Long have I known a glory in it all, But never knew I this; Here such a passion is As stretcheth me apart,--Lord, I do fear Thou’st made the world too beautiful this year; My soul is all but out of me,--let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call. _Afternoon on a Hill_ I will be the gladdest thing Under the sun! I will touch a hundred flowers And not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds With quiet eyes, Watch the wind bow down the grass, And the grass rise. And when lights begin to show Up from the town, I will mark which must be mine, And then start down. _Journey_ Ah, could I lay me down in this long grass And close my eyes, and let the quiet wind Blow over me,--I am so tired, so tired Of passing pleasant places! All my life, Following Care along the dusty road, Have I looked back at loveliness and sighed; Yet at my hand an unrelenting hand Tugged ever, and I passed. All my life long Over my shoulder have I looked at peace And now I fain would lie in this long grass And close my eyes. Yet onward! Cat-birds call Through the long afternoon, and creeks at dusk Are guttural. Whip-poor-wills wake and cry, Drawing the twilight close about their throats. Only my heart makes answer. Eager vines Go up the rocks and wait; flushed apple-trees Pause in their dance and break the ring for me; Dim, shady wood-roads, redolent of fern And bayberry, that through sweet bevies thread Of round-faced roses, pink and petulant, Look back and beckon ere they disappear. Only my heart, only my heart responds. Yet, ah, my path is sweet on either side All through the dragging day,--sharp underfoot, And hot, and like dead mist the dry dust hangs-- But far, oh, far as passionate eye can reach, And long, ah, long as rapturous eye can cling, The world is mine: blue hill, still silver lake, Broad field, bright flower, and the long white road A gateless garden, and an open path: My feet to follow, and my heart to hold. _Sorrow_ Sorrow like a ceaseless rain Beats upon my heart. People twist and scream in pain,-- Dawn will find them still again; This has neither wax nor wane, Neither stop nor start. People dress and go to town; I sit in my chair. All my thoughts are slow and brown: Standing up or sitting down Little matters, or what gown Or what shoes I wear. _Tavern_ I’ll keep a little tavern Below the high hill’s crest, Wherein all grey-eyed people May sit them down and rest. There shall be plates a-plenty, And mugs to melt the chill Of all the grey-eyed people Who happen up the hill. There sound will sleep the traveller, And dream his journey’s end, But I will rouse at midnight The falling fire to tend.