Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: 30 Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. Oh! He gives to us his joy, That our griefs He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone 35 He doth sit by us and moan. _William Blake._ CCXL _A DEAD ROSE._ O Rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee 5 Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,-- If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 10 Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,-- If shining now, with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,-- 15 If dropping now, would darken where it met thee. The fly that ’lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,-- If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 20 The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-- If passing now, would blindly overlook thee. The heart doth recognize thee, 25 Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold 30 Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:-- Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee! _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ CCXLI _AT THE CHURCH GATE._ Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, 5 Expectant of her. The Minster bell tolls out Above the city’s rout, And noise and humming: They’ve hushed the Minster bell: 10 The organ ’gins to swell: She’s coming, she’s coming! My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, 15 With modest eyes downcast: She comes--she’s here--she’s past-- May Heaven go with her!