Tired out we are, my heart and I. Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try. We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or God's blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I. VII. Yet who complains? My heart and I? In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by! And if before the days grew rough We _once_ were loved, used,--well enough, I think, we've fared, my heart and I. THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD. What's the best thing in the world? June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, _so_, you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world? --Something out of it, I think. WHERE'S AGNES? I. Nay, if I had come back so, And found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know Had said, "Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below: II. "I saw her, I who speak, White, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek Before they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week." III. Why, if he had spoken so, I might have believed the thing, Although her look, although Her step, laugh, voice's ring Lived in me still as they do. IV. But dead that other way, Corrupted thus and lost? That sort of worm in the clay? I cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay. V. My Agnes false? such shame? She? Rather be it said That the pure saint of her name Has stood there in her stead, And tricked you to this blame. VI. Her very gown, her cloak Fell chastely: no disguise, But expression! while she broke With her clear grey morning-eyes Full upon me and then spoke. VII. She wore her hair away From her forehead,--like a cloud Which a little wind in May Peels off finely: disallowed Though bright enough to stay. VIII. For the heavens must have the place To themselves, to use and shine in, As her soul would have her face To press through upon mine, in That orb of angel grace. IX. Had she any fault at all, 'T was having none, I thought too-- There seemed a sort of thrall; As she felt her shadow ought to Fall straight upon the wall. X. Her sweetness strained the sense Of common life and duty; And every day's expense Of moving in such beauty Required, almost, defence. XI. What good, I thought, is done By such sweet things, if any? This world smells ill i' the sun Though the garden-flowers are many,-- _She_ is only one. XII.