None pierce the pure and lofty atmosphere Which I breathe now, And the strong spirits that inhabit there, Live--God sees how. Sick of the very treasure which they heap; Their tearless eyes Sealed ever in a heaven-forgetting sleep, Whose dreams are lies; And so, a motley, unattractive throng, They toil and plod, Dead to the holy ecstasies of song, To love, and God. Dear God! if that I may not keep through life My trust, my truth, And that I must, in yonder endless strife, Lose faith with youth; If the same toil which indurates the hand Must steel the heart, Till, in the wonders of the ideal land, It have no part; Oh! take me hence! I would no longer stay Beneath the sky; Give me to chant one pure and deathless lay, And let me die! Hark to the Shouting Wind Hark to the shouting Wind! Hark to the flying Rain! And I care not though I never see A bright blue sky again. There are thoughts in my breast to-day That are not for human speech; But I hear them in the driving storm, And the roar upon the beach. And oh, to be with that ship That I watch through the blinding brine! O Wind! for thy sweep of land and sea! O Sea! for a voice like thine! Shout on, thou pitiless Wind, To the frightened and flying Rain! I care not though I never see A calm blue sky again. Too Long, O Spirit of Storm Too long, O Spirit of Storm, Thy lightning sleeps in its sheath! I am sick to the soul of yon pallid sky, And the moveless sea beneath. Come down in thy strength on the deep! Worse dangers there are in life, When the waves are still, and the skies look fair, Than in their wildest strife. A friend I knew, whose days Were as calm as this sky overhead; But one blue morn that was fairest of all, The heart in his bosom fell dead. And they thought him alive while he walked The streets that he walked in youth-- Ah! little they guessed the seeming man Was a soulless corpse in sooth. Come down in thy strength, O Storm! And lash the deep till it raves! I am sick to the soul of that quiet sea, Which hides ten thousand graves. The Lily Confidante Lily! lady of the garden! Let me press my lip to thine! Love must tell its story, Lily! Listen thou to mine. Two I choose to know the secret-- Thee, and yonder wordless flute; Dragons watch me, tender Lily, And thou must be mute. There's a maiden, and her name is... Hist! was that a rose-leaf fell? See, the rose is listening, Lily, And the rose may tell. Lily-browed and lily-hearted, She is very dear to me; Lovely? yes, if being lovely Is--resembling thee.