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How with pale speechless lips and wan didst pace
Crushing beneath thy days that deadly feud ;
How to the bitter wall didst turn thy face,
Glad from the glances of the multitude.

Ah! here or there; the same sad song of woe,
More desolate than world-despair or death,
The cry of souls the cruel sun severeth,

The moan of love to madness smitten low.
Ah, here or there; the same sad end of things,
The same fond fruitless ineffectual life,

High-feathered hope and passionate pulse of wings,
Chill sorrow, failure, and despairing strife.

Behold! beyond the mountains of the West,
Where sparkle white domes of the purple hills,
The light of evening Earth's broad bosom fills
And like a golden dove broods o'er her breast,
And fades, afar—for you and me, afar,—
Shared token of our common deep desire,
Which fadeth not, but like a beacon-star
Devours the darkness of our hearts with fire.

THE DIVINE SORROW.

TO-MORROW, when the sun is sunken,
And the seawave ebbs afar,

If thy heart be cold and shrunken
And thy hope too like a star

That glitters faintly, glitters coldly,
In the farthest fields of space,
While the night airs, blowing boldly,
Bring their cloudy train apace;

If the seeming sad insistance
Of the years oppress thy soul,
As from distance unto distance,
Past and future, still they roll;

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And thy forward glances eager

Aid not, nor the backward cast, Seeing all is mute and meagre— And the future as the past;

If in all this fate betide thee

That no voice hath called thee ‘friend,'

Nature bitterly belied thee

From the wretched end to end;

Even so grieve not, for only

So shalt thou divine the deep

And the height; find for the lonely

Love, and tears for them that weep.

THE DIVINE LOVE.

CHILD, the hours that breathe around thee
Know thee most divinely fair;

In its love the last enwound thee,
And the next shall take thy hair

Backward from thy forehead's whiteness
While upon thy lips it fold

Kisses, love-endued with lightness

Lest thou guess what none have told.

Though thou seest not nor knowest,
Love about thee, day by day,
Dwells and, whereso'er thou goest,

Walks beside thee all the way;

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Tenderly his glances greet thee,

And his words about thee weave; Even the winds and waters meet thee Always, only, by love's leave.

Yea, though none can shape or show it, Though no mortal logic prove,

Love himself doth surely know it:

Thou shalt, when thou knowest Love.

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