Wind-washed and free, full-swept by rain and wave, By tang of surf and thunder of the gale, Wild be the ride yet safe the barque will sail And past the plunging seas her harbor brave; Nor care have I that storms and waters rave, I cannot fear since you can never fail -- Once have I looked upon the burning grail, And through your eyes have seen beyond the grave. I know at last -- the strange, sweet mystery, The nameless joy that trembled into tears, The hush of wings when you were at my side -- For now the veil is rent and I can see, See the true vision of the future years, As in your face the love of Him who died! The Secret. [George Edward Woodberry] Nightingales warble about it, All night under blossom and star; The wild swan is dying without it, And the eagle crieth afar; The sun he doth mount but to find it, Searching the green earth o'er; But more doth a man's heart mind it, Oh, more, more, more! Over the gray leagues of ocean The infinite yearneth alone; The forests with wandering emotion The thing they know not intone; Creation arose but to see it, A million lamps in the blue; But a lover he shall be it If one sweet maid is true. The Nightingale unheard. [Josephine Preston Peabody] Yes, Nightingale, through all the summer-time We followed on, from moon to golden moon; From where Salerno day-dreams in the noon, And the far rose of Paestum once did climb. All the white way beside the girdling blue, Through sun-shrill vines and campanile chime, We listened; -- from the old year to the new. Brown bird, and where were you? You, that Ravello lured not, throned on high And filled with singing out of sun-burned throats! Nor yet Minore of the flame-sailed boats; Nor yet -- of all bird-song should glorify -- Assisi, Little Portion of the blest, Assisi, in the bosom of the sky, Where God's own singer thatched his sunward nest, That little, heavenliest! And north and north, to where the hedge-rows are, That beckon with white looks an endless way; Where, through the fair wet silverness of May, A lamb shines out as sudden as a star, Among the cloudy sheep; and green, and pale, The may-trees reach and glimmer, near or far, And the red may-trees wear a shining veil. And still, no nightingale! The one vain longing, -- through all journeyings, The one: in every hushed and hearkening spot, -- All the soft-swarming dark where you were not, Still longed for! Yes, for sake of dreams and wings, And wonders, that your own must ever make To bower you close, with all hearts' treasurings; And for that speech toward which all hearts do ache; -- Even for Music's sake. But most, his music whose beloved name Forever writ in water of bright tears, Wins to one grave-side even the Roman years, That kindle there the hallowed April flame Of comfort-breathing violets. By that shrine Of Youth, Love, Death, forevermore the same, Violets still! -- When falls, to leave no sign, The arch of Constantine.