Within love, within hatred it is, And its seed in the stripe as the kiss, 125 So shall the soul seen be the self-same one And in slaves is the germ, and in That looked and spake with even such lips and eyes As love shall doubt not then to recognize, And all bright thoughts and smiles of all time past II Revive, transfigured, but in spirit and AFTER SUNSET If light of life outlive the set of sun That men call death and end of all things, then How should not that which life held best for men And proved most precious, though it seem undone By force of death and woful victory won, 5 Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. Under yonder beech-tree single on the No, she is athirst and drinking up her greensward, Couched with her arms behind her wonder; Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Knees and tresses folded to slip and Deals she an unkindness, 'tis but her rapid golden head, 30 Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown evejar. Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring, Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled. 40 Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams, Beautiful she looks, like a white waterlily, Bursting out of bud in havens of the Maiden still the morn is; and strange she All the girls are out with their baskets for Covert and the nightingale; she knows Yellow with birdfoot-trefoil are the grassnot why. glades; Saw I once a white dove, sole light of This I may know: her dressing and unearth. You, my wild one, you tell of honied fieldrose, Violet, blushing eglantine in life; and even as they, They by the wayside are earnest of your goodness, dressing You are of life's on the banks that line Front door and back of the mossed old |