PRAY but one prayer for me twixt thy closed lips,
Think but one thought of me up in the stars.
night waneth, the morning light slips
Faint and gray twixt the leaves of the aspen, betwixt the
That are patiently waiting there for the dawn:
Patient and colourless, though Heavens gold
float through them along with the sun.
Far out in the meadows, above the young corn,
The heavy elms
wait, and restless and cold
The uneasy wind rises; the roses are dun;
Through the long twilight they pray
for the dawn
Round the lone house in the midst of the corn.
Speak but one word to me over the corn,
the tender, bowd locks of the corn.
LOVE is enough: though the World be a-waning,
And the woods have no voice but the voice of com-
the sky be too dark for dim eyes to discover
The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a dark wonder
And this day draw a veil over
all deeds passd over,
Yet their hands shall not tremble, their feet shall not falter;
The void shall not weary,
the fear shall not alter
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the lover.
THE winds on the wold
And the night is a-cold,
And Thames runs chill
Twixt mead and hill.
kind and dear
Is the old house here
And my heart is warm
Midst winters harm.
Rest then and rest,
think of the best
Twixt summer and spring,
When all birds sing
In the town of the tree,
And ye lie in me
scarce dare move,
Lest the earth and its love
Should fade away
Ere the full of the day.
I am old and have
Many things that have been:
Both grief and peace
And wane and increase.
No tale I tell
Of ill or well,
this I say:
Night treadeth on day,
And for worst or best
Right good is rest.
I KNOW a little garden-close
Set thick with lily and red rose,
Where I would wander if I might
dewy dawn to dewy night,
And have one with me wandering.
And though within it no birds sing,
And though no pillard house is there,
And though the apple
boughs are bare
Of fruit and blossom, would to God,
Her feet upon the green grass trod,
And I beheld
them as before!
There comes a murmur from the shore,
And in the place two fair streams are,
the purple hills afar,
Drawn down unto the restless sea;
The hills whose flowers neer fed the bee,
shore no ship has ever seen,
Still beaten by the billows green,
Whose murmur comes unceasingly
the place for which I cry.
For which I cry both day and night,
For which I let slip all delight,
That maketh me both deaf
Careless to win, unskilld to find,
And quick to lose what all men seek.
Yet tottering as I am, and weak,
Still have I left a little breath
To seek within the jaws of death
entrance to that happy place;
To seek the unforgotten face
Once seen, once kissd, once reft from me
the murmuring of the sea.
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