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 storm-clouds 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. But neath the ruin of the withered brake Primroses now awake From nursing shades: The crumpled carpet of the dry leaves brown Avails not to keep down The hyacinth blades. The hazel hath put forth his tassels ruffed; The willow's flossy tuft Hath slipped him free: The rose amid her ransacked orange hips Braggeth the tender tips Of bowers to be. A black rook stirs the branches here and there, Foraging to repair His broken home: And hark, on the ash-boughs! Never thrush did sing Louder in praise of spring, When spring is come. 6 APRIL, 1885