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Such letting nature have her way While heaven looks from its towers !
Let us be unashamed of soul,
How is it under our control
I would that you were all to me,
You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free!
Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be?
See with your eyes, and set my heart
At your soul's springs,-your part, my part In life, for good and ill.
No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth,-I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speakThen the good minute goes.
XI Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn !
Where is the thread now? Off again. The old trick! Only I discern
Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn.
YOUR ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
(If our loves remain) * In an English lane, By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. Hark, those two in the hazel coppiceA boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
Making love, say,
The happier they !
With the beanflower's boon,
In a sea-side house to the farther South,
(When fortune's malice
Lost her, Calais)
A PICTURE AT FANO.
DEAR and great Angel, wouldst thou only leave
That child, when thou hast done with him, for me ! Let me sit all the day here, that when eve
Shall find performed thy special ministry,
Then I shall feel thee step one step, no more,
From where thou standest now, to where I gaze. -And suddenly my head is covered o'er
With those wings, white above the child who prays
Because the door opes, like that child, I know,
Thou bird of God! And wilt thou bend me low Like him, and lay, like his, my hands together, And lift them up to pray, and gently tether
Me, as thy lamb there, with thy garment's spread ?
My head beneath thine, while thy healing hands
Pressing the brain which too much thought expands, Back to its proper size again, and smoothing Distortion down till every nerve had soothing,
And all lay quiet, happy and suppressed.
How soon all worldly wrong would be repaired !
I think how I should view the earth and skies And sea, when once again my brow was bared
After thy healing, with such different eyes.
O world, as God has made it ! All is beauty :
What further may be sought for or declared ?
Guercino drew this angel I saw teach
(Alfred, dear friend !)—that little child to pray, Holding the little hands up, each to each
Pressed gently,—with his own head turned away Over the earth where so much lay before him Of work to do, though heaven was opening o'er him,
And he was left at Fano by the beach.
To sit and see him in his chapel there
-My angel with me too : and since I care For dear Guercino's fame (to which in power And glory comes this picture for a dower,
Fraught with a pathos so magnificent)
And since he did not work thus earnestly
At all times, and has else endured some wrongI took one thought his picture struck from me,
And spread it out, translating it to song. My love is here. Where are you, dear old friend? How rolls the Wairoa at your world's far end ?
This is Ancona, yonder is the sea.
BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead !
Sit and watch by her side an hour.