[THE SONNET]
Alone it stands in Poesy's fair land,
A temple by the muses set apart;
A perfect structure of consummate art,
By artists builded and by genius planned,
Beyond the reach of the apprentice hand,
Beyond the ken of the untutored heart,
Like a fine carving in a common mart,
Only the favoured few will understand.
A chef d'œuvre toiled over with great care,
Yet which the unseeing careless crowd goes by,
A plainly set, but well-cut solitaire,
An ancient bit of pottery, too rare
To please or hold aught save the special eye,
These only with the sonnet can compare.
[NOTHING NEW]
FROM the dawn of spring till the year grows hoary,
Nothing is new that is done or said,
The leaves are telling the same old story--
"Budding, bursting, dying, dead."
And ever and always the wild birds' chorus
Is "coming, building, flying, fled."
Never the round Earth roams or ranges
Out of her circuit, so old, so old,
And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes--
Beaming, burning, tender, cold,
As spring-time softens or winter estranges
The mighty heart of this orb of gold.
From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breaking
There were tempest, sunshine, fruit, and frost.
And the sea was calm or the sea was shaking
His mighty mane like a lion crossed,
And ever this cry the heart was making--
Longing, loving, losing, lost.
For ever the wild wind wanders, crying,
Southerly, easterly, north and west,
And one worn song the fields are sighing,
"Sowing, growing, harvest, rest,"
And the tired thought of the world, replying
Like an echo to what is last and best,
Murmurs--"Rest."
[HELENA]
Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise
Of late all men have sounded. She for whom
Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb
Rather than live without her all his days.
Wise men go mad who look upon her long,
She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile
I find no fascination in her smile,
Although I make her theme of this poor song.