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If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought -
If it meant,

but I dread
To speak what you may know too well :
Still there was truth in the sad oracle.


The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home;

No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,

When it no more would roam ;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,

And thus at length find rest.

Doubtless there is a place of peace
Where my weak heart and all its throbs will cease.


I asked her, yesterday, if she believed

That I had resolution. One who had

Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words, - but what his judgment bade Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.

These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know, Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.



ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear

Than that from another.


I can give not what men call love,

But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above

And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star,

Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?



WHEN passion's trance is overpast,
If tenderness and truth could last
Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep
Some mortal slumber, dark and deep,
I should not weep, I should not weep !


It were enough to feel, to see,
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.


After the slumber of the year
The woodland violets re-appear,
All things revive in field or grove,
And sky and sea, but two, which move,
And form all others, life and love.


WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one
Who staggers forth into the air and sun
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever,
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train
Of objects and of persons past like things
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings,
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;
The vows to which her lips had sworn assent
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,
Deafening the lost intelligence within.

And so she moved under the bridal veil, Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale, And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth, And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth, And of the gold and jewels glittering there She scarce felt conscious, — but the weary glare Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light, Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight.

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