And he himself—did he know it all? Had he look’d, in his youth, Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth? Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts From winter and spring into summer and fall? Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts, Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife, And a glorified name to a sacrificed life? Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love, Best open the soul to breathe in from above The air immortal, and make it worth while That art should chisel in marble clear The lines divine that temper a smile Beyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?— Did he know it or not, perchance for his good His work was lonely and misunderstood. Perchance it was well, the best for the soul, Its nature, its nurture, that aught to control The aims inspiring his life or its plan Had gain’d but little from earth or man. UNDER THE NEW MOON. The hills rang back our parting jest; The dear, dear day was over; The sun had sunk below the west; We walk’d home through the clover. Our words were gay, but thought astray Our parting kept regretting,— “The old old way!” would seem to say; “The suns are ever setting.” Then, gazing back with longing soon, At once my step grew bolder; For, bright and new, I spied the moon Just over my right shoulder. I turn’d about and bade her look; We were not superstitious; We jok’d about that shining hook, Bright bait, and skies auspicious. We joked, but, oh, I thought with woe, “This bright bait lures me only,— Like more before it, comes to go, And leave life dark and lonely. Past yon horizon, things are strewn With broken moons,” I told her: “Each bore a bright hope, too, each moon, When over my right shoulder. “Alas to trust in each new light, A man were moonstruck, surely,— A lunatic!”—We laugh’d outright, And then look’d back demurely. Lo, dimly shown, the moon’s old zone Made full hope’s crescent new one. I thought, “Would my old love, made known, Prove hope of love a true one?— What would she say?”—I ask’d her soon, And took her hand to hold her. “Ah, love,” she sigh’d, “to-night the moon Is over my right shoulder.” ALL IN ALL. Be calm, O Wind, and gently blow, Nor rouse the waves’ commotion. Ye Clouds, veil not the bay so low: My love sails o’er the ocean. Out, boatman, out! The wind will rise; The yawl will find it stormy. Ay, thrice thy fee.—Her signal flies.— My love is waiting for me. Blow on, ye Winds, your prey is flown, Who cares for wave or weather? My love, my own! no more alone, We walk the shore together. NOTHING AT ALL.