FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark,

The night is chilly, the night is dark,
The poplars shiver, the pine-trees moan,
My hair by the autumn breeze is blown,
Under thy window I sing alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The darkness is pressing coldly around,
The windows shake with a lonely sound,
The stars are hid and the night is drear,
The heart of silence throbs in thine car,
In thy chamber thou sittest alone,
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

The world is happy, the world is wide,
Kind hearts are beating on every side;
Ah, why should we lie so coldly curled
Alone in the shell of this great world?
Why should we any more be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

O, 't is a bitter and dreary word,
The saddest by man's ear ever heard!
We each are young, we each have a heart,
Why stand we ever coldly apart?
Must we forever, then, be alone?
Alone, alone, ah woe! alone!

WITH A PRESSED FLOWER.

THIS little blossom from afar
Hath come from other lands to thine;
For, once, its white and drooping star
Could see its shadow in the Rhine.
Perchance some fair-haired German maid
Hath plucked one from the selfsame
stalk,

And numbered over, half afraid,
Its petals in her evening walk.

The changeful April sky of chance And the strong tide of circumstance, Give me, old granite gray,

Some of thy pensiveness serene,
Some of thy never-dying green,
Put in this scrip of mine,
That griefs may fall like snow-flakes
light,

And deck me in a robe of white,
Ready to be an angel bright, -
O sweetly mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,

heaven!"

And then glad tears have filled her eyes To find the number was uneven.

And thou must count its petals well,
Because it is a gift from me;
And the last one of all shall tell
Something I've often told to thee.

But here at home, where we were born,
Thou wilt find blossoms just as true,
Down-bending every summer morn,
With freshness of New-England dew.

For Nature, ever kind to love,

Hath granted them the same sweet tongue,

Whether with German skies above,
Or here our granite rocks among.

Give me, my cheerful brook,
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prisoned me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-bye, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;
Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey 's scarce begun.

Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet !
Some of thy modesty,

That blossoms here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
Oh, give, to strengthen me.

No simplest duty is forgot,
Life hath no dim and lowly spot
That doth not in her sunshine share.

IV.

She doeth little kindnesses,
Which most leave undone, or despise :
For naught that sets one heart at ease,
And giveth happiness or peace,
Is low-esteemed in her eyes.

V.

She hath no scorn of common things,
And, though she seem of other birth,
Round us her heart intwines and clings,
And patiently she folds her wings
To tread the humble paths of earth.

VI.

Blessing she is: God made her so,
And deeds of week-day holiness
Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
Nor hath she ever chanced to know
That aught were easier than to bless.

VII.

She is most fair, and thereunto
Her life doth rightly harmonize;
Feeling or thought that was not true
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

VIII.

She is a woman one in whom
The spring-time of her childish years
Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
Though knowing well that life hath room
For many blights and many tears.

IX.

I love her with a love as still
As a broad river's peaceful might,
Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
Seem following its own wayward will,
And yet doth ever flow aright.

X.

And, on its full, deep breast serene,
Like quiet isles my duties lie;
It flows around them and between,
And makes them fresh and fair and green,
Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

surge,

Climbs a great cloud edged with sunwhitened spray;

Huge whirls of foam boil toppling o'er its verge,

And falling still it seems, and yet it
climbs alway.

Suddenly all the sky is hid
As with the shutting of a lid,
One by one great drops are falling
Doubtful and slow,

Down the pane they are crookedly
crawling,

And the wind breathes low; Slowly the circles widen on the river,

Widen and mingle, one and all; Here and there the slenderer flowers shiver,

Struck by an icy rain-drop's fall.

Now on the hills I hear the thunder

mutter,

The wind is gathering in the west;

And instantly follows the rattling thunder,

As if some cloud-crag, split asunder,

Fell, splintering with a ruinous crash,

On the Earth, which crouches in silence under;

And now a solid gray wall of rain Shuts off the landscape, mile by mile; For a breath's space I see the blue wood again,

And ere the next heart-beat, the windhurled pile,

That seemed but now a league aloof, Bursts crackling o'er the sun-parched roof;

Against the windows the storm comes dashing,

Through tattered foliage the hail tears crashing,

The blue lightning flashes,
The rapid hail clashes,
The white waves are tumbling,
And, in one baffled roar,
Like the toothless sea mumbling
A rock-bristled shore,
The thunder is rumbling
And crashing and crumbling,
Will silence return nevermore?

Hush! Still as death,

The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the

eaves

You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves,

All is so bodingly still;
Again, now, now, again
Plashes the rain in heavy gouts,

Gone, gone, so soon!

No more my half-dazed fancy
there,

Can shape a giant in the air,
No more I see his streaming hair,
The writhing portent of his form;

The pale and quiet moon
Makes her calm forehead bare,
And the last fragments of the storm,
Like shattered rigging from a fight at sea,
Silent and few, are drifting over me.

Such is true Love, which steals into the heart

With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark,

And hath its will through blissful gentleness,

Not like a rocket, which, with passionate glare,

Whirs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night

Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes; A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults,

Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points,

But loving-kindly ever looks them down With the o'ercoming faith that still forgives;

A love that shall be new and fresh each hour,

As is the sunset's golden mystery,
Or the sweet coming of the evening-star,
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,
And seeming ever best and fairest now;
A love that doth not kneel for what it
seeks,

But faces Truth and Beauty as their peer,

Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts
By a clear sense of inward nobleness;
A love that in its object findeth not
All grace and beauty, and enough to sate
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good
Found there, sees but the Heaven-im-
planted types

Of good and beauty in the soul of man, And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,

A family-likeness to its chosen one, That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.

For love is blind but with the fleshly

TO PERDITA, SINGING. THY voice is like a fountain, Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting, Ever sinking,

Without thinking,

To that brimful heart of thine.
Every sad and happy feeling,
Thou hast had in bygone years,
Through thy lips comes stealing, steal-
ing,

Clear and low;
All thy smiles and all thy tears
In thy voice awaken,

And sweetness, wove of joy and woe,

From their teaching it hath taken :
Feeling and music move together,
Like a swan and shadow ever
Floating on a sky-blue river
In a day of cloudless weather.

It hath caught a touch of sadness,
Yet it is not sad;

It hath tones of clearest gladness,
Yet it is not glad;
A dim, sweet twilight voice it is
Where to-day's accustomed blue
Is over-grayed with memories,

With starry feelings quivered through.
Thy voice is like a fountain
Leaping up in sunshine bright,

And I never weary counting
Its clear droppings, lone and single,
Or when in one full gush they mingle,
Shooting in melodious light.
Thine is music such as yields
Feelings of old brooks and fields,
And, around this pent-up room,
Sheds a woodland, free perfume;
O, thus forever sing to me!
O, thus forever!
The green, bright grass of childhood
bring to me,

Flowing like an emerald river,
And the bright blue skies above!
O, sing them back, as fresh as ever,
Into the bosom of my love,
The sunshine and the merriment,
The unsought, evergreen content,
Of that never cold time,
The joy, that, like a clear breeze, went
Through and through the old time!

Peace sits within thine eyes,
With white hands crossed in joyful rest,