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Oh, love, love, no, love! not so, indeed !

You were just weak earth, I knew :
With much in you waste, with many a weed,
And plenty of passions run to seed,

But a little good grain too.

And such as you were, I took you for mine :

Did not you find me yours,
To watch the olive and wait the vine,
And wonder when rivers of oil and wine

Would flow, as the Book assures ?

Well, and if none of these good things came,

What did the failure prove ? The man was my whole world, all the same, With his flowers to praise, or his weeds to blame,

And, either or both, to love.

Yet this turns now to a fault—there! there!

That I do love, watch too long,
And wait too well, and weary and wear ;
And 'tis all an old story, and my despair

Fit subject for some new song :


How the light, light love, he has wings to fly

At suspicion of a bond : How my wisdom has bidden your pleasure good-bye, Which will turn up next in a laughing eye,

And why should you look beyond ?



I leaned on the turf,
I looked at a rock
Left dry by the surf;
For the turf, to call it grass were to mocķ:
Dead to the roots, so deep was done
The work of the summer sun.

2. And the rock lay flat As an anvil's face: No iron like that! Baked dry; of a weed, of a shell, no trace : Sunshine outside, but ice at the core, Death’s altar by the lone shore.

3. On the turf, sprang gay With his films of blue, No cricket, I'll say, But a warhorse, barded and chanfroned too, The gift of a quixote-mage to his knight, Real fairy, with wings all right.

On the rock, they scorch
Like a drop of fire
From a brandished torch,
Fell two red fans of a butterfly:
No turf, no rock, in their ugly stead,
See, wonderful blue and red !


Is it not so
With the minds of men ?
The level and low,
The burnt and bare, in themselves ; but then
With such a blue and red grace, not theirs,
Love settling unawares !



“Still ailing, Wind ? Wilt be appeased or no ?

Which needs the other's office, thou or I ? Dost want to be disburthened of a woe,

And can, in truth, my voice untie Its links, and let it go ?


“Art thou a dumb, wronged thing that would be righted,

Entrusting thus thy cause to me? Forbear.
No tongue can mend such pleadings ; faith, requited

With falsehood, love, at last aware
Of scorn,-hopes, early blighted, -

“We have them; but I know not any tone

So fit as thine to falter forth a sorrow :
Dost think men would go mad without a moan,

If they knew any way to borrow
A pathos like thy own ?

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