Oh, the noonday heights, the sunlit heights, Where he stoops to the harvest his keen scythe smites, Singing a song of the work that requites, In the ripening summer weather: The soul in his body as light as the sigh Of the little cloud-breeze that cools the sky, While he hears an answering soul reply, His soul and hers together.
Oh, the evening vales, the twilight vales, Where he labors and sweats to the thud of flails, Singing a song of the toil that he hails, In the fruitful autumn weather: In heart and in soul as free from fears As the first white star in the sky that appears, While the music of life and of love he hears, Her life and his together.
I have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than anything Of earth--than rose or violet That winds of May and sunbeams bring. Of all we know, past or to come, That beauty holds within its net, She is the high compendium: And yet--
I have not touched her robe, and still She is more dear than lyric words And music; or than strains that fill The throbbing throats of forest birds. Of all we mean by poetry, That rules the soul and charms the will, She is the deep epitome: And still--
She is my world: ah, pity me! A dream that flies whom I pursue: Whom all pursue, whoe’er they be, Who toil for Art and dare and do. The shadow-love for whom they sigh, The far ideal affinity, For whom they live and gladly die-- Ah me!
There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore-- Than Love or Faith or Hope, For which we strive and grope.
The first one is Desire,-- Who takes our hand And fills our hearts with fire None may withstand;-- Through whom we’re lifted far Above both moon and star.
The second one is Dream,-- Who leads our feet By an immortal gleam To visions sweet;-- Through whom our forms put on Dim attributes of dawn.
The last of these is Toil,-- Who maketh true, Within the world’s turmoil The other two;-- Through whom we may behold Ourselves with kings enrolled.
As some warm moment of repose In one rich rose Sums all the summer’s lovely bloom And pure perfume-- So did her soul epitomize All hopes that make life wise, Who lies before us now with lidded eyes, Faith’s amaranth of truth Crowning her youth.