Come back before the birds are flown, Before the leaves desert the tree, And, through the lonely alleys blown, Whisper their vain regrets to me Who drive before a blast more rude, The plaything of my gusty mood, In vain pursuing and pursued! Nay, come although the boughs be bare, Though snowflakes fledge the summer’s nest, And in some far Ausonian air The thrush, your minstrel, warm his breast. Come, sunshine’s treasurer, and bring To doubting flowers their faith in spring, To birds and me the need to sing! ABSENCE. Sleep is Death’s image,--poets tell us so; But Absence is the bitter self of Death, And, you away, Life’s lips their red forego, Parched in an air unfreshened by thy breath. Light of those eyes that made the light of mine, Where shine you? On what happier fields and flowers? Heaven’s lamps renew their lustre less divine, But only serve to count my darkened hours. If with your presence went your image too, That brain-born ghost my path would never cross Which meets me now where’er I once met you, Then vanishes, to multiply my loss. MONNA LISA. She gave me all that woman can, Nor her soul’s nunnery forego, A confidence that man to man Without remorse can never show. Rare art, that can the sense refine Till not a pulse rebellious stirs, And, since she never can be mine, Makes it seem sweeter to be hers! THE OPTIMIST. Turbid from London’s noise and smoke, Here I find air and quiet too: Air filtered through the beech and oak, Quiet by nothing harsher broke Than wood-dove’s meditative coo. The Truce of God is here; the breeze Sighs as men sigh relieved from care, Or tilts as lightly in the trees As might a robin: all is ease, With pledge of ampler ease to spare. Repose fills all the generous space Of undulant plain; the rook and crow Hush; ’tis as if a silent grace, By Nature murmured, calmed the face Of Heaven above and Earth below. From past and future toils I rest, One Sabbath pacifies my year; I am the halcyon, this my nest; And all is safely for the best While the World’s there and I am here. So I turn tory for the nonce, And think the radical a bore, Who cannot see, thick-witted dunce, That what was good for people once Must be as good forevermore. Sun, sink no deeper down the sky; Earth, never change this summer mood; Breeze, loiter thus forever by, Stir the dead leaf or let it lie: Since I am happy, all is good. MIDDLETON, _August, 1884_. ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS. With what odorous woods and spices Spared for royal sacrifices, With what costly gums seld-seen, Hoarded to embalm a queen, With what frankincense and myrrh, Burn these precious parts of her, Full of life and light and sweetness As a summer day’s completeness, Joy of sun and song of bird Running wild in every word, Full of all the superhuman Grace and winsomeness of woman?