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AND all is well, though faith and form
Proclaiming social truth shall spread,
And justice, ev'n though thrice again The red fool-fury of the Seine Should pile her barricades with dead.
But ill for him that wears a crown,
The fortress crashes from on high,
And compassed by the fires of Hell,
THE love that rose on stronger wings,
No doubt, vast eddies in the flood
Of onward time shall yet be made, And throned races may degrade ; Yet, oh ye mysteries of good,
Wild Hours that fly with Hope and Fear,
With old results that look like new,
To draw, to sheathe a useless sword,
To fool the crowd with glorious lies, To cleave a creed in sects and cries, To change the bearing of a word,
To shift an arbitrary power,
To cramp the student at his desk,
Why then my scorn might well descend
Is toil coöperant to an end.
DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire,
Known and unknown, human, divine!
Sweet human hand and lips and eye,
Mine, mine, forever, ever mine!
Strange friend, past, present, and to be,
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
And mingle all the world with thee.
THY voice is on the rolling air;
I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair.
What art thou, then? I cannot guess;
But though I seem in star and flower
I do not therefore love thee less:
My love involves the love before;
Though mixed with God and Nature thou,
I seem to love thee more and more.
Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice:
O LIVING will that shalt endure
When all that seems shall suffer shock,
Rise in the spiritual rock,
Flow through our deeds and make them pure,
That we may lift from out the dust
A voice as unto him that hears, A cry above the conquered years To one that with us works, and trust,
With faith that comes of self-control,
The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul.
O TRUE and tried, so well and long,
Is music more than any song.
Nor have I felt so much of bliss
Since first he told me that he loved
Though I since then have numbered o'er
Some thrice three years: they went and came,
And yet is love not less, but more;
No longer caring to embalm
In dying songs a dead regret,
And moulded in colossal calm.
Regret is dead, but love is more
Than in the summers that are flown,
Which makes appear the songs I made
But where is she, the bridal flower,
That must be made a wife ere noon?
She enters, glowing like the moon
Of Eden on its bridal bower:
On me she bends her blissful eyes
And then on thee; they meet thy look, And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise.
O, when her life was yet in bud,
He too foretold the perfect rose.
And thou art worthy; full of power;
Of learning lightly like a flower.
But now set out: the noon is near,
And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear:
For I that danced her on my knee,
That watched her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm, At last must part with her to thee;
Now waiting to be made a wife,
Her feet, my darling, on the dead;
And the most living words of life
Breathed in her ear. The ring is on,
The “wilt thou” answered, and again The "wilt thou" asked, till out of twain Her sweet "I will" has made ye one.
Now sign your names, which shall be read