WHY, having won her, do I woo?
Because her spirits vestal grace
Provokes me always to
But, spirit-like, eludes embrace;
Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects
The Queens hand, yet so near a touch
Affirms no mean familiarness;
Nay, rather marks more fair
Which can with safety so neglect
To dread, as lower ladies might,
That grace could meet with
Thus she with happy favour feeds
Allegiance from a love so high
That thence no false conceit
Of difference bridged, or state put by;
Because although in act and word
As lowly as a wife can
Her manners, when they call me lord,
Remind me tis by courtesy;
Not with her least consent of will,
would my proud affection hurt,
But by the noble style that still
Imputes an unattaind desert;
gay and lofty brows,
When all is won which hope can ask,
Reflect a light of hopeless snows,
in virgin ether bask;
Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine
Heaven; because, in short,
Shes not and never can be mine.
IT was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have naught other to lament,
my Love, repent
Of how, that July afternoon,
With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
Upon your journey of so many days
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?
I knew, indeed, that you
were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low suns rays,
You whispering to me, for your voice was
Your harrowing praise.
Well, it was well
To hear you such things speak,
And I could tell
your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your
great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash
let the laughter flash,
Whilst I drew near,
Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear,
at once to leave me at the last,
More at the wonder than the loss aghast,
With huddled, unintelligible
And frightend eye,
And go your journey of all days
With not one kiss, or a good-bye,
And the only
loveless look the look with which you passd:
Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.
MY little Son, who lookd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
my law the seventh time disobeyd,
I struck him, and dismissd
With hard words and unkissd,
who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,
him slumbering deep,
With darkend eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with
Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put,
within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-veind stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach.
six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells,
And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I prayd
To God, I wept, and said:
Ah, when at last we lie with
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded
from the clay,
Thoult leave Thy wrath, and say,
I will be sorry for their childishness.
HERE, in this little Bay,
Full of tumultuous life and great repose,
Where, twice a day,
glad ocean comes and goes,
Under high cliffs, and far from the huge town,
I sit me down.
For want of me the worlds course will not fail;
When all its work is done, the lie shall rot;
truth is great, and shall prevail,
When none cares whether it prevail or not.