Too many times ablaze With fatuous fires, Enkindled by his wiles To new embraces, Did I, by wilful ways And baseless ires, Return the anxious smiles Of friendly faces.
No more will now rate I The common rare, The midnight drizzle dew, The gray hour golden, The wind a yearning cry, The faulty fair, Things dreamt, of comelier hue Than things beholden! . . .
—I speak as one who plumbs Life’s dim profound, One who at length can sound Clear views and certain. But—after love what comes? A scene that lours, A few sad vacant hours, And then, the Curtain.
LET me enjoy the earth no less Because the all-enacting Might That fashioned forth its loveliness Had other aims than my delight.
About my path there flits a Fair, Who throws me not a word or sign; I’ll charm me with her ignoring air, And laud the lips not meant for mine.
From manuscripts of moving song Inspired by scenes and dreams unknown I’ll pour out raptures that belong To others, as they were my own.
And some day hence, towards Paradise, And all its blest—if such should be— I will lift glad, afar-off eyes, Though it contain no place for me.
SING, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; Make me forget that there was ever a one I walked with in the meek light of the moon When the day’s work was done.
Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; Make me forget that she whom I loved well Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, Then—what I cannot tell!
Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look— Make me forget her tears.
THESE market-dames, mid-aged, with lips thin-drawn, And tissues sere, Are they the ones we loved in years agone, And courted here?
Are these the muslined pink young things to whom We vowed and swore In nooks on summer Sundays by the Froom, Or Budmouth shore?
Do they remember those gay tunes we trod Clasped on the green; Aye; trod till moonlight set on the beaten sod A satin sheen?
They must forget, forget! They cannot know What once they were, Or memory would transfigure them, and show Them always fair.
BLACK’ON frowns east on Maidon, And westward to the sea, But on neither is his frown laden With scorn, as his frown on me!