The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side Throng the wide fields in whispering companies, Serene and gently smiling like the eyes Of tender children long beatified, The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass, And swing and toss with all the airs that pass, Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied; These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown, I scarce can think of pleasure without these. Even to dream of them is to disown The cold forlorn midwinter reveries, Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown, No longer dreams, but dear realities. DEEDS. 'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought To turn men's yearning to the great and true, Yet first take heed to what your own hands do; By deeds not words the souls of men are taught; Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caught Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough Men's souls that drink are broken or made new) Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught With the clear essence of eternal youth. Even one little deed of weak untruth Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast, A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream, Woven forever with its crystal gleam, Bearing the seed of death and woe at last. ASPIRATION. Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here, Or is there now, or shall there sometime be Harbour or any rest for such as we, Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steer Our whispering barks with such keen hope and fear Toward misty bournes across that coastless sea, Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee, Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near. Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mind Of many ills be marked with many a trace, Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind, Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race, Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face, And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind. THE POETS. Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell, Changers with every hour from dawn till even, Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven, And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell, Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well, But most draw back, and know not what to say, Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray, Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell. Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth, Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man, The whole world's tangle gathered in one span, Full of this human torture and this mirth: Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss, Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is. THE TRUTH.