Nearer to thy mother-heart, Simple Nature, press me, Let me know thee as thou art, Fill my soul and bless me! I have loved thee long and well, I have loved thee heartily; Shall I never with thee dwell, Never be at one with thee? Inward, inward to thy heart, Kindly Nature, take me, Lovely even as thou art, Full of loving make me! Thou knowest naught of dead-cold forms, Knowest naught of littleness, Lifeful Truth thy being warms, Majesty and earnestness. Homeward, homeward to thy heart, Dearest Nature, call me; Let no halfness, no mean part, Any longer thrall me! I will be thy lover true, I will be a faithful soul, Then circle me, then look me through, Fill me with the mighty Whole. SONG. All things are sad:-- I go and ask of Memory, That she tell sweet tales to me To make me glad; And she takes me by the hand, Leadeth to old places, Showeth the old faces In her hazy mirage-land; O, her voice is sweet and low, And her eyes are fresh to mine As the dew Gleaming through The half-unfolded Eglantine, Long ago, long ago! But I feel that I am only Yet more sad, and yet more lonely! Then I turn to blue-eyed Hope, And beg of her that she will ope Her golden gates for me; She is fair and full of grace, But she hath the form and face Of her mother Memory; Clear as air her glad voice ringeth, Joyous are the songs she singeth, Yet I hear them mournfully;-- They are songs her mother taught her, Crooning to her infant daughter, As she lay upon her knee. Many little ones she bore me, Woe is me! in by-gone hours, Who danced along and sang before me, Scattering my way with flowers; One by one They are gone, And their silent graves are seen, Shining fresh with mosses green, Where the rising sunbeams slope O'er the dewy land of Hope. But, when sweet Memory faileth, And Hope looks strange and cold; When youth no more availeth, And Grief grows over bold;-- When softest winds are dreary, And summer sunlight weary, And sweetest things uncheery We know not why:-- When the crown of our desires Weighs upon the brow and tires, And we would die, Die for, ah! we know not what, Something we seem to have forgot, Something we had, and now have not;-- When the present is a weight And the future seems our foe, And with shrinking eyes we wait, As one who dreads a sudden blow In the dark, he knows not whence;-- When Love at last his bright eye closes, And the bloom upon his face, That lends him such a living grace, Is a shadow from the roses Wherewith we have decked his bier, Because he once was passing dear;-- When we feel a leaden sense Of nothingness and impotence, Till we grow mad-- Then the body saith, "There's but one true faith; All things are sad!" A LOVE-DREAM.