MORNING HYMN O golden Sun, whose ray My path illumineth: Light of the circling day, Whose night is birth and death: That dost not stint the prime Of wise and strong, nor stay The changeful ordering time, That brings their sure decay: Though thou, the central sphere, Dost seem to turn around Thy creature world, and near As father fond art found; Thereon, as from above To shine, and make rejoice With beauty, life, and love, The garden of thy choice, To dress the jocund Spring With bounteous promise gay Of hotter months, that bring The full perfected day; To touch with richest gold The ripe fruit, ere it fall; And smile through cloud and cold On Winter’s funeral. Now with resplendent flood Gladden my waking eyes, And stir my slothful blood To joyous enterprise. Arise, arise, as when At first God said LIGHT BE! That He might make us men With eyes His light to see. Scatter the clouds that hide The face of heaven, and show Where sweet Peace doth abide, Where Truth and Beauty grow. Awaken, cheer, adorn, Invite, inspire, assure The joys that praise thy morn, The toil thy noons mature: And soothe the eve of day, That darkens back to death; O golden Sun, whose ray Our path illumineth! 13 I have loved flowers that fade, Within whose magic tents Rich hues have marriage made With sweet unmemoried scents: A honeymoon delight,— A joy of love at sight, That ages in an hour:— My song be like a flower! I have loved airs, that die Before their charm is writ Along a liquid sky Trembling to welcome it. Notes, that with pulse of fire Proclaim the spirit’s desire, Then die, and are nowhere:— My song be like an air! Die, song, die like a breath, And wither as a bloom: Fear not a flowery death, Dread not an airy tomb! Fly with delight, fly hence! ’Twas thine love’s tender sense To feast; now on thy bier Beauty shall shed a tear. SHORTER POEMS BOOK III TO R. W. D. BOOK III 1 O my vague desires! Ye lambent flames of the soul, her offspring fires: That are my soul herself in pangs sublime Rising and flying to heaven before her time: What doth tempt you forth To drown in the south or shiver in the frosty north? What seek ye or find ye in your random flying, Ever soaring aloft, soaring and dying? Joy, the joy of flight! They hide in the sun, they flare and dance in the night; Gone up, gone out of sight: and ever again Follow fresh tongues of fire, fresh pangs of pain.