How may men find refuge, how should hearts be shielded, From the weapons thus by little children wielded, When they lift such eyes as light this lustrous face-- Eyes that woke love sleeping unawares, and yielded Love for love, a gift of grace, Grace beyond man's merit, love that laughs, forgiving Even the sin of being no more a child, nor worth Trust and love that lavish gifts above man's giving, Touch or glance of eyes and lips the sweetest living, Fair as heaven and kind as earth? NIGHT I FROM THE ITALIAN OF GIOVANNI STROZZI Night, whom in shape so sweet thou here may'st see Sleeping, was by an Angel sculptured thus In marble, and since she sleeps hath life like us: Thou doubt'st? Awake her: she will speak to thee. II FROM THE ITALIAN OF MICHELANGELO BUONARROTI Sleep likes me well, and better yet to know I am but stone. While shame and grief must be, Good hap is mine, to feel not, nor to see: Take heed, then, lest thou wake me: ah, speak low. IN TIME OF MOURNING "Return," we dare not as we fain Would cry from hearts that yearn: Love dares not bid our dead again Return. O hearts that strain and burn As fires fast fettered burn and strain! Bow down, lie still, and learn. The heart that healed all hearts of pain No funeral rites inurn: Its echoes, while the stars remain, Return. _May 1885._ THE INTERPRETERS I Days dawn on us that make amends for many Sometimes, When heaven and earth seem sweeter even than any Man's rhymes. Light had not all been quenched in France, or quelled In Greece, Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held His peace. Had Sappho's self not left her word thus long For token, The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song Had spoken. II And yet these days of subtler air and finer Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light-- The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn-- Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day's track Seem living-- What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving? III Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, telling Time nought; Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling In thought. In human thought their being endures, their power Abides: Else were their life a thing that each light hour Derides. The years live, work, sigh, smile, and die, with all They cherish; The soul endures, though dreams that fed it fall And perish. IV