But now, the hard eyes move her And her lips quiver As the sweet notes shiver Between them and die. So her singing ceases, she Looking up, crying, “Why is my May not sweet? Is the wide sky fair? Are the free winds fleet? Are the feet of the Spring not rare That tread flowers out of the soil? Oh! long hours, not for toil, But for wondering and singing.” “No, no, no, no,” These reply, “Silly fancies of flowers and skies, All these things we know. There is nothing to wonder at, sing, Love, or fear— Is not everything simple, and clear, And common, and near us, and weary? So, pass by idle dreaming— And you, if you would like to know Being from seeming, Come into the schools and study.” “Still to sing sometimes when I have the will, And be idle and ponder,” Said the Goose-girl, “and look up to heaven and wonder?” “What! Squander Truth’s time In dreams of the unknown sublime— No—” Then “Ignorant always,” said she, “I must be,” And went on her way. “Sweet May, sad May”— Hanging her head— Till, “The mills of the gods grind slowly,” she said, “But they grind exceeding small, Let be, I will sit by the mills of the gods, and watch the slow atoms fall.” So, patient and still, through long patient hours As she laid her heart low in the hearts of the flowers, Through clouds and through shine, With smiles and with tears, Through long hours, through sweet years; Oh! _years_—for a hundred years was one School-hour in two thousand and ninety-nine. And see! Who are these that come creeping out from the schools? —Long ago, when idlenesses Out of her tresses, stray’d the school over, Some slept of the learners, some played. These crept out to wonder and sing, And look for _her_ yonder, Away up the hills, Amongst the gods’ mills. And now “Is it this way?” they say, Bowing low, “Oh! wise, by the heaven in thine eyes Teach—we will learn from thee— Is it no, is it yes, Labour or Idleness?” She, Answering meekly: “This— Neither no, nor yes, But ‘come into God and see.’” Oh! the deeps we can feel; oh! the heights we must climb. Oh! slow gentle hours of the golden time— Here, the end of my rhyme. _May_, 1869. EXILE. NIGHT falls in the convict prison,— The eve of a summer day; Through the heated cells and galleries, The cooler nightwinds play. And slumber on folded pinions With oblivion brought relief; Stilling the weary tossings,— Smoothing the brow of grief.