'O Nightingale My Heart'
O Nightingale my heart
How sad thou art!
How heavy is thy wing,
Desperately whirrëd that thy throat may fling
Song to the tingling silences remote!
Thine eye whose ruddy spark
Burned fiery of late,
How dead and dark!
Why so soon didst thou sing,
And with such turbulence of love and hate?
Learn that there is no singing yet can bring
The expected dawn more near;
And thou art spent already, though the night
Scarce has begun;
What voice, what eyes wilt thou have for the light
When the light shall appear,
And O what wings to bear thee t'ward the Sun?
The Pilgrim
Put by the sun my joyful soul,
We are for darkness that is whole;
Put by the wine, now for long years
We must be thirsty with salt tears;
Put by the rose, bind thou instead
The fiercest thorns about thy head;
Put by the courteous tire, we need
But the poor pilgrim's blackest weed;
Put by — a'beit with tears — thy lute,
Sing but to God or else be mute.
Take leave of friends save such as dare
Thy love with Loneliness to share.
It is full tide. Put by regret.
Turn, turn away. Forget. Forget.
Put by the sun my lightless soul,
We are for darkness that is whole.