The wind makes moan, the water runneth chill; I hear the nymphs go crying through the brake; And roaming mournfully from hill to hill The maenads all are silent for his sake! ...
Dawn, midnight, noonday? What are times to thee Man's Grief art thou, that moanest with the light, And starest dumb at evening, and at night Dost wake and dream and slumber fitfully!...
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? Nay, by the spring that still must come and go...
Fades the great pyramid, the blank walls fade! And thou, immortal boy, dost walk with me Along that grove from out whose deeper shade The nightingale sings living ecstasy. ...
Oh no, not this! This is a Roman face, Superb, composed, with such a matron grace As that of great Cornelia, never thee. Young princess of an ancient poetry!
The bride, she wears a white, white rose, the plucking, it was mine; The poet wears a laurel wreath, and I the laurel twine; And oh, the child, your little child, that's clinging close to you,...
I am a virgin, whom no man hath known, And all desire to know. The figure I Of mortal dream and mortal prophecy. Thou desert Sphinx, with thy gray lips of stone, Keep thy poor secret, I have kept mine own!
The night would sadden us with wind and rain Let's to sweet Comedy and scorn the night! Let's read together: how, by silver light, The fairies went, a most enchanting train....
Still, still thy garden hath its fruits and spices, My Lord, my Lord! Still hath its wells and pools of thy devices, My Lord! White, in a stranger soil, thy lily stands, the close...
Demeter? 'Tis a name! For in thy face A myriad women find their mourning-place! Thou, sitting lonely on the wayside stone, O pagan mother, thou art not alone! ...
O friendly, that I never knew for friend, O flame, that never warmed me from the cold, O light, that never beckoned to an end, Give me but once thy beauty to behold! ...
They sing the race, the song is wildly sweet; But thou, my harp, oh thou shalt sing the goal! The distant goal, that draws the bleeding feet And lights the brow and lifts the fainting soul!...
Dost thou burn low and tremble, all but die? And dost thou fear in darkness to be whirled? Nay, flame, thou art mine immortality, The wind is but the passing of the world!
When I see other women's sons at play, God, pity me, lest I should turn away In rage and grief, and should not dare to look At my child, sitting patient with his book! ...