Thy anger grows slowly, for thou art great,
O England! thou well beloved land;
When its tide is full-risen, then thou art Fate,—
And the angel who stands before the gate,
The sword of flame in his hand!
WHEN JONQUILS BLOW
When jonquils blow I think of one
Who sleeps beneath the green;
And all the light and song of life
And all the golden sheen
Turn cold and still before my eyes,
While pearl-edged boughs of May
Seen through a sudden mist of tears
Are rimmed with ashen-gray.
TO ONE WHO SLEEPS
Fare not too far, my own,
Down ways all strange and new,
For I must find alone,
The road that leads to you.
Enchantments may arise
To lure thy little feet,
And charm thy wondering eyes;—
Yet;—wait for me, my sweet!
Already Earth doth seem
A phantom place to me,
And thy far home of dream,
Is my reality.
So this is just "good night";—
Some stars will rise and wane,
But sure as comes the light,
I'll be with thee again!—