He blesseth all the divers causes and effects of his love toward her.
Blest be the day, the season and the year
The hour and moment, and the countrie fair,
Ay, even that very spot and instant where
Those two sweet eyne did first to me appear
Which since have left me--yet that sorrow dear
Of Love still blessèd be, like as the bow
And shafts wherewith sweet Love did work me woe
With wounds most deep in this my bosom here.
Blest be the many voices wherewithal
I on my Lady’s well-belovèd name
Have called, and blest the sighs, the tears, the flame
Of my desire, and all my screeds designed
To praise her--yet most blest my thoughts I call,
So hers that none but she may entrance find...
“Mignonne Allons Voir Si La Rose....”
After Ronsard.
Come, sweet, away! Come see the rose,
Now that the day draws near its close,
See whether it be faded grown--
Whether at evening fall away
Those leaves that opened to the day,
Or dies their blush, so like thine own.
Thou seest, dear love, its beauties pass,
Its wasted petals fall, alas!,
In one short hour. It may not bide.
Unkind in truth is Mother Earth
Since dawn gives such a flower its birth
And Death draws nigh at eventide.
So, sweet my darling, hear my voice,
I bid thee, in thy youth, rejoice!
Before thy fragile petals close
Gather thy blossoms whilst thou may,
With time they fall and fade away
As droops at night the withered rose.
Religion.
From that crude savage who, on Libyan sands,
Graves his barbaric god, and kneels thereto;
From those mysterious, matriarchal bands,
Eating strange flesh their spirit to renew
With fabled ancestors; from Austral lands
To Hyperborean solitudes, each age
Hath sought to fend its head from God’s dull rage
And stay the cosmic circling with clasped hands.
Yea, we no less! Doth man dare look away
Bravely as fits a man? With fear-sealed eyes,
Filling the spheres with vast, vague mysteries,
Man still must hearken some great angel’s wing,
Still bow to man-made God, still seek to stay
With claspèd hands the cosmic circling...
The Great Woods Were Awakening.
“Les grands bois s’éveillaient; il faisait jour à peine...”
_Pradel._
The great woods were awakening. A new day
Was freshly born; enchanted birds among
The clear green foliage raised their matin song
To praise the morning-glow. Thought-sad I lay
Beneath a gnarlèd oak; despite that gay
Fresh springtide, all my soul was suffering.
I waited her, and lo! the rapid wing
Of fluttering footsteps brushed the dew away.
Drunken with pleasure in a long-locked kiss
Our breath enmingled. Tightening in my arms
That beautiful, supple form, her heart’s alarms
I stifled on my heart. The thicket drew
Close over us, the sun grew dark, I wis,
Earth faded, Heaven opened to our view...