There are flowers without a hue, Lilies that under the moonlight fade, Moonlight over the meadows laid, Fountains far on the sky-line blue. Weary and heavy with slumber I See thro' the lids that slumber closes Crows that gather amid the roses, Sick folk under a sunbright sky. Of these vague loves the weary smart Shines unchanging late and soon Like a pale slow-moving moon Sadly into my indolent heart. PRAYER Thou know'st, O Lord, my spirit's dearth Thou see'st the worth of what I bring The evil blossoms of the earth, The light upon a perished thing. Thou see'st my sick and weary mood: The moon is dark, the dawn is slain. Thy glory on my solitude Shed Thou like fructifying rain. Light Thou, O Lord, beneath my feet The way my weary soul should pass, For now the pain of all things sweet Is piteous as the ice-bound grass. GLANCES O all these poor weary glances! And yours, and mine! And those that are no more, and those to be! And those that will never be, and yet exist! There are those that seem to visit the poor on a Sabbath; There are some like sick folk who are houseless, There are some like lambs in a meadow full of bleaching linen; And O, these strange unwonted glances! Under the vaults of some we behold A maiden being put to death in a chamber with closed doors. And some make us dream of unknown sorrows, Of peasants at the windows of a factory, Of a gardener turned weaver, Of a summer afternoon in a wax-work show, Of the thoughts of a queen on beholding sick man in a garden, Of an odour of camphor in the forest, Of a princess locked in a tower on a day of rejoicing, Of men sailing all the week on the stagnant waters of a canal. Have pity on those that come creeping forth like convalescents at harvest-tide! Have pity on those that have the air of children who have lost their way at supper-time! Have pity on the glances of the wounded man at the surgeon, Like tents stricken by a hurricane! Have pity on the glances of the virgin tempted! (Rivers of milk are flowing away in the darkness; And the swans have died in the midst of serpents!) And the gaze of the virgin who surrenders! There are princesses deserted in swamps that have no issue! And lo, those eyes in which you may see ships in full sail, lit up by flashes of the storm! And how pitiful are all those glances which suffer because they are not elsewhere! And so much suffering, so indistinguishable and yet so various! And those glances which no one will ever understand! And those poor glances which are all but dumb! And those poor whispering glances! And those poor stifled glances!