It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand, Through the everydayness of this workday world,

Baring its tender feet to every flint,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray
From Beauty's law of plainness and con-
tent;

A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it
must,

And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,

Shall still be blest with Indian-summer youth

In bleak November, and, with thankful

And hath its will through blissful gentle

ness,

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-implanted

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 eye,
That so its inner sight may be more clear;
And outward shows of beauty only so
Are needful at the first, as is a hand
To guide and to uphold an infant's steps:
Fine natures need them not: their earnest
look

Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise,
And beauty ever is to them revealed,
Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of
clay,

With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,

Yearning to be but understood and loved.

TO PERDITA, SINGING

THY voice is like a fountain,

Leaping up in clear moonshine; Silver, silver, ever mounting,

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;
Oh, thus forever sing to me!
Oh, thus forever!

The green, bright grass of childhood bring

THE MOON

My soul was like the sea,
Before the moon was made,
Moaning in vague immensity,
Of its own strength afraid,
Unrestful and unstaid.
Through every rift it foamed in vain,
About its earthly prison,
Seeking some unknown thing in pain,
And sinking restless back again,

For yet no moon had risen:
Its only voice a vast dumb moan,
Of utterless anguish speaking,
It lay unhopefully alone,

And lived but in an aimless seeking.

And all his brethren cried with one accord,

“Behold the holy man! Behold the Seer! Him who hath spoken with the unseen Lord!"

He to his heart with large embrace had taken

The universal sorrow of mankind, And, from that root, a shelter never shaken, The tree of wisdom grew with sturdy rind.

He could interpret well the wondrous voices Which to the calm and silent spirit come; He knew that the One Soul no more rejoices In the star's anthem than the insect's hum.

He in his heart was ever meek and humble, And yet with kingly pomp his numbers

Awake! great spirit of the ages olden !

Shiver the mists that hide thy starry lyre, And let man's soul be yet again beholden

To thee for wings to soar to her desire. Oh, prophesy no more to-morrow's splendor, Be no more shamefaced to speak out for Truth,

Lay on her altar all the gushings tender, The hope, the fire, the loving faith of youth!

Oh, prophesy no more the Maker's coming, Say not his onward footsteps thou canst hear

In the dim void, like to the awful humming Of the great wings of some new-lighted

sphere !

Oh, prophesy no more, but be the Poet!

This longing was but granted unto thee That, when all beauty thou couldst feel and know it,

That beauty in its highest thou shouldst

be.