Nothing is joy without thee: I can find No rapture in the first relays of spring, In songs of birds, in young buds opening, Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind; For lack of thee, who once wert throned behind All beauty, like a strength where graces cling,-- The jewel and heart of light, which everything Wrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined. Ah! since thou'rt fled, and I in each fair sight The sweet occasion of my joy deplore, Where shall I seek thee best, or whom invite Within thy sacred temples and adore? Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight, And lead my soul in life as heretofore? 26 The work is done, and from the fingers fall The bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro': The tasking eye that overrunneth all Rests, and affirms there is no more to do. Now the third joy of making, the sweet flower Of blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit; Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hour The shrivelling vanity of mortal merit. And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day; To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be, True only should the swift life stand at stay: Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me. Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee: Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee. 27 The fabled sea-snake, old Leviathan, Or else what grisly beast of scaly chine That champ'd the ocean-wrack and swash'd the brine, Before the new and milder days of man, Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fan Like his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne, Late-born of golden seed to breed a line Of offspring swifter and more huge of plan. Straight is her going, for upon the sun When once she hath look'd, her path and place are plain; With tireless speed she smiteth one by one The shuddering seas and foams along the main; And her eased breath, when her wild race is run, Roars thro' her nostrils like a hurricane. 28 A thousand times hath in my heart's behoof My tongue been set his passion to impart; A thousand times hath my too coward heart My mouth reclosed and fix'd it to the roof; Then with such cunning hath it held aloof, A thousand times kept silence with such art That words coud do no more: yet on thy part Hath silence given a thousand times reproof. I should be bolder, seeing I commend Love, that my dilatory purpose primes, But fear lest with my fears my hope should end: Nay, I would truth deny and burn my rhymes, Renew my sorrows rather than offend, A thousand times, and yet a thousand times. 29