Why to the wondrous nightingale cry hush Or bid her cease her wild heart-breaking lay, And tune her voice to imitate the way The whip-poor-will makes music, or the thrush? All airs of sorrow to one theme belong, And passion is not copyrighted yet. Each heart writes its own music. Why not let The nightingale unchided sing her song?
Not only sun-kissed heights are fair. Below The cold, dark billows of the frowning deep Do lovely blossoms of the ocean sleep, Rocked gently by the waters to and fro. The coral beds with magic colours glow, And priceless pearl-encrusted molluscs heap The glittering rocks where shining atoms leap Like living broken rainbows.
Even so We find the sea of sorrow. Black as night The sullen surface meets our frightened gaze, As down we sink to darkness and despair. But at the depths—such beauty! such delight! Such flowers as never grew in pleasure’s ways! Ah! not alone are sun-kissed summits fair.
Like an opera-house is the world, I ween, Where the passionate lover of music is seen In the balcony near the roof: While the very best seat in the first stage-box Is filled by the person who laughs and talks Through the harmony’s warp and woof.
When Venus, mother and maker of blisses, Rose out of the billows, large-limbed, and fair, She stood on the sands and blew sweet kisses To the salt sea-wind as she dried her hair.
And the salt sea-wind was the first to caress her To praise her beauty and call her sweet, The first of the whole wide world to possess her, She, that creature of light and heat.
Though the sea is old with its sorrows and angers, And the world has forgotten why love was born, Yet the salt sea-wind is full of the languors That Venus taught on her natal morn.
And now whoever dwells there by the ocean, And feels the wind on his hair and face, Is stirred by a subtle and keen emotion, The lingering spell of that first embrace.
New Year, I look straight in your eyes— Our ways and our interests blend; You may be a foe in disguise, But I shall believe you a friend. We get what we give in our measure, We cannot give pain and get pleasure; I give you good will and good cheer, And you must return it, New Year.
We get what we give in this life, Though often the giver indeed Waits long upon doubting and strife Ere proving the truth of my creed. But somewhere, some way, and for ever Reward is the meed of endeavour; And if I am really worth while, New Year, you will give me your smile.