I am I--just a Pulse of Pain--I am I, that is all I know. For Life, and the sickness of Life, and Death and desire to die;-- They have passed away like the smoke, here is nothing but Pain and I. _The Lost Friend._ _The people take the thing of course,_ _They marvel not to see_ _This strange, unnatural divorce_ _Betwixt delight and me._ I know the face of sorrow, and I know Her voice with all its varied cadences; Which way she turns and treads; how at her ease Thinks fit her dreary largess to bestow. Where sorrow long abides, some be that grow To hold her dear, but I am not of these; Joy is my friend, not sorrow; by strange seas, In some far land we wandered, long ago. O faith, long tried, that knows no faltering! O vanished treasure of her hands and face!-- Beloved--to whose memory I cling, Unmoved within my heart she holds her place. And never shall I hail that other “friend,” Who yet shall dog my footsteps to the end. _Cambridge in the Long._ [Illustration: text decoration] Where drowsy sound of college-chimes Across the air is blown, And drowsy fragrance of the limes, I lie and dream alone. A dazzling radiance reigns o’er all-- O’er gardens densely green, O’er old grey bridges and the small, Slow flood which slides between. This is the place; it is not strange, But known of old and dear.-- What went I forth to seek? The change Is mine; why am I here? Alas, in vain I turned away, I fled the town in vain; The strenuous life of yesterday Calleth me back again. And was it peace I came to seek? Yet here, where memories throng, Ev’n here, I know the past is weak, I know the present strong. This drowsy fragrance, silent heat, Suit not my present mind, Whose eager thought goes out to meet The life it left behind. Spirit with sky to change; such hope, An idle one we know; Unship the oars, make loose the rope, Push off the boat and go.... Ah, would what binds me could have been Thus loosened at a touch! This pain of living is too keen, Of loving, is too much. _To Vernon Lee._ [Illustration: text decoration] On Bellosguardo, when the year was young, We wandered, seeking for the daffodil And dark anemone, whose purples fill The peasant’s plot, between the corn-shoots sprung. Over the grey, low wall the olive flung Her deeper greyness; far off, hill on hill Sloped to the sky, which, pearly-pale and still, Above the large and luminous landscape hung. A snowy blackthorn flowered beyond my reach; You broke a branch and gave it to me there; I found for you a scarlet blossom rare. Thereby ran on of Art and Life our speech; And of the gifts the gods had given to each-- Hope unto you, and unto me Despair. _The Old Poet._