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And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

The sunset colors soon,
And then the light of the moon
Will sift through the old screen door
On to my kitchen floor.

The women are strangely glorified by these
Gay moons of silk that blossom under the rain,
As if impossible flowers should fall from trees
Never to bloom again.

As if in autumn hearts the folded passions
Should wake in calyx and be wide unfurled,
Crimson and green and blue, after their fashions,
To flame in a wet world.

The clouds break, a wavering sunlight shines,
A few leaves spatter the rainbow throng,
The brave convolvulus folds on its whispering vines,
And the women patter along.

Why do you quarrel with me, friends,
when I too wish to drink?

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Look at all those many thousands drudging
(Knowing even their own nature less
Than we know each other), thousands trudging,
In the dark about their own distress;
Drunk on exultation, when they’re treated
Suddenly to joy’s magenta dawn.
Only we unlucky lovers, cheated
Of all mutual comfort, have foregone
This: to be in love, not understanding;
This: to see the other as he’s not;
Off in gaudy dreams go hand-in-handing,
In appalling dreams turn cold and hot.

Happy man, a fleeting dream engages!
Happy man, no premonitions numb!
We, however—! All our looks and touches
Reaffirm our sense of days to come.
Tell me, what’s our destiny preparing?
Tell me, how we’re bound in such a knot?
From an old existence we were sharing?
You’re the wife, the sister I forgot?

And for the cruel one
who tears out the heart I live by,
I cultivate neither thistle nor nettle;
I cultivate the white rose.

My tale was heard, and yet it was not told;
My fruit is fallen, and yet my leaves are green;
My youth is spent, and yet I am not old;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen:
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I was but made;
My glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done.

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare—how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

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At first if he be sleeping or awake.
My foolish heart so foolish for thy sake
Hath grown, dear one! Teach me to be more wise.
I blush for all my foolishness doth lack;
I fear to seem a coward in thine eyes.
Teach me, dear one,—but first thou must come back!

Sleep not!—thine image wakes for aye
Within my watching breast:
Sleep not!—from her soft sleep should fly,
Who robs all hearts of rest.
Nay, Lady, from thy slumbers break,
And make this darkness gay,
With looks, whose brightness well might make
Of darker nights a day.

Then was loneliness to me
Best and true society,
But ah! how altered is thy mien
In this sad deserted scene!

Here all thy classic pleasures cease,
Musing mild, and thoughtful peace;
Here thou com’st in sullen mood,
Not with thy fantastic brood

Of magic shapes and visions airy
Beckoned from the land of Fairy:
’Mid the melancholy void
Not a pensive charm enjoyed!

No poetic being here
Strikes with airy sounds mine ear;
No converse here to fancy cold
With many a fleeting form I hold,

Here all inelegant and rude
Thy presence is, sweet Solitude.

So all my spirit fills
With pleasure infinite,
And all the feathered wings of rest
Seem flocking from the radiant West
To bear me thro’ the night.

See, how they close me in.
They, and the sisters’ arms.
One eye is closed, the other lid
Is watching how my spirit slid
Toward some red-roofed farms,
And having crept beneath them slept
Secure from war’s alarms.

Then I saw who held them captive;
And I saw how they were bound
With a broad and quivering leash of light,
Held by the moon,
As, calm and unsmiling,
She walked the deep fields of the sky.

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Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.