'Tis a poor drizzly morning, dark and sad. The cloud has fallen, and filled with fold on fold The chimneyed city; and the smoke is caught, And spreads diluted in the cloud, and sinks,...
Upon a rock, high on a mountain side, Thousands of feet above the lake-sea's lip, A rock in which old waters' rise and dip, Plunge and recoil, and backward eddying tide...
My thoughts are like fire-flies, pulsing in moonlight; My heart like a silver cup, filled with red wine; My soul a pale gleaming horizon, whence soon light Will flood the gold earth with a torrent divine.
Everything goes to its rest; The hills are asleep in the noon; And life is as still in its nest As the moon when she looks on a moon In the depth of a calm river's breast...
The veil hath lifted and hath fallen; and him Who next it stood before us, first so long, We see not; but between the cherubim The light burns clearer: come--a thankful song! ...
Heaven and the sea attend the dying day, And in their sadness overflow and blend-- Faint gold, and windy blue, and green and gray: Far out amid them my pale soul I send. ...
He who by a mother's love Made the wandering world his own, Every year comes from above, Comes the parted to atone, Binding Earth to the Father's throne.
When the summer gave us a longer day, And the leaves were thickest, I went away: Like an isle, through dark clouds, of the infinite blue, Was that summer-ramble from London and you. ...
If I were a monk, and thou wert a nun, Pacing it wearily, wearily, Twixt chapel and cell till day were done-- Wearily, wearily-- How would it fare with these hearts of ours...
"They have no more wine!" she said. But they had enough of bread; And the vessels by the door Held for thirst a plenteous store: Yes, enough; but Love divine Turned the water into wine! ...