O youth whose hope is high, Who dost to Truth aspire, Whether thou live or die, O look not back nor tire. Thou that art bold to fly Through tempest, flood and fire, Nor dost not shrink to try Thy heart in torments dire: If thou canst Death defy, If thy Faith is entire, Press onward, for thine eye Shall see thy heart’s desire. Beauty and love are nigh, And with their deathless quire Soon shall thine eager cry Be numbered and expire. SHORTER POEMS BOOK IV TO L. B. C. L. M. BOOK IV 1 I love all beauteous things, I seek and adore them; God hath no better praise, And man in his hasty days Is honoured for them. I too will something make And joy in the making; Altho’ to-morrow it seem Like the empty words of a dream Remembered on waking. 2 My spirit sang all day O my joy. Nothing my tongue could say, Only My joy! My heart an echo caught— O my joy— And spake, Tell me thy thought, Hide not thy joy. My eyes gan peer around,— O my joy— What beauty hast thou found? Shew us thy joy. My jealous ears grew whist;— O my joy— Music from heaven is’t, Sent for our joy? She also came and heard; O my joy, What, said she, is this word? What is thy joy? And I replied, O see, O my joy, ’Tis thee, I cried, ’tis thee: Thou art my joy. 3 The upper skies are palest blue Mottled with pearl and fretted snow: With tattered fleece of inky hue Close overhead the stormclouds go. Their shadows fly along the hill And o’er the crest mount one by one: The whitened planking of the mill Is now in shade and now in sun. 4 The clouds have left the sky, The wind hath left the sea, The half-moon up on high Shrinketh her face of dree. She lightens on the comb Of leaden waves, that roar And thrust their hurried foam Up on the dusky shore. Behind the western bars The shrouded day retreats, And unperceived the stars Steal to their sovran seats. And whiter grows the foam, The small moon lightens more; And as I turn me home, My shadow walks before. 5 LAST WEEK OF FEBRUARY, 1890 Hark to the merry birds, hark how they sing! Although ’tis not yet spring And keen the air; Hale Winter, half resigning ere he go, Doth to his heiress shew His kingdom fair. In patient russet is his forest spread, All bright with bramble red, With beechen moss And holly sheen: the oak silver and stark Sunneth his aged bark And wrinkled boss.