Deem it no Sodom-fruit of vanity, Or fickle fantasy of unripe youth Which ever takes the fairest shows for truth, That I should wish my verse beloved of thee; 'Tis love's deep thirst which may not quenchèd be. There is a gulf of longing and unrest, A wild love-craving not to be represt, Whereto, in all our hearts, as to the sea, The streams of feeling do forever flow. Therefore it is that thy well-meted praise Falleth so shower-like and fresh on me, Filling those springs which else had sunk full low, Lost in the dreary desert-sands of woe, Or parched by passion's fierce and withering blaze. VII. Might I but be beloved, and, O most fair And perfect-ordered soul, beloved of thee, How should I feel a cloud of earthly care, If thy blue eyes were ever clear to me? O woman's love! O flower most bright and rare! That blossom'st brightest in extremest need, Woe, woe is me! that thy so precious seed Is ever sown by Fancy's changeful air, And grows sometimes in poor and barren hearts, Who can be little even in the light Of thy meek holiness--while souls more great Are left to wander in a starless night, Praying unheard--and yet the hardest parts Befit those best who best can cope with Fate. VIII. Why should we ever weary of this life? Our souls should widen ever, not contract, Grow stronger, and not harder, in the strife, Filling each moment with a noble act; If we live thus, of vigor all compact, Doing our duty to our fellow-men, And striving rather to exalt our race Than our poor selves, with earnest hand or pen We shall erect our names a dwelling-place Which not all ages shall cast down agen; Offspring of Time shall then be born each hour, Which, as of old, earth lovingly shall guard, To live forever in youth's perfect flower, And guide her future children Heavenward. IX. GREEN MOUNTAINS. Ye mountains, that far off lift up your heads, Seen dimly through their canopies of blue, The shade of my unrestful spirit sheds Distance-created beauty over you; I am not well content with this far view; How may I know what foot of loved-one treads Your rocks moss-grown and sun-dried torrent beds? We should love all things better, if we knew What claims the meanest have upon our hearts: Perchance even now some eye, that would be bright To meet my own, looks on your mist-robed forms; Perchance your grandeur a deep joy imparts To souls that have encircled mine with light-- O brother-heart, with thee my spirit warms! X.