To see no more the country half my own, Nor hear the half familiar speech, Amen, I say; I turn to that bleak North Whence I came forth-- The South lies out of reach. But when our swallows fly back to the South, To the sweet South, to the sweet South, The tears may come again into my eyes On the old wise, And the sweet name to my mouth. MIRRORS OF LIFE AND DEATH. The mystery of Life, the mystery Of Death, I see Darkly as in a glass; Their shadows pass, And talk with me. As the flush of a Morning Sky, As a Morning Sky colorless-- Each yields its measure of light To a wet world or a dry; Each fares through day to night With equal pace, And then each one Is done. As the Sun with glory and grace In his face, Benignantly hot, Graciously radiant and keen, Ready to rise and to run,-- Not without spot, Not even the Sun. As the Moon On the wax, on the wane, With night for her noon; Vanishing soon, To appear again. As Roses that droop Half warm, half chill, in the languid May, And breathe out a scent Sweet and faint; Till the wind gives one swoop To scatter their beauty away. As Lilies a multitude, One dipping, one rising, one sinking, On rippling waters, clear blue And pure for their drinking; One new dead, and one opened anew, And all good. As a cankered pale Flower, With death for a dower, Each hour of its life half dead; With death for a crown Weighing down Its head. As an Eagle, half strength and half grace, Most potent to face Unwinking the splendor of light; Harrying the East and the West, Soaring aloft from our sight; Yet one day or one night dropped to rest, On the low common earth Of his birth. As a Dove, Not alone, In a world of her own Full of fluttering soft noises And tender sweet voices Of love. As a Mouse Keeping house In the fork of a tree, With nuts in a crevice, And an acorn or two; What cares he For blossoming boughs, Or the song-singing bevies Of birds in their glee, Scarlet, or golden, or blue? As a Mole grubbing underground; When it comes to the light It grubs its way back again, Feeling no bias of fur To hamper it in its stir, Scant of pleasure and pain, Sinking itself out of sight Without sound. As Waters that drop and drop, Weariness without end, That drop and never stop, Wear that nothing can mend, Till one day they drop-- Stop-- And there's an end, And matters mend. As Trees, beneath whose skin We mark not the sap begin To swell and rise, Till the whole bursts out in green: We mark the falling leaves When the wide world grieves And sighs.