What part of this wild heart of mine I know not Will follow with thee where the great winds blow not, And where the young flowers of the mountain grow not. Yet let my letter with thy lost thoughts in it Tell what the way was when thou didst begin it, And win with thee the goal when thou shalt win it. Oh, in some hour of thine my thoughts shall guide thee. Suddenly, though time, darkness, silence hide thee, This wind from thy lost country flits beside thee,-- Telling thee: all thy memories moved the maiden, With thy regrets was morning over-shaden, With sorrow thou hast left, her life was laden. But whither shall my thoughts turn to pursue thee Life changes, and the years and days renew thee. Oh, Nature brings my straying heart unto thee. Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses Upon the evening as the morning tresses, Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses. And we, so altered in our shifting phases, Track one another 'mid the many mazes By the eternal child-breath of the daisies. I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strange declining. Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded. Only one morning, and the day was clouded. And one old age with all regrets is crowded. Oh, hush; oh, hush! Thy tears my words are steeping. Oh, hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping? Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping? Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her. Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her. The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses. SONG As the inhastening tide doth roll, Dear and desired, along the whole Wide shining strand, and floods the caves, Your love comes filling with happy waves The open sea-shore of my soul. But inland from the seaward spaces, None knows, not even you, the places Brimmed, at your coming, out of sight, --The little solitudes of delight This tide constrains in dim embraces. You see the happy shore, wave-rimmed, But know not of the quiet dimmed Rivers your coming floods and fills, The little pools 'mid happier hills, My silent rivulets, over-brimmed. What, I have secrets from you? Yes. But, visiting Sea, your love doth press And reach in further than you know, And fills all these; and when you go, There's loneliness in loneliness. BUILDERS OF RUINS We build with strength the deep tower-wall That shall be shattered thus and thus. And fair and great are court and hall, But _how_ fair--this is not for us, Who know the lack that lurks in all. We know, we know how all too bright The hues are that our painting wears, And how the marble gleams too white;-- We speak in unknown tongues, the years Interpret everything aright,