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The bitter springs of anger and fear;
I wish I could hear again
That she warbled alone in her joy!
She would not do herself this great wrong
For a man and leader of men.
Ah God, for a man with heart, head, hand,
One still strong man in a blatant land,
And ah for a man to arise in me,
O LET the solid ground
Not fail beneath my feet
Before my life has found
What some have found so sweet;
Then let come what come may,
What matter if I go mad,
Let the sweet heavens endure,
Not close and darken above me
Before I am quite quite sure
That there is one to love me; Then let come what come may To a life that has been so sad, I shall have had my day.
BIRDS in the high Hall-garden
They were crying and calling
Where was Maud? in our wood;
Gathering woodland lilies,
Birds in our wood sang
Ringing thro' the valleys,
Maud is here, here, here
I kiss'd her slender hand,
She took the kiss sedately;
Maud is not seventeen,
But she is tall and stately.
I to cry out on pride
Who have won her favor! O Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her.
I know the way she went
Home with her maiden posy,
For her feet have touch'd the meadows
Birds in the high Hall-garden
Were crying and calling to her,
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud,
Look, a horse at the door,
And little King Charles is snarling,
SCORN'D, to be scorn'd by one that I scorn,
Is that a matter to make me fret?
That a calamity hard to be borne ?
Has a broad-blown comeliness, red and white,
Who shall call me ungentle, unfair,
To give him the grasp of fellowship;
Why sits he here in his father's chair?
Scarcely, now, would I call him a cheat;
Made her only the child of her mother,
Peace, angry spirit, and let him be!
MAUD has a garden of roses,
Maud's own little oak-room
(Which Maud, like a precious stone
And I thought as I stood, if a hand, as white
On the hasp of the window, and my Delight
Had a sudden desire, like a glorious ghost, to glide Like a beam of the seventh Heaven, down to my side, There were but a step to be made.
The fancy flatter'd my mind,
Now I thought that she cared for me,
I heard no sound where I stood
But the rivulet on from the lawn
Running down to my own dark wood;