Finding his proper food In all things pure and good, For happy, happy hours! V. The thoughts of Love are Poesy, And Love is ours by our birthright! Hand in hand, they weave their dance, From their rounded limbs doth shine, In our gross and earthly hours We cannot see the Love-given powers To do its sovereign will, When, in its moments calm and still, It re-assumes its royal state, Nor longer sits with eyes downcast, VI. I too am a Maker and a Poet; Through my whole soul I feel it and know it; My veins are fired with ecstasy! All-mother Earth Did ne'er give birth To one who shall be matched with me; Shall cast a dimness over all. Alas! alas! what have I spoken? SOMETHING NATURAL. I. WHEN first I saw thy soul-deep eyes, II. The sight of thee hath well-nigh grown As needful to me as the light; I am unrestful when alone, And my heart doth not beat aright III. And yet - and yet - O selfish love! Save thou should'st shine alone for me. IV. We should love beauty even as flowers For all, 't is said, they bud and blow, They are the world's as well as ours But thou alas! God made thee grow So fair, I cannot love thee so! A FEELING. THE flowers and the grass to me For would they wave so pleasantly Or look so fresh and fair, If a man, cunning, hollow, mean, No; he hath grown so foolish-wise And lowliness which are the key No; he hath wandered off so long That he hath lost his mother-tongue, THE LOST CHILD. I. I WANDERED down the sunny glade II. If any chanced to go astray, Moaning in fear of coming harms, Hope brought the wanderer back alway, Safe nestled in her snowy arms. III. From that soft nest the happy one And made it seem a heavenly child. IV. Dear Hope's blue eyes smiled mildly down, That, like a nursling of her own, THE CHURCH. I. I LOVE the rites of England's church; I love to hear the glorious swell II. Chants, that a thousand years have heard, I love to hear again, For visions of the olden time Are wakened by the strain; With gorgeous hues the window-glass And rich and red the streams of light III. And then I murmur, "Surely God This is the temple of his Son Whom he doth love so well;" But, when I hear the creed which saith, I feel within my soul that He IV. For his is not the builded church, In every thing that lovely is He loves and hath his home; And most in soul that loveth well All things which he hath made, Knowing no creed but simple faith That may not be gainsaid. V. His church is universal Love, And music in its aisles shall swell, Sweet as dreamed sounds of angel-harps VI. They shall not ask a litany, And every day from fragrant hearts THE UNLOVELY. THE pretty things that others wear Look strange and out of place on me, I never seem dressed tastefully, Because I am not fair; And, when I would most pleasing seem, Because I am not fair. If I put roses in my hair, Alas! I have a warm, true heart, I am least happy being where The hearts of others are most light, |