So of weeping—no more;
It is tears fill the oceans from shore to shore;
They have made the wind salt—the wind at my door;
They harm the good ground—so of weeping—no more.
"Not again!" "Not again!"
Do you hear the sea singing that one refrain?
The pine trees, the wind and the wearysome rain
All whisper it; "Never again!"—"Not again!"
Who can tell me—who knows,
Where his lonely soul travels?
Whither it goes?—
Has he gone like the leaves?—Like yesterday's snows?—
Speak, dear Lord of Death! You who died—and arose!
THE BRIDGE OF DREAMS
The thought of thee is like a swinging tune,
A little swinging tune I seem to hear;
The thought of thee is like the breeze of June
Blowing across the winter of the year!
The thought of thee is like a golden star
Set all alone within the midnight blue;—
A heaven-lit candle shining from afar
Upon the road that we are passing through.
The thought of thee is like the woods in spring,
With silver-grey and silver-green o'erset;
The thought of thee is what the four winds bring
Over the banks of wild-blown mignonette.
And all the music of the twilight sea,
Echoes thy voice in tender undertone;
The sea-gulls seem but grey-winged thoughts of thee,
Caught on the salted wing and homeward blown!
God keeps the secret of His heaven well,—
But Azrael finds its gates, where'er they be;
And from the earth, to fields of Asphodel,
I build a bridge of dreams, and cross to thee.