrowing blast;
  But suns will shine, and soft winds blow,
    Till the year flowers at last.

III.

  The sky is smiling over me,
    Hath smiled away the frost;
  White daisies star the sky-like lea,
    With buds the wood's embossed.

  Troops of wild flowers gaze at the sky
    Up through the latticed boughs;
  Till comes the green cloud by and by,
    It is not time to house.

  Yours is the day, sweet bird—sing on;
    The winter is forgot;
  Like an ill dream 'tis over and gone:
    Pain that is past, is not.

  Joy that was past is yet the same:
    If care the summer brings,
  'Twill only be another name
    For love that broods, not sings.

IV.

  Blow on me, wind, from west and south;
    Sweet summer-spirit, blow!
  Come like a kiss from dear child's mouth,
    Who knows not what I know.

  The earth's perfection dawneth soon;
    Ours lingereth alway;
  We have a morning, not a noon;
    Spring, but no summer gay.

  Rose-blotted eve, gold-branded morn
    Crown soon the swift year's life:
  In us a higher hope is born,
    And claims a longer strife.

  Will heaven be an eternal spring
    With summer at the door?
  Or shall we one day tell its king
    That we desire no more?

SONGS OF THE SPRING NIGHTS.

I.

  The flush of green that dyed the day
    Hath vanished in the moon;
  Flower-scents float stronger out, and play
    An unborn, coming tune.

  One southern eve like this, the dew
    Had cooled and left the ground;
  The moon hung half-way from the blue,
    No disc, but conglobed round;

  Light-leaved acacias, by the door,
    Bathed in the balmy air,
  Clusters of blossomed moonlight bore,
    And breathed a perfume rare;

  Great gold-flakes from the starry sky
    Fell flashing on the deep:
  One scent of moist earth floating by,
    Almost it made me weep.

II.

  Those gorgeous stars were not my own,
    They made me alien go!
  The mother o'er her head had thrown
    A veil I did not know!

  The moon-blanched fields that seaward went,
    The palm-flung, dusky shades,
  Bore flowering grasses, knotted, bent,
    No slender, spear-like blades.

  I longed to see the starry host
    Afar in fainter blue;
  But plenteous grass I missed the most,
    With daisies glimmering through.

  The common things were not the same!
    I longed across the foam:
  From dew-damp earth that odour came—
    I knew the world my home.

III.

  The stars are glad in gulfy space—
    Friendly the dark to them!
  From day's deep mine, their hiding-place,
    Night wooeth every gem.

  A thing for faith 'mid labour's jar,
    When up the day is furled,
  Shines in the sky a light afar,
    Mayhap a home-filled world.

  Sometimes upon the inner sky
    We catch a doubtful shine:
  A mote or star? A flash in the eye
    Or jewel of God's mine?

  A star to us, all glimmer and glance,
    May teem with seraphim:
  A fancy to our ignorance
    May be a truth to Him.

IV.

  The night is damp and warm and still,
    And soft with summer dreams;
  The buds are bursting at their will,
    And shy the half moon gleams.

  My soul is cool, as bathed within
    By dews that silent weep—
  Like child that has confessed his sin,
    And now will go to sleep.

  My body ages, form and hue;
    But when the spring winds blow,
  My spirit stirs and buds anew,
    Younger than long ago.

  Lord, make me more a child, and more,
    Till Time his own end bring,
  And out of every winter sore
    I pass into thy spring.

A BOOK OF DREAMS.

PART I.

I.

  I lay and dreamed. The Master came,
    In seamless garment drest;
  I stood in bonds 'twixt love and shame,
    Not ready to be blest.

  He stretched his arms, and gently sought
    To clasp me to his heart;
  I shrank, for I, unthinking, thought
    He knew me but in part.

  I did not love him as I would!
    Embraces were not meet!
  I dared not ev'n stand where he stood—
    I fell and kissed his feet.

  Years, years have passed away since then;
    Oft hast thou come to me;
  The question scarce will rise again
    Whether I care for thee.

  In thee lies hid my unknown heart,
    In thee my perfect mind;
  In all my joys, my Lord, thou art
    The deeper joy behind.

  But when fresh light and visions bold
    My heart and hope expand,
  Up comes the vanity of old
    That now I understand:

  Away, away from thee I drift,
    Forgetting, not forgot;
  Till sudden yawns a downward rift—
    I start—and see thee not.

  Ah, then come sad, unhopeful hours!
    All in the dark I stray,
  Until my spirit fainting cowers
    On the threshold of the day.

  Hence not even yet I child-like dare
    Nestle unto thy breast,
  Though well I know that only there
    Lies hid the secret rest.

  But now I shrink not from thy will,
    Nor, guilty, judge my guilt;
  Thy good shall meet and slay my ill—
    Do with me as thou wilt.

  If I should dream that dream once more,
    Me in my dreaming meet;
  Embrace me, Master, I implore,
    And let me kiss thy feet.

II.

  I stood before my childhood's home,
    Outside its belt of trees;
  All round my glances flit and roam
    O'er well-known hills and leas;

  When sudden rushed across the plain
    A host of hurrying waves,
  Loosed by some witchery of the brain
    From far, dream-hidden caves.

  And up the hill they clomb and came,
    A wild, fast-flowing sea:
  Careless I looked as on a game;
    No terror woke in me.

  For, just the belting trees within,
    I saw my father wait;
  And should the waves the summit win,
    There was the open gate!

  With him beside, all doubt was dumb;
    There let the waters foam!
  No mightiest flood would dare to come
    And drown his holy home!

  Two days passed by. With restless toss,
    The red flood brake its doors;
  Prostrate I lay, and looked across
    To the eternal shores.

  The world was fair, and hope was high;
    My friends had all been true;
  Life burned in me, and Death and I
    Would have a hard ado.

  Sudden came back the dream so good,
    My trouble to abate:
  At his own door my Father stood—
    I just without the gate!

  "Thou know'st what is, and what appears,"
    I said; "mine eyes to thine
  Are windows; thou hear'st with thine ears,
    But also hear'st with mine:"

  "Thou knowest my weak soul's dismay,
    How trembles my life's node;
  Thou art the potter, I am the clay—
    'Tis thine to bear the load."

III.

  A piece of gold had left my purse,
    Which I had guarded ill;
  I feared a lack, but feared yet worse
    Regret returning still.

  I lifted up my feeble prayer
    To him who maketh strong,
  That thence no haunting thoughts of care
    Might do my spirit wrong.

  And even before my body slept,
    Such visions fair I had,
  That seldom soul with chamber swept
    Was more serenely glad.

  No white-robed angel floated by
    On slow, reposing wings;
  I only saw, with inward eye,
    Some very common things.

  First rose the scarlet pimpernel
    With burning purple heart;
  I saw within it, and could spell
    The lesson of its art.

  Then came the primrose, child-like flower,
    And looked me in the face;
  It bore a message full of power,
    And confidence, and grace.

  And breezes rose on pastures trim
    And bathed me all about;
  Wool-muffled sheep-bells babbled dim,
    Or only half spoke out.

  Sudden it closed, some door of heaven,
    But what came out remained:
  The poorest man my loss had given
    For that which I had gained!

  Thou gav'st me, Lord, a brimming cup
    Where I bemoaned a sip;
  How easily thou didst make up
   For that my fault let slip!

  What said the flowers? what message new
    Embalmed my soul with rest?
  I scarce can tell—only they grew
    Right out of God's own breast.

  They said, to every flower he made
    God's thought was root and stem—
  Perhaps said what the lilies said
    When Jesus looked at them.

IV.

  Sometimes, in daylight hours, awake,
    Our souls with visions teem
  Which to the slumbering brain would take
    The form of wondrous dream.

  Once, with my thought-sight, I descried
    A plain with hills around;
  A lordly company on each side
    Leaves bare the middle ground.

  Great terrace-steps at one end rise
    To something like a throne,
  And thither all the radiant eyes,
    As to a centre, shone.

  A snow-white glory, dim-defined,
    Those seeking eyes beseech—
  Him who was not in fire or wind,
    But in the gentle speech.

  They see his eyes far-fixed wait:
    Adown the widening vale
  They, turning, look; their breath they bate,
    With dread-filled wonder pale.

  In raiment worn and blood-bedewed,
    With faltering step and numb,
  Toward the shining multitude
    A weary man did come.

  His face was white, and still-composed,
    As of a man nigh dead;
  The eyes, through eyelids half unclosed,
    A faint, wan splendour shed.

  Drops on his hair disordered hung
    Like rubies dull of hue;
  His hands were pitifully wrung,
    And stricken through and through.

  Silent they stood with tender awe:
    Between their ranks he came;
  Their tearful eyes looked down, and saw
    What made his feet so lame.

  He reached the steps below the throne,
    There sank upon his knees;
  Clasped his torn hands with stifled groan,
    And spake in words like these:—

  "Father, I am come back. Thy will
    Is sometimes hard to do."
  From all that multitude so still
    A sound of weeping grew.

  Then mournful-glad came down the One;
    He kneeled and clasped his child;
  Lay on his breast the outworn man,
    And wept until he smiled.

  The people, who, in bitter woe
    And love, had sobbed and cried,
  Raised aweful eyes at length—and, Lo,
    The two sat side by side!

V.

  Dreaming I slept. Three crosses stood
    High in the gloomy air;
  One bore a thief, and one the Good;
    The other waited bare.

  A soldier came up to the place,
    And took me for the third;
  My eyes they sought the Master's face,
    My will the Master's word.

  He bent his head; I took the sign,
    And gave the error way;
  Gesture nor look nor word of mine
    The secret should betray.

  The soldier from the cross's foot
    Turned. I stood waiting there:
  That grim, expectant tree, for fruit
    My dying form must bear.

  Up rose the steaming mists of doubt
    And chilled both heart and brain;
  They shut the world of vision out,
    And fear saw only pain.

  "Ah me, my hands! the hammer's blow!
    The nails that rend and pierce!
  The shock may stun, but, slow and slow,
    The torture will grow fierce."

  "Alas, the awful fight with death!
    The hours to hang and die!
  The thirsting gasp for common breath!
    The weakness that would cry!"

  My soul returned: "A faintness soon
    Will shroud thee in its fold;
  The hours will bring the fearful noon;
    'Twill pass—and thou art cold."

  "'Tis his to care that thou endure,
    To curb or loose the pain;
  With bleeding hands hang on thy cure—
    It shall not be in vain."

  But, ah, the will, which thus could quail,
    Might yield—oh, horror drear!
  Then, more than love, the fear to fail
    Kept down the other fear.

  I stood, nor moved. But inward strife
    The bonds of slumber broke:
  Oh! had I fled, and lost the life
    Of which the Master spoke?

VI.

  Methinks I hear, as o'er this life's dim dial
    The last shades darken, friends say, "He was good;"
  I struggling fail to speak my faint denial—
    They whisper, "His humility withstood."

  I, knowing better, part with love unspoken;
    And find the unknown world not all unknown:
  The bonds that held me from my centre broken,
    I seek my home, the Saviour's homely throne.

  How he will greet me, walking on, I wonder;
    I think I know what I will say to him;
  I fear no sapphire floor of cloudless thunder,
    I fear no passing vision great and dim.

  But he knows all my weary sinful story:
    How will he judge me, pure, and strong, and fair?
  I come to him in all his conquered glory,
    Won from the life that I went dreaming there!

  I come; I fall before him, faintly saying:
    "Ah, Lord, shall I thy loving pardon win?
  Earth tempted me; my walk was but a straying;
    I have no honour—but may I come in?"

  I hear him say: "Strong prayer did keep me stable;
    To me the earth was very lovely too:
  Thou shouldst have prayed; I would have made thee able
    To love it greatly!—but thou hast got through."

PART II.

I.

  A gloomy and a windy day!
    No sunny spot is bare;
  Dull vapours, in uncomely play,
    Go weltering through the air:
  If through the windows of my mind
    I let them come and go,
  My thoughts will also in the wind
    Sweep restless to and fro.

  I drop my curtains for a dream.—
    What comes? A mighty swan,
  With plumage like a sunny gleam,
    And folded airy van!
  She comes, from sea-plains dreaming, sent
    By sea-maids to my shore,
  With stately head proud-humbly bent,
    And slackening swarthy oar.

  Lone in a vaulted rock I lie,
     A water-hollowed cell,
  Where echoes of old storms go by,
    Like murmurs in a shell.
  The waters half the gloomy way
    Beneath its arches come;
  Throbbing to outside billowy play,
    The green gulfs waver dumb.

  Undawning twilights through the cave
    In moony glimmers go,
  Half from the swan above the wave,
    Half from the swan below,

  As to my feet she gently drifts
    Through dim, wet-shiny things,
  And, with neck low-curved backward, lifts
    The shoulders of her wings.

  Old earth is rich with many a nest
    Of softness ever new,
  Deep, delicate, and full of rest—
    But loveliest there are two:
  I may not tell them save to minds
    That are as white as they;
  But none will hear, of other kinds—
    They all are turned away.

  On foamy mounds between the wings
    Of a white sailing swan,
  A flaky bed of shelterings,
    There you will find the one.
  The other—well, it will not out,
    Nor need I tell it you;
  I've told you one, and can you doubt,
    When there are only two?

  Fill full my dream, O splendid bird!
    Me o'er the waters bear:
  Never was tranquil ocean stirred
    By ship so shapely fair!
  Nor ever whiteness found a dress
    In which on earth to go,
  So true, profound, and rich, unless
    It was the falling snow!

  Her wings, with flutter half-aloft,
    Impatient fan her crown;
  I cannot choose but nestle soft
    Into the depth of down.

  With oary-pulsing webs unseen,
    Out the white frigate sweeps;
  In middle space we hang, between
    The air- and ocean-deeps.

  Up the wave's mounting, flowing side,
    With stroke on stroke we rack;
  As down the sinking slope we slide,
    She cleaves a talking track—
  Like heather-bells on lonely steep,
    Like soft rain on the glass,
  Like children murmuring in their sleep,
    Like winds in reedy grass.

  Her white breast heaving like a wave,
    She beats the solemn time;
  With slow strong sweep, intent and grave,
    Hearkens the ripples rime.
  All round, from flat gloom upward drawn,
    I catch the gleam, vague, wide,
  With which the waves, from dark to dawn,
    Heave up the polished side.

  The night is blue; the stars aglow
    Crowd the still, vaulted steep,
  Sad o'er the hopeless, restless flow
    Of the self-murmurous deep—
  A thicker night, with gathered moan!
    A dull dethroned sky!
  The shadows of its stars alone
    Left in to know it by!

  What faints across yon lifted loop
    Where the west gleams its last?
  With sea-veiled limbs, a sleeping group
    Of Nereids dreaming past.

  Row on, fair swan;—who knows but I,
    Ere night hath sought her cave,
  May see in splendour pale float by
    The Venus of the wave!

II.

  A rainbow-wave o'erflowed her,
    A glory that deepened and grew,
  A song of colour and odour
    That thrilled her through and through:
  'Twas a dream of too much gladness
    Ever to see the light;
  They are only dreams of sadness
    That weary out the night.

  Slow darkness began to rifle
    The nest of the sunset fair;
  Dank vapour began to stifle
    The scents that enriched the air;
  The flowers paled fast and faster,
    They crumbled, leaf and crown,
  Till they looked like the stained plaster
    Of a cornice fallen down.

  And the change crept nigh and nigher,
    Inward and closer stole,
  Till the flameless, blasting fire
    Entered and withered her soul.—
  But the fiends had only flouted
    Her vision of the night;
  Up came the morn and routed
    The darksome things with light.

  Wide awake I have often been in it—
    The dream that all is none;
  It will come in the gladdest minute
    And wither the very sun.

  Two moments of sad commotion,
    One more of doubt's palsied rule—
  And the great wave-pulsing ocean
    Is only a gathered pool;

  A flower is a spot of painting,
    A lifeless, loveless hue;
  Though your heart be sick to fainting
    It says not a word to you;
  A bird knows nothing of gladness,
    Is only a song-machine;
  A man is a reasoning madness,
    A woman a pictured queen!

  Then fiercely we dig the fountain:
    Oh! whence do the waters rise?
  Then panting we climb the mountain:
    Oh! are there indeed blue skies?
  We dig till the soul is weary,
    Nor find the water-nest out;
  We climb to the stone-crest dreary,
    And still the sky is a doubt!

  Let alone the roots of the fountain;
    Drink of the water bright;
  Leave the sky at rest on the mountain,
    Walk in its torrent of light;
  Although thou seest no beauty,
    Though widowed thy heart yet cries,
  With thy hands go and do thy duty,
    And thy work will clear thine eyes.

III.

  A great church in an empty square,
    A haunt of echoing tones!
  Feet pass not oft enough to wear
    The grass between the stones.

  The jarring hinges of its gates
    A stifled thunder boom;
  The boding heart slow-listening waits,
    As for a coming doom.

  The door stands wide. With hideous grin,
    Like dumb laugh, evil, frore,
  A gulf of death, all dark within,
    Hath swallowed half the floor.

  Its uncouth sides of earth and clay
    O'erhang the void below;
  Ah, some one force my feet away,
    Or down I needs must go!

  See, see the horrid, crumbling slope!
    It breathes up damp and fust!
  What man would for his lost loves grope
    Amid the charnel dust!

  Down, down! The coffined mould glooms high!
    Methinks, with anguish dull,
  I enter by the empty eye
    Into a monstrous skull!

  Stumbling on what I dare not guess,
    Blind-wading through the gloom,
  Still down, still on, I sink, I press,
    To meet some awful doom.

  My searching hands have caught a door
    With iron clenched and barred:
  Here, the gaunt spider's castle-core,
    Grim Death keeps watch and ward!

  Its two leaves shake, its bars are bowed,
    As if a ghastly wind,
  That never bore a leaf or cloud,
    Were pressing hard behind.

  They shake, they groan, they outward strain:
    What thing of dire dismay
  Will freeze its form upon my brain,
    And fright my soul away?

  They groan, they shake, they bend, they crack;
    The bars, the doors divide;
  A flood of glory at their back
    Hath burst the portals wide!

  In flows a summer afternoon;
    I know the very breeze!
  It used to blow the silvery moon
    About the summer trees.

  The gulf is filled with flashing tides;
    Blue sky through boughs looks in;
  Mosses and ferns o'er floor and sides
    A mazy arras spin.

  The empty church, the yawning cleft,
    The earthy, dead despair
  Are gone, and I alive am left
    In sunshine and in air!

IV.

  Some dreams, in slumber's twilight, sly
    Through the ivory wicket creep;
  Then suddenly the inward eye
    Sees them outside the sleep.

  Once, wandering in the border gray,
    I spied one past me swim;
  I caught it on its truant way
    To nowhere in the dim.

  All o'er a steep of grassy ground,
    Lay ruined statues old,
  Such forms as never more are found
    Save deep in ancient mould,

  A host of marble Anakim
    Shattered in deadly fight!
  Oh, what a wealth one broken limb
    Had been to waking sight!

  But sudden, the weak mind to mock
    That could not keep its own,
  Without a shiver or a shock,
    Behold, the dream was gone!

  For each dim form of marble rare
    Stood broken rush or reed;
  So bends on autumn field, long bare,
    Some tall rain-battered weed.

  The shapeless night hung empty, drear,
    O'er my scarce slumbering head;
  There is no good in staying here,
    My spirit moaned, and fled.

V.

  The simplest joys that daily pass
    Grow ecstasies in sleep;
  A wind on heights of waving grass
    In a dream has made me weep.

  No wonder then my heart one night
    Was joy-full to the brim:
  I was with one whose love and might
    Had drawn me close to him!

  But from a church into the street
    Came pouring, crowding on,
  A troubled throng with hurrying feet,
    And Lo, my friend was gone!

  Alone upon a miry road
    I walked a wretched plain;
  Onward without a goal I strode
    Through mist and drizzling rain.

  Low mounds of ruin, ugly pits,
    And brick-fields scarred the globe;
  Those wastes where desolation sits
    Without her ancient robe.

  The dreariness, the nothingness
    Grew worse almost than fear;
  If ever hope was needful bliss,
    Hope sure was needful here!

  Did potent wish work joyous change
    Like wizard's glamour-spell?
  Wishes not always fruitless range,
    And sometimes it is well!

  I know not. Sudden sank the way,
    Burst in the ocean-waves;
  Behold a bright, blue-billowed bay,
    Red rocks and sounding caves!

  Dreaming, I wept. Awake, I ask—
    Shall earthly dreams, forsooth,
  Set the old Heavens too hard a task
    To match them with the truth?

VI.

  Once more I build a dream, awake,
    Which sleeping I would dream;
  Once more an unborn fancy take
    And try to make it seem!
  Some strange delight shall fill my breast,
    Enticed from sleep's abyss,
  With sense of motion, yet of rest,
    Of sleep, yet waking bliss!

  It comes!—I lie on something warm
    That lifts me from below;
  It rounds me like a mighty arm
    Though soft as drifted snow.
  A dream, indeed!—Oh, happy me
    Whom Titan woman bears
  Afloat upon a gentle sea
    Of wandering midnight airs!

  A breeze, just cool enough to lave
    With sense each conscious limb,
  Glides round and under, like a wave
    Of twilight growing dim!
  She bears me over sleeping towns,
    O'er murmuring ears of corn;
  O'er tops of trees, o'er billowy downs,
    O'er moorland wastes forlorn.

  The harebells in the mountain-pass
    Flutter their blue about;
  The myriad blades of meadow grass
    Float scarce-heard music out.
  Over the lake!—ah! nearer float,
    Nearer the water's breast;
  Let me look deeper—let me doat
    Upon that lily-nest.

  Old homes we brush—in wood, on road;
    Their windows do not shine;
  Their dwellers must be all abroad
    In lovely dreams like mine!
  Hark—drifting syllables that break
    Like foam-bells on fleet ships!
  The little airs are all awake
    With softly kissing lips.

  Light laughter ripples down the wind,
    Sweet sighs float everywhere;
  But when I look I nothing find,
    For every star is there.
  O lady lovely, lady strong,
    Ungiven thy best gift lies!
  Thou bear'st me in thine arms along,
    Dost not reveal thine eyes!

  Pale doubt lifts up a snaky crest,
    In darts a pang of loss:
  My outstretched hand, for hills of rest,
    Finds only mounds of moss!
  Faint and far off the stars appear;
    The wind begins to weep;
  'Tis night indeed, chilly and drear,
    And all but me asleep!