“VOX CLAMANTIS”
How late in the wet twilight doth that bird Prolong his ditty; from what darkling thorn, Dim elder wand or blackest box unstirred By drip of rain, is the dear descant borne? So late it is, two seeming candles shine Athwart blue panes in the extremest hedge, Ev’n the child’s bunch of daisies close their eyne In their horn goblet on the window ledge. Sad is the night, doth it so smell of spring And wake such ardours in thy pelted breast? Aye, thou wert ever one to stay and sing Of surgent East to the declining West:— And now thou’rt gone, the last of a bright breed, Draw-to the curtains, it is night indeed.
SORROW
Of Sorrow, ’tis as Saints have said— That his ill-savoured lamp shall shed A light to Heaven, when, blown about By the world’s vain and windy rout, The candles of delight burn out.
Then usher Sorrow to thy board, Give him such fare as may afford Thy single habitation—best To meet him half-way in his quest, The importunate and sad-eyed guest.
Yet somewhat should he give who took Thy hospitality, for look, His is no random vagrancy, Beneath his rags what hints there be Of a celestial livery.
Sweet Sorrow, play a grateful part, Break me the marble of my heart And of its fragments pave a street Where, to my bliss, myself may meet One hastening with piercèd feet.