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Oh that it were with me
As with the flower,
That I might bloom mine hour A rose in spite of thorns.
Oh that my work were done
As birds' that soar Rejoicing in the sun ; . That when my time is run
And daylight too,
I so might rest once more
FAIR leaf, so crisp and curled and yet so fair, ,
Whose veinèd purples shading into bronze
Fair bird, uprising from the startled brake
On wings that only bear thee into death,
Is it such pain, to leave thy haunt beneath The hazels, and of wounds that man can make
Fair rose, yet lingering where yon topmost spray
Climbs through the trellis o'er the garden wall,
Is it such grief, to see thy petals fall
Thus while I sit and murmur, half in dreams,
Across the valley like a parted soul
Shoots the white steam of travel : though its goal Be far, it dips into the earth, and seems
Ah then, I said, if death be only this
Through the dark hills a channel short and wide,
That leads to sunshine on the other side-
STILL young and fine! but what is still in view
We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. How bright wert thou when Shem's admiring eye Thy burnished flaming arch did first descry! When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, The youthful world's grey fathers, in one knot Did with intentive looks watch every hour For thy new light, and trembled at each shower! When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, Storms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air : Rain gently spends his honey-drops, and pours Balm on the cleft earth, milk on grass and flowers. Bright pledge of peace and sunshine! the sure tie Of thy Lord's hand, the object of his eye! When I behold thee, though my light be dim, Distant and low, I can in thine see him. Who looks upon thee from his glorious throne, And minds the covenant 'twixt all and One.
A DROP OF DEW.
SEE how the orient dew
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Round in itself incloses,
Scarce touching where it lies;
Like its own tear,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Remembering still its former height,
And, recollecting its own light,
heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Here disdaining, there in love.
It all about does upwards bend. Such did the manna’s sacred dew distil, White and entire, though congealed and chill; Congealed on earth, but does dissolving run Into the glories of the almighty Sun.
The bridal of the earth and sky;
For thou must die.
Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.