And crown with weeds our pride of towers, And warm our marble through with sun, And break our pavements through with flowers, With an Amen when all is done, Knowing these perfect things of ours. O days, we ponder, left alone, Like children in their lonely hour, And in our secrets keep your own, As seeds the colour of the flower. To-day they are not all unknown, The stars that 'twixt the rise and fall, Like relic-seers, shall one by one Stand musing o'er our empty hall; And setting moons shall brood upon The frescoes of our inward wall. And when some midsummer shall be, Hither will come some little one (Dusty with bloom of flowers is he), Sit on a ruin i' the late long sun, And think, one foot upon his knee. And where they wrought, these lives of ours, So many-worded, many-souled, A North-west wind will take the towers, And dark with colour, sunny and cold, Will range alone among the flowers. And here or there, at our desire, The little clamorous owl shall sit Through her still time; and we aspire To make a law (and know not it) Unto the life of a wild briar. Our purpose is distinct and dear, Though from our open eyes 'tis hidden. Thou, Time-to-come, shalt make it clear, Undoing our work; we are children chidden With pity and smiles of many a year. Who shall allot the praise, and guess What part is yours and what is ours?-- O years that certainly will bless Our flowers with fruits, our seeds with flowers, With ruin all our perfectness. Be patient, Time, of our delays, Too happy hopes, and wasted fears, Our faithful ways, our wilful ways, Solace our labours, O our seers The seasons, and our bards the days; And make our pause and silence brim With the shrill children's play, and sweets Of those pathetic flowers and dim, Of those eternal flowers my Keats Dying felt growing over him. SONNET I touched the heart that loved me as a player Touches a lyre; content with my poor skill No touch save mine knew my beloved (and still I thought at times: Is there no sweet lost air Old loves could wake in him, I cannot share?). Oh, he alone, alone could so fulfil My thoughts in sound to the measure of my will. He is gone, and silence takes me unaware. The songs I knew not he resumes, set free From my constraining love, alas for me! His part in our tune goes with him; my part Is locked in me for ever; I stand as mute As one with full strong music in his heart Whose fingers stray upon a shattered lute. SONG OF THE DAY TO THE NIGHT THE POET SINGS TO HIS POET From dawn to dusk, and from dusk to dawn, We two are sundered always, sweet. A few stars shake o'er the rocky lawn And the cold sea-shore when we meet. The twilight comes with thy shadowy feet. We are not day and night, my Fair, But one. It is an hour of hours. And thoughts that are not otherwhere Are thought here 'mid the blown sea-flowers, This meeting and this dusk of ours.