What good soever in thy heart or mind
Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own
Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne—
Suspect and fear—although therein thou find
High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind,
Or in the awful temple of thy soul
To worship what is loveliest, and controul
The ill within, and by strong laws to bind.
Good is of God—and none is therefore sure
That has dared wander from its source away:
Laws without sanction will not long endure,
Love will grow faint and fainter day by day,
And Beauty from the straight path will allure,
And weakening first, will afterwards betray.
TO ——
What maiden gathers flowers, who does not love[2]?
And some have said, that none in summer bowers,
Save lovers, wreathe them garlands of fresh flowers:
O lady, of a purpose dost thou move
Through garden walks, as willing to disprove
This gentle faith; who, with uncareful hand,
Hast culled a thousand thus at my command,
Wherewith thou hast this dewy garland wove.
There is no meaning in a thousand flowers—
One lily from its green stalk wouldst thou part,
Or pluck, and to my bosom I will fold,
One rose, selected from these wealthy bowers,
Upgathering closely to its virgin heart
An undivulgèd hoard of central gold.
TO THE SAME.
Look, dearest, what a glory from the sun
Has fringed that cloud with silver edges bright,
And how it seems to drink the golden light
Of evening—you would think that it had won
A splendour of its own: but lo! anon
You shall behold a dark mass float away,
Emptied of light and radiance, from the day,
Its glory faded utterly and gone.
And doubt not we should suffer the same loss
As this weak vapour, which awhile did seem
Translucent and made pure of all its dross,
If, having shared the light, we should misdeem
That light our own, or count we hold in fee
That which we must receive continually.
TO THE SAME.
We live not in our moments or our years—
The Present we fling from us like the rind
Of some sweet Future, which we after find
Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears,
And water it beforehand with our tears—
Vain tears for that which never may arrive:
Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live
Neglected or unheeded disappears.
Wiser it were to welcome and make ours
Whate’er of good, though small, the present brings—
Kind greetings, sunshine, song of birds and flowers,
With a child’s pure delight in little things;
And of the griefs unborn to rest secure,
Knowing that mercy ever will endure.