Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;"

Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long.'

Love took up the glass of Time, and turned it in his glowing hands;

Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the Spring.

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly

dew From the nations' airy navies grap

pling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunderstorm;

Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled

In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.

There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,

And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law.

So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry,

Left me with the palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye;

Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint: Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point:

Slowly comes a hungry people, as a

lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks

behind a slowly-dying fire.

Yet I doubt not through the ages

one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the

suns.

What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Though the deep heat of existence beat forever like a boy's?

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lin

gers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

Or to burst all links of habit - there to wander far away,

On from island unto island at the gateways of the day.

Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms

in cluster, knots of Paradise. Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag, Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag;

Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree — Summer isles of Eden lying in darkpurple spheres of sea.