SHE comes not when Noon is on the roses
Too bright is Day.
She comes not to the Soul till
From work and play.
But when Night is on the hills, and the great Voices
Roll in from Sea,
By starlight and by candlelight
She comes to me.
IF thou hast squanderd years to grave a gem
Commissiond by thy absent Lord, and while
Others would bribe thy needy skill to them
Dismiss them to the street!
Shouldst thou at last discover Beautys grove,
At last be panting on the fragrant verge,
Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love
Turn at her bidding back.
When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears,
And every spectre mutters up more dire
And loose to madness thy deep-kennelld Fears
Then to the helm, O Soul!
Last; if upon the cold green-mantling sea
Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar,
And one must perishlet it not be he
Whom thou art sworn to obey!
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