Poets

O foolish wisdom sought in books! O aimless fret of household tasks! O chains that bind the hand and mind— A fuller life my spirit asks!

On Hearing Kelley's Music to ‘Macbeth' O melody, what children strange are these From thy most vast, illimitable realm? These sounds that seize upon and overwhelm The soul with shuddering ecstasy! Lo! here The night is, and the deeds that make night fear; Wild winds and waters, and the sough of trees Tossed in the tempest; wail of spirits banned, Wandering, unhoused of clay, in the dim land; The incantation of the Sisters Three, Nameless of deed and name - the mystic chords Weird repetitions of the mystic words; The mad, remorseful terrors of the Thane, And bloody hands - which bloody must remain. Last, the wild march; the battle hand to hand Of clashing arms, in awful harmony, Sublimely grand, and terrible as grand! The clan-cries; the barbaric trumpetry; And the one fateful note, that, throughout all, Leads, follows, calls, compels, and holds in thrall.

NOT yet from the yellow west, Fade, light of the autumn day Far lies my haven of rest, And rough the way. She has waited long, my own! And the night is dark and drear To meet alone. Not yet, with the leaves that fall, Fall, rose of the wayside thorn, Fair and most sweet of all The summer-born. But O, for my rose that stands, And waits, through the lessening year, My gathering hands! Fail not, O my life, so fast — Fail not till we shall have met: Soon, soon will thy pulse be past, But oh, not yet! — Till her fond eyes on me shine, And the heart so dear, so dear, Beats close to mine.