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Friends and relations of the dead, - and he,
Old winter was gone
From the planet that hovers upon the shore
Where the sea of sunlight encroaches
Rejoice not when spring approaches,
She is still, she is cold
On the bridal couch,
And one to the bier,
The dark arrow Aed
Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled,
She shall sleep.
PONTE A MARE, PISA.
The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air ; The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,
And evening's breath, wandering here and there Over the quivering surface of the stream, Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.
There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,
Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;
And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town.
Within the surface of the fleeting river
The wrinkled image of the city lay,
It trembles, but it never fades away ;
By darkest barriers of cinereous cloud,
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd, And over it a space of watery blue, Which the keen evening star is shining through.
WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow?
When young and old and strong and weak,
Thy sweet smiles we ever seek, –
If I walk in Autumn's eyen
While the dead leaves pass,
Something is not there which was.
I PANT for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like inchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower ; Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain, I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, O more, — I am thirsting yet,
Upon my heart to stifle it;
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake; When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,
And mist there was none its thirst to slake And the violet lay dead while the odour few On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue