The world is wide--around yon court, Where dirty little children play, Another world of street on street Grows wide and wider every day. And round the town for endless miles A great strange land of green is spread-- O wide the world, O weary-wide, But it is wider overhead. For could you mount yon glittering stairs And on their topmost turret stand,-- Still endless shining courts and squares, And lanes of lamps on every hand. And, might you tread those starry streets To where those long perspectives bend, O you would cast you down and die-- Street upon street, world without end. SAINT CHARLES '"Saint Charles," said Thackeray to me, thirty years ago, putting one of Charles Lamb's letters to his forehead.'--LETTERS OF EDWARD FITZGERALD. Saint Charles! ah yes, let other men Love Elia for his antic pen, And watch with dilettante eyes His page for every quaint surprise, Curious of _caviare_ phrase. Yea; these who will not also praise? We surely must, but which is more The motley that his sorrow wore, Or the great heart whose valorous beat Upheld his brave unfaltering feet Along the narrow path he chose, And followed faithful to the close? Yea, Elia, thank thee for thy wit, How poor our laughter, lacking it! For all thy gillyflowers of speech Gramercy, Elia; but most rich Are we, most holpen, when we meet Thee and thy Bridget in the street, Upon that tearful errand set-- So often trod, so patient yet! GOOD-NIGHT (AFTER THE NORWEGIAN OF ROSENCRANTZ JOHNSEN) Midnight, and through the blind the moonlight stealing On silver feet across the sleeping room, Ah, moonlight, what is this thou art revealing-- Her breast, a great sweet lily in the gloom. It is their bed, white little isle of bliss In the dark wilderness of midnight sea,-- Hush! 'tis their hearts still beating from the kiss, The warm dark kiss that only night may see. Their cheeks still burn, they close and nestle yet, Ere, with faint breath, they falter out good-night, Her hand in his upon the coverlet Lies in the silver pathway of the light. (LILLEHAMMER, _August_ 22, 1892.) BEATRICE (FOR THE BEATRICE CELEBRATION, 1890) Nine mystic revolutions of the spheres Since Dante's birth, and lo! a star new-born Shining in heaven: and like a lark at morn Springing to meet it, straight in all men's ears, A strange new song, which through the listening years Grew deep as lonely sobbing from the thorn Rising at eve, shot through with bitter scorn, Full-throated with the ecstasy of tears. Long since that star arose, that song upsprang, That shine and sing in heaven above us yet; Since thy white childhood, glorious Beatrice, Dawned like a blessed angel upon his: Thy star it was that did his song beget, Star shining for us still because he sang. A CHILD'S EVENSONG