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Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that
Whether that lady's gentle mind,
I dare not guess; but in this life
It is a modest creed, and yet
That garden sweet, that lady fair,
And all sweet shapes and odours there,
In truth have never past away:
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they.
For love, and beauty, and delight,
Last Love Poems.
TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.
THE serpent is shut out from paradise.
The wounded deer must seek the herb no more
The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bower
I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.
Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown Itself indifferent.
But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one
Turns the mind's poison into food,
Its medicine is tears, its evil good.
Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,
Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly
Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot
The very comfort that they minister
So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
When I return to my cold home, you ask
Of acting a forced part in life's dull scene,Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean,
In the world's carnival.
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.
Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot
With various flowers, and every one still said, "She loves me- -loves me not."
And if this meant a vision long since fled-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
but what his judgment
Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.
To send to you, but that I know,
RARELY, rarely, comest thou,
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
How shall ever one like me
Spirit false thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.
As a lizard with the shade
Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.
Let me set my mournful ditty
Thou wilt come for pleasure.
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight!
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,
Autumn evening, and the morn
I love snow, and all the forms
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Which is Nature's, and may be
I love tranquil solitude,
And such society
As is quiet, wise and good;
Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
I love Love-though he has wings,
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee
Thou art love and life!
Make once more my heart thy home.