4. Where one small orange cup amassed Five beetles, — blind and green they grope Among the honey-meal, and last Everywhere on the grassy slope I traced it. Hold it fast! 5. The champaign with its endless fleece 6. Such life there, through such lengths of hours, Such miracles performed in play, Such primal naked forms of flowers, Such letting Nature have her way While Heaven looks from its towers. 7. How say you? Let us, O my dove, As earth lies bare to heaven above. How is it under our control To love or not to love? 8. I would that you were all to me, You that are just so much, no more Nor yours, nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? what the core Of the wound, since wound must be? 9. I would I could adopt your will, See with your eyes, and set my heart Beating by yours, and drink my fill Then stand away. I kiss your cheek, Catch your soul's warmth,— I pluck the rose And love it more than tongue can speak Then the good minute goes. 11. Already how am I so far Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? 12. Just when I seemed about to learn! Where is the thread now? Off again! The old trick! Only I discern Infinite passion and the pain. Of finite hearts that yearn. A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL. [Time - Shortly after the revival of learning in Europe.] LET us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together. Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till cock-crow. Look out if yonder 's not the day again Rimming the rock-row ! That's the appropriate country — there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer! Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture! All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit! Thither our path lies wind we up the heights Wait ye the warning? Our low life was the level's and the night's; Step to a tune, square chests, erect the head, This is our master, famous, calm, and dead, Sleep, crop and herd! Sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather! He, whom we convoy to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow? Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone! Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, "New measures, other feet anon! My dance is finished?" No, that's the world's way! (keep the mountain-side, Make for the city.) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity ; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: |