You may have heard of Proclus, sir, If you have been a reader; And you may know a bit of her
Feet of the flying, and fierce Tops of the sharp-headed spear, Hard by the thickets that pierce,
The song that once I dreamed about, The tender, touching thing, As radiant as the rose without
A splendid sun betwixt the trees Long spikes of flame did shoot, When turning to the fragrant South,
Across the dripping ridges, O, look, luxurious night! She comes, the bright-haired beauty,
Five years ago! you cannot choose But know the face of change, Though July sleeps and Spring renews
No song is this of leaf and bird, And gracious waters flowing; I'm sick at heart, for I have heard
Kate, they say, is seventeen Do not count her sweet, you know. Arms of her are rather lean
A brother wandered forth with me, Beside a barren beach: He harped on things beyond the sea,
Here, pent about by office walls And barren eyes all day, 'Tis sweet to think of waterfalls
Through many a fragrant cedar grove A darkened water moans; And there pale Memory stood with Love
The heart that once was rich with light, And happy in your grace, Now lieth cold beneath the scorn
Out of the body for ever, Wearily sobbing, 'Oh, whither?' A Soul that hath wasted its chances
A strong sea-wind flies up and sings Across the blown-wet border, Whose stormy echo runs and rings
A voice of grave, deep emphasis Is in the woods to-night; No sound of radiant day is this,
The song that is last of the many Whose music is full of thy name, Is weaker, O father! than any,
A waving of hats and of hands, The voices of thousands in one, A shout from the ring and the stands,
(Written in the shadow of 1872.) Ah, to be by Mooni now, Where the great dark hills of wonder,
Dim dreams it hath of singing ways, Of far-off woodland water-heads, And shining ends of April days
Across bleak widths of broken sea A fierce north-easter breaks, And makes a thunder on the lea
He has a name which can't be brought Within the sphere of metre; But, as he's Peter by report,
High travelling winds by royal hill Their awful anthem sing, And songs exalted flow and fill
No classic warrior tempts my pen To fill with verse these pages No lordly-hearted man of men
What bitter sorrow courses down Yon mourner's faded cheek? Those scalding drops betray a grief
Where is the painter who shall paint for you, My Austral brothers, with a pencil steeped In hues of Truth, the weather-smitten crew
'There were but two, and we were forty! Yet,' The Captain wrote, 'that dauntless couple throve, And faced our wildering faces; and I said
Chaotic crags are huddled east and west Dark, heavy crags, against a straitened sea That cometh, like a troubled soul in quest
A heap of low, dark, rocky coast, Unknown to foot or feather! A sea-voice moaning like a ghost;
January The first fair month! In singing Summer's sphere She glows, the eldest daughter of the year.
There's music wafting on the air, The evening winds are sighing Among the trees and yonder stream
Like one who meets a staggering blow, The stout old ship doth reel, And waters vast go seething past
The verdant ivy clings around Yon moss be-mantled wall, As if it sought to hide the stones,