UP from the willow-root Subduing agonies leap; The squirrel and the purple moth Turn over amid their sleep; The icicled rocks aloft Burn saffron and blue alway, And trickling and tinkling The snows of the drift decay. O mine is the head must hang And share the immortal pang! Winter or spring is fair; Thaw ’s hard to bear. Heigho! my heart ’s sick. Sweet is cherry-time, sweet A shower, a bobolink, And the little trillium-blossom Tucked under her leaf to think; But here in the vast unborn Is the bitterest place to be, Till striving and longing Shall quicken the earth and me. What change inscrutable Is nigh us, we know not well; Gone is the strength to sigh Either to live or die. Heigho! my heart ’s sick. [Illustration] _A Foot-note to a Famous Lyric_ TRUE love’s own talisman, which here Shakespeare and Sidney failed to teach, A steel-and-velvet Cavalier Gave to our Saxon speech: Chief miracle of theme and touch That upstart enviers adore: _I could not love thee, dear, so much, Loved I not Honour more_. No critic born since Charles was king But sighed in smiling, as he read: “Here ’s theft of the supremest thing A poet might have said!” Young knight and wit and beau, who won Mid war’s adventure, ladies’ praise, Was’t well of you, ere you had done, To blight our modern bays? O yet to you, whose random hand Struck from the dark whole gems like these, Archaic beauty, never planned Nor reared by wan degrees, Which leaves an artist poor, and art An earldom richer all her years; To you, dead on your shield apart, Be “Ave!” passed in tears. How shall this singing era spurn Her master, and in lauds be loath? Your worth, your work, bid us discern Light exquisite in both. ’T was virtue’s breath inflamed your lyre, Heroic from the heart it ran; Nor for the shedding of such fire Lives since a manlier man. And till your strophe sweet and bold So lovely aye, so lonely long, Love’s self outdo, dear Lovelace! hold The pinnacles of song. [Illustration] _T. W. P. 1819-1892_ FRIEND who hast gone, and dost enrich to-day New England brightly building far away, And crown her liberal walk With company more choice, and sweeter talk, Look not on Fame, but Peace; and in a bower Receive at last her fulness and her power: Nor wholly, pure of heart! Forget thy few, who would be where thou art. [Illustration] _Summum Bonum_ WAITING on Him who knows us and our need, Most need have we to dare not, nor desire, But as He giveth, softly to suspire Against His gift, with no inglorious greed, For this is joy, tho’ still our joys recede; And, as in octaves of a noble lyre, To move our minds with His, and clearer, higher, Sound forth our fate; for this is strength indeed.