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Forever and forever with those just souls and trueAnd what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado?
Forever and forever, all in a blessed home
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie
To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast
And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
"COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land;
"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.”
All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
From the inner land: far-off, three mountain-tops,
Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.
The charmed sunset lingered low adown
In the red West: through mountain clefts the dale
A land where all things always seemed the same!
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weighed upon with heaviness,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud
Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Let us alone.
Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease!
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whispered speech;
Eating the Lotos, day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
Heaped over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And their warm tears: but all hath suffered change;
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile :
Long labor unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars,
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly,) With half-dropt eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave through the thick-twined neTo watch the emerald-colored water falling