Grieve not for the invisible, transported brow On which like leaves the dark hair grew, Nor for the lips of laughter that are now Laughing inaudibly in sun and dew, Nor for those limbs that, fallen low And seeming faint and slow, Shall yet pursue More ways of swiftness than the swallow dips Among ... and find more winds than ever blew The straining sails of unimpeded ships! Mourn not!—yield only happy tears To deeper beauty than appears!
THE MYSTIC
By seven vineyards on one hill We walked. The native wine In clusters grew beside us two, For your lips and for mine,
When, "Hark!" you said,—"Was that a bell Or a bubbling spring we heard?" But I was wise and closed my eyes And listened to a bird;
For as summer leaves are bent and shake With singers passing through, So moves in me continually The wingèd breath of you.
You tasted from a single vine And took from that your fill— But I inclined to every kind, All seven on one hill.
PASSING NEAR
I had not till today been sure, But now I know: Dead men and women come and go Under the pure Sequestering snow.
And under the autumnal fern And carmine bush, Under the shadow of a thrush, They move and learn; And in the rush