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And the face of earth darkens; but now Of that long cloud-bar in the West, the strips
Whose nether edge, erelong, you see Of western vapor, straight and thin, The silvery chrism in turn anoint, From which the horizon's swervings win And then the tiniest rosy point A grace of contrast, take fire and burn Touched doubtfully and timidly Like splinters of touchwood, whose Into the dark blue's chilly strip, edges a mould
As some mute, wondering thing below, Of ashes o'erfeathers ; northward turn Awakened by the thrilling glow, For an instant, and let your eye grow Might, looking up, see Dian dip cold
One lucent foot's delaying tip On Agamenticus, and when once more
In Latmian fountains long ago. You look, 't is as if the land-breeze,
growing, From the smouldering brands the film Here is no startle of dreaming bird
Knew you what silence was before ? were blowing,
That sings in his sleep, or strives to And brightening them down to the very
sing; core ; Yet they momently cool and dampen Nor noise of any living thing,
Here is no sough of branches stirred, and deaden,
Such as one hears by night on shore; The crimson turns golden, the gold turns leaden,
Only, now and the a sigh,
With fickle intervals between, Hardening into one black bar O'er which, from the hollow heaven afar, such as Andromeda might have heard,
Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh, Shoots a splinter of light like diamond, And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen Half seen, half fancied; by and by Beyond whatever is most beyond
Turving in sleep; it is the sea
That welters and wavers uneasily
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.
I TREASURE in secret some long, fine
hair No frail illusion; this were true,
Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly Rather, to call it the canoe Hollowed out of a single pearl,
golden That floats us from the Present's whirl
I half used to fancy the sunshine there, Back to those beings which were ours,
So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, When wishes were winged things like
Was only caught for the moment and
holden powers ! Call it not light, that mystery tender,
While I could say Dearest ! and kiss it,
and then Which broods upon the brooding ocean, In pity let go to the summer again. That flush of ecstasied surrender To indetinable emotion, That glory, mellower than a mist I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Of pearl dissolved with amethyst, Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow; Which rims Square Rock, like what Then called to the idle breeze that they paint
swings Of mitigated heavenly splenilor All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and Round the stern forehead of a Saint !
Mid the musical leaves, and said, “0, No more a vision, reddened, largened,
follow The moon dips toward her mountain nest, The will of those tears that deepen my And, fringing it with palest argent,
words, Slow sheathes herself behind the mar. And fly to my window to waken these gent
So they trembled to life, and, doubt. Soft as the dews that fell that night, fully
Auf wiederschei!" Feeling their way to my sense, sang, “Say whetlier
The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; They sit all day by the greenwood tree, 1 linger in delicious pain ; The lover and loved, as it wont to Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air be,
To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, When we But grief conquered, Thinks she, — “ Auf wiederschen!"
and all together They swelled such weird murmur as 'T is thirteen years ; once more I press haunts a shore
The turf that silences the lane; Of some planet dispeopled, “Never- | I hear the rustle of her dress, more !"
I smell the lilacs, and — ah, yes,
I hear “ Auf wiedersehen!" Then from deep in the past, as seemed
Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! The strings gathered sorrow and sang The English words had seemed too forsaken,
fain, “One lover still waits 'neath the green. But these — they drew us heart to heart,
Yet held us tenderly apart ;
" where lieth she
PALINODE. But I groaned, “O harp of all ruth
AUTUMN. bereft, This Scripture is sadder, 'the other Still thirteen years : 't is autumn now left'!"
On field and hill, in heart and brain;
The naked trees at evening sough; There murmured, as if one strove to The leaf to the forsaken bough speak,
Sighs not, — “We meet again !" And tears came instead; then the sad tones wandered
Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, And faltered among the uncertain chords
That now is void, and dank with rain, In a troubled doubt between sorrow and And one, –0, hope more frail than words;
foam ! At last with themselves they ques. The bird to his deserted home tioned and pondered,
Sings not, -“We meet again!" “Hereafter ? — who knoweth ?" and so they sighed
The loath gate swings with rusty creak ; Down the long steps that lead to silence
Once, parting there, we played at and died.
* We meet again!"
Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,
Though thou in outer dark remain ; The little gate was reached at last, One sweet sad voice ennobles death,
Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; And still, for eighteen centuries saith She pushed it wide, and, as she past, Softly, “Ye meet again !" A wistful look she backward cast, And said, Auf wiedersehen!" If earth another grave must bear,
Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, With hand on latch, a vision white And something whispers my despair, Lingered reluctant, and again
That, from an orient chamber there, Half doubting if she did aright,
Floats down, “ We meet again !