LYRICS OF LABOUR AND ROMANCE

O who will walk a mile with me Along life's merry way? A comrade blithe and full of glee, Who dares to laugh out loud and free, And let his frolic fancy play, Like a happy child, through the flowers gay That fill the field and fringe the way Where he walks a mile with me.

And who will walk a mile with me Along life's weary way? A friend whose heart has eyes to see The stars shine out o'er the darkening lea, And the quiet rest at the end o' the day,— A friend who knows, and dares to say, The brave, sweet words that cheer the way Where he walks a mile with me.

With such a comrade, such a friend, I fain would walk till journeys end, Through summer sunshine, winter rain, And then?—Farewell, we shall meet again!

Let me but do my work from day to day, In field or forest, at the desk or loom, In roaring market-place or tranquil room; Let me but find it in my heart to say, When vagrant wishes beckon me astray, “This is my work; my blessing, not my doom; Of all who live, I am the one by whom This work can best be done in the right way.”

Then shall I see it not too great, nor small, To suit my spirit and to prove my powers; Then shall I cheerful greet the labouring hours, And cheerful turn, when the long shadows fall At eventide, to play and love and rest, Because I know for me my work is best.

Let me but love my love without disguise, Nor wear a mask of fashion old or new, Nor wait to speak till I can hear a clue, Nor play a part to shine in others' eyes, Nor bow my knees to what my heart denies; But what I am, to that let me be true, And let me worship where my love is due, And so through love and worship let me rise.

For love is but the heart's immortal thirst To be completely known and all forgiven, Even as sinful souls that enter Heaven: So take me, dear, and understand my worst, And freely pardon it, because confessed, And let me find in loving thee, my best.

Let me but live my life from year to year, With forward face and unreluctant soul; Not hurrying to, nor turning from, the goal; Not mourning for the things that disappear In the dim past, nor holding back in fear From what the future veils; but with a whole And happy heart, that pays its toll To Youth and Age, and travels on with cheer.

So let the way wind up the hill or down, O'er rough or smooth, the journey will be joy: Still seeking what I sought when but a boy, New friendship, high adventure, and a crown, My heart will keep the courage of the quest, And hope the road's last turn will be the best.

Not to the swift, the race: Not to the strong, the fight: Not to the righteous, perfect grace Not to the wise, the light.

But often faltering feet Come surest to the goal; And they who walk in darkness meet The sunrise of the soul.

A thousand times by night The Syrian hosts have died; A thousand times the vanquished right Hath risen, glorified.

The truth the wise men sought Was spoken by a child; The alabaster box was brought In trembling hands defiled.

Not from my torch, the gleam, But from the stars above: Not from my heart, life's crystal stream, But from the depths of Love.

The mountains that inclose the vale With walls of granite, steep and high, Invite the fearless foot to scale Their stairway toward the sky.

The restless, deep, dividing sea That flows and foams from shore to shore, Calls to its sunburned chivalry, “Push out, set sail, explore!”

The bars of life at which we fret, That seem to prison and control, Are but the doors of daring, set Ajar before the soul.

Say not, “Too poor,” but freely give; Sigh not, “Too weak,” but boldly try; You never can begin to live Until you dare to die.

When to the garden of untroubled thought I came of late, and saw the open door, And wished again to enter, and explore The sweet, wild ways with stainless bloom inwrought, And bowers of innocence with beauty fraught, It seemed some purer voice must speak before I dared to tread that garden loved of yore, That Eden lost unknown and found unsought.

Then just within the gate I saw a child,— A stranger-child, yet to my heart most dear; He held his hands to me, and softly smiled With eyes that knew no shade of sin or fear: “Come in,” he said, “and play awhile with me; I am the little child you used to be.”

For that thy face is fair I love thee not; Nor yet because thy brown benignant eyes Have sudden gleams of gladness and surprise, Like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit spot: Nor for thy body, born without a blot, And loveliest when it shines with no disguise Pure as the star of Eve in Paradise,— For all these outward things I love thee not:

But for a something in thy form and face, Thy looks and ways, of primal harmony; A certain soothing charm, a vital grace That breathes of the eternal womanly, And makes me feel the warmth of Nature's breast, When in her arms, and thine, I sink to rest.

It's little I can tell About the birds in books; And yet I know them well, By their music and their looks: When May comes down the lane, Her airy lovers throng To welcome her with song, And follow in her train: Each minstrel weaves his part In that wild-flowery strain, And I know them all again By their echo in my heart.

It's little that I care About my darling's place In books of beauty rare, Or heraldries of race: For when she steps in view, It matters not to me What her sweet type may be, Of woman, old or new. I can't explain the art, But I know her for my own, Because her lightest tone Wakes an echo in my heart.

'Twas far away and long ago, When I was but a dreaming boy, This fairy tale of love and woe Entranced my heart with tearful joy; And while with white Undine I wept Your spirit,—ah, how strange it seems,— Was cradled in some star, and slept, Unconscious of her coming dreams.

Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, That I am going out the door while you come in the gate? For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is en fête; You are the coming guest, my dear,—for me the horses wait.

I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; If you had only come before I might have been your guide, And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide; But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to ride.

Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the reddest rose Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden glows,— A single rose,—I ask no more of what your love bestows; It is enough to give, my dear,—a flower to him who goes.

The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many a day, But I must ride the lonely shore, the Road to Far Away: So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a brimming draught, I pray, And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way.

Let me but feel thy look's embrace, Transparent, pure, and warm, And I'll not ask to touch thy face, Or fold thee in mine arm. For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, Arrayed in candid bliss, And draws me to her with a charm More close than any kiss.

A loving-cup of golden wine, Songs of a silver brook, And fragrant breaths of eglantine, Are mingled in thy look. More fair they are than any star, Thy topaz eyes divine— And deep within their trysting-nook Thy spirit blends with mine.

When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady, Of sunshine and of showers She weaves the old spring magic, And my heart breaks in flowers! But when her moods are ended, She nestles like a dove; Then, by the pain and rapture, I know her name is Love.

I envy every flower that blows Along the meadow where she goes, And every bird that sings to her, And every breeze that brings to her The fragrance of the rose.

I envy every poet's rhyme That moves her heart at eventime, And every tree that wears for her Its brightest bloom, and bears for her The fruitage of its prime.

I envy every Southern night That paves her path with moonbeams white, And silvers all the leaves for her, And in their shadow weaves for her A dream of dear delight.

I envy none whose love requires Of her a gift, a task that tires: I only long to live to her, I only ask to give to her, All that her heart desires.

Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting, Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight: Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting, I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night.

Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing, Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream; Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing, A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam.

Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions; Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green; Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions,— Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean?

Why do they beckon me, and what have they to show me? Crowds in the blazing street, mirth where the feasters meet, kisses and wine: Many to laugh with me, but never one to know me: A cityful of stranger-hearts and none to beat with mine!

Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting,— Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair, Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting, The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air!

“Through many a land your journey ran, And showed the best the world can boast: Now tell me, traveller, if you can, The place that pleased you most.”

She laid her hands upon my breast, And murmured gently in my ear, “The place I loved and liked the best Was in your arms, my dear!”

Yes, it was like you to forget, And cancel in the welcome of your smile My deep arrears of debt, And with the putting forth of both your hands To sweep away the bars my folly set Between us—bitter thoughts, and harsh demands, And reckless deeds that seemed untrue To love, when all the while My heart was aching through and through For you, sweet heart, and only you.

Yet, as I turned to come to you again, I thought there must be many a mile Of sorrowful reproach to cross, And many an hour of mutual pain To bear, until I could make plain That all my pride was but the fear of loss, And all my doubt the shadow of despair To win a heart so innocent and fair; And even that which looked most ill Was but the fever-fret and effort vain To dull the thirst which you alone could still.

But as I turned, the desert miles were crossed, And when I came, the weary hours were sped! For there you stood beside the open door, Glad, gracious, smiling as before, And with bright eyes and tender hands outspread Restored me to the Eden I had lost. Never a word of cold reproof, No sharp reproach, no glances that accuse The culprit whom they hold aloof,— Ah, 'tis not thus that other women use The empire they have won! For there is none like you, beloved,—none Secure enough to do what you have done. Where did you learn this heavenly art,— You sweetest and most wise of all that live,— With silent welcome to impart Assurance of the royal heart That never questions where it would forgive?

None but a queen could pardon me like this! My sovereign lady, let me lay Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss Of penitence, then close the fingers up, Thus—thus! Now give the cup Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth, And come—the garden blooms with bliss, The wind is in the south, The rose of love with dew is wet— Dear, it was like you to forget!

How long is the night, brother, And how long is the day? Oh, the day's too short for a happy task, And the day's too short for play; And the night's too short for the bliss of love, For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray, While the stars die out in the blue above, And the wan moon fades away.

How short is the day, brother, And how short is the night? Oh, the day's too long for a heavy task, And long, long, long is the night, When the wakeful hours are filled with pain, And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears, And sighs for the dawn to come again,— The night is a thousand years!

How long is a life, dear God, And how fast does it flow? The measure of life is a flame in the soul: It is neither swift nor slow. But the vision of time is the shadow cast By the fleeting world on the body's wall; When it fades there is neither future nor past, But love is all in all.

Her eyes are like the evening air, Her voice is like a rose, Her lips are like a lovely song, That ripples as it flows, And she herself is sweeter than The sweetest thing she knows.

A slender, haunting, twilight form Of wonder and surprise, She seemed a fairy or a child, Till, deep within her eyes, I saw the homeward-leading star Of womanhood arise.

Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land, Along a path I had not traced and could not understand, I travelled fast and far for this,—to take thee by the hand.

A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee, A mariner without a dream of what his port would be, So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place, O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race, The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face!

Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam! The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.

Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun, And why is the garden so gay? Do you know that my days of delight are done, Do you know I am going away? If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream You were sorry for me in my pain, And the heavily drooping flowers would seem To be weeping with me in the rain.

But why is your head so low, sweet heart, And why are your eyes overcast? Are you crying because you know we must part, Do you think this embrace is our last? Then kiss me again, and again, and again, Look up as you bid me good-bye! For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear, And your smile is the sun in my sky.

Once, only once, I saw it clear,— That Eden every human heart has dreamed A hundred times, but always far away! Ah, well do I remember how it seemed, Through the still atmosphere Of that enchanted day, To lie wide open to my weary feet: A little land of love and joy and rest, With meadows of soft green, Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet With delicate breath of violets unseen,— And, tranquil 'mid the bloom As if it waited for a coming guest, A little house of peace and joy and love Was nested like a snow-white dove.

From the rough mountain where I stood, Homesick for happiness, Only a narrow valley and a darkling wood To cross, and then the long distress Of solitude would be forever past,— I should be home at last. But not too soon! oh, let me linger here And feed my eyes, hungry with sorrow, On all this loveliness, so near, And mine to-morrow!

Then, from the wood, across the silvery blue, A dark bird flew, Silent, with sable wings. Close in his wake another came,— Fragments of midnight floating through The sunset flame,— Another and another, weaving rings Of blackness on the primrose sky,— Another, and another, look, a score, A hundred, yes, a thousand rising heavily From that accursed, dumb, and ancient wood, They boiled into the lucid air Like smoke from some deep caldron of despair! And more, and more, and ever more, The numberless, ill-omened brood Flapping their ragged plumes, Possessed the landscape and the evening light With menaces and glooms. Oh, dark, dark, dark they hovered o'er the place Where once I saw the little house so white Amid the flowers, covering every trace Of beauty from my troubled sight,— And suddenly it was night!

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale; And while the morning made A trembling light among the tree-tops pale, I saw the sable birds on every limb, Clinging together closely in the shade, And croaking placidly their surly hymn. But, oh, the little land of peace and love That those night-loving wings had poised above,— Where was it gone? Lost, lost, forevermore! Only a cottage, dull and gray, In the cold light of dawn, With iron bars across the door: Only a garden where the drooping head Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay, Hung o'er a barren bed: Only a desolate field that lay Untilled beneath the desolate day,— Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these! So, wondering, I passed along my way, With anger in my heart, too deep for words, Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees, And the black magic of the croaking birds.

If I have erred in showing all my heart, And lost your favour by a lack of pride; If standing like a beggar at your side With naked feet, I have forgot the art Of those who bargain well in passion's mart, And win the thing they want by what they hide; Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied, Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.

The sin, if sin it was, I do repent, And take the penance on myself alone; Yet after I have borne the punishment, I shall not fear to stand before the throne Of Love with open heart, and make this plea: “At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!”

You only promised me a single hour: But in that hour I journeyed through a year Of life: the joy of finding you,—the fear Of losing you again,—the sense of power To make you all my own,—the sudden shower Of tears that came because you were more dear Than words could ever tell you,—then,—the clear Soft rapture when I plucked love's crimson flower.

An hour,—a year,—I felt your bosom rise And fall with mystic tides, and saw the gleam Of undiscovered stars within your eyes,— A year,—an hour? I knew not, for the stream Of love had carried me to Paradise, Where all the forms of Time are like a dream.

Remember, when the timid light Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming; Remember, when the pensive night Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming; When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats high, When tender joys through evening shades draw nigh, Hark, from the woodland deeps A gentle whisper creeps, Remember!

Remember, when the hand of fate My life from thine forevermore has parted; When sorrow, exile, and the weight Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted; Think of my loyal love, my last adieu; Absence and time are naught, if we are true; Long as my heart shall beat, To thine it will repeat, Remember!

Remember, when the cool, dark tomb Receives my heart into its quiet keeping, And some sweet flower begins to bloom Above the grassy mound where I am sleeping; Ah then, my face thou nevermore shalt see, But still my soul will linger close to thee, And in the holy place of night, The litany of love recite,— Remember!

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer Across the sea; And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer I think of thee.

I see thy form when down the distant highway The dust-clouds rise; In darkest night, above the mountain by-way I see thine eyes.

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning Aloud rejoice; And on the lonely moor in silence yearning I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed, Yet thou art near. The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved If thou wert here!

A fir-tree standeth lonely On a barren northern height, Asleep, while winter covers His rest with robes of white.

In dreams, he sees a palm-tree In the golden morning-land; She droops alone and silent In burning wastes of sand.

Fair art thou as a flower And innocent and shy: I look on thee and sorrow; I grieve, I know not why.

I long to lay, in blessing, My hand upon thy brow, And pray that God may keep thee As fair and pure as now.

The cradle I have made for thee Is carved of orient ivory, And curtained round with wavy silk More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk.

A twig of box, a lilac spray, Will drive the goblin-horde away; And charm thy childlike heart to keep Her happy dream and virgin sleep.

Within that pure and fragrant nest, I'll rock thy gentle soul to rest, With tender songs we need not fear To have a passing angel hear.

Ah, long and long I fain would hold The snowy curtain's guardian fold Around thy crystal visions, born In clearness of the early morn.

But look, the sun is glowing red With triumph in his golden bed; Aurora's virgin whiteness dies In crimson glory of the skies.

The rapid flame will burn its way Through these white curtains, too, one day; The ivory cradle will be left Undone, and broken, and bereft.

Often I dream your big blue eyes, Though loth their meaning to confess, Regard me with a clear surprise Of dawning tenderness.

Often I dream you gladly hear The words I hardly dare to breathe,— The words that falter in their fear To tell what throbs beneath.

Often I dream your hand in mine Falls like a flower at eventide, And down the path we leave a line Of footsteps side by side.

But ah, in all my dreams of bliss, In passion's hunger, fever's drouth, I never dare to dream of this: My lips upon your mouth.

And so I dream your big blue eyes, That look on me with tenderness, Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise, And dim with dear distress.

A wreath of poppy flowers, With leaves of lotus blended, Is carved on Life's facade of hours, From night to night suspended.

Along the columned wall, From birth's low portal starting, It flows, with even rise and fall, To death's dark door of parting.

How short each measured arc, How brief the columns' number! The wreath begins and ends in dark, And leads from sleep to slumber.

The marble garland seems, With braided leaf and bloom, To deck the palace of our dreams As if it were a tomb.

Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands, Doth heal our deepest wounds from day to day With cooling, soothing oil, and firmly lay Around the broken heart her gentle bands.

Her nursing is as calm as Nature's care; She doth not weep with us; yet none the less Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness,— We fall asleep in peace when she is there.

Upon the mirror of the mind her breath Is like a cloud, to hide the fading trace Of that dear smile, of that remembered face, Whose presence were the joy and pang of death.

And he who clings to sorrow overmuch, Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless, More than all cries of pity and distress,— Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch!

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones All covered with lichens red and gray, Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones: And we were they!

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear The love that he vowed would never die, He called her his darling, his dove most dear: And he was I!

She covered her face from the pale moonlight With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through, And listened and listened with long delight: And she was you!

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust, Two lovers are learning the same old lore; He tells his love, and she looks her trust: But we,—no more!

Our silent eyes alone interpreted The new-born feeling in the heart of each: In yours I read your sorrow without speech, Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed. Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil, I saw the moving lights of trouble shine; And then my eyes were brightened as with wine, My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale!

Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed Another language than the eyes, doth learn To speak it perfectly: above the crowd Our looks exchange avowals and desires,— Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn, And talk to one another by their fires.

When I embrace her in a fragrant shrine Of climbing roses, my first kiss shall fall On you, sweet eyes, that mutely told me all,— Through you my soul will rise to make her mine. Upon your drooping lids, blue-veined and fair, The touch of tenderness I first will lay, You springs of joy, lights of my gloomy day, Whose dear discovered secret bade me dare!

And when you open, eyes of my fond dove, Your look will shine with new delight, made sure By this forerunner of a faithful love. Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure, That you should bear the sealing kisses true Of love unhoped that came to me through you.

This was my thought; but when beneath the rose That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest, In friendly dusk I held her on my breast For one brief moment,—while I saw you close, Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear The proffered homage of my wistful prayer,— In that high moment, by your grace obtained,

Forgetting your avowals, your alarms, Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes, Forgetting that you gave her to my arms, I broke my promise; and my first caress, Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise,— Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness!

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss, A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray That promptly runs to crown the hills with bliss Of purple dawn before the golden day, And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap. My brow was not unworthy your caress; For some foreboding joy had bade me keep From all affront the place your lips would bless.

Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill, But I remained confused, ashamed, and still. Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain, I felt,—like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day,— A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain!

Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend! The holy love that wounded you so deep Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep The fragrant dew of healing will descend. Your children,—ah, how quickly they will grow Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun, Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun, To hide the shaded path where I must go.

You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall, Your mother-soul will fill with happiness When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call, Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf That We has wrought to veil your vanished grief.

Then I alone shall suffer! I shall bear The double burden of our grief alone, While I enlarge my soul to take your share Of pain and hold it close beside my own. Our love is torn asunder; but the crown Of thorns that love has woven I will make My relic sacrosanct, and press it down Upon my bleeding heart that will not break.

Ah, that will be the depth of solitude! For my regret, that evermore endures, Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours; And when the evening comes, no gentle brood Of wondering children, gathered at my side, Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide.

Come home, my love, come home! The twilight is falling, The whippoorwill calling, The night is very near, And the darkness full of fear, Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, my love, come home! In folly we parted, And now, lonely hearted, I know you look in vain For a love like mine again; Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, dear love, come home! I've much to forgive you, And more yet to give you. I'll put a little light In the window every night,— Come home to my arms, come home.

The river of dreams runs quietly down From its hidden home in the forest of sleep, With a measureless motion calm and deep; And my boat slips out on the current brown, In a tranquil bay where the trees incline Far over the waves, and creepers twine Far over the boughs, as if to steep Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes By a secret way that no man knows, Under the branches bending, Under the shadows blending, And the body rests, and the passive soul Is drifted along to an unseen goal, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs gently down, With a leisurely flow that bears my bark Out of the visionless woods of dark, Into a glory that seems to crown Valley and hill with light from far, Clearer than sun or moon or star, Luminous, wonderful, weird, oh, mark How the radiance pulses everywhere, In the shadowless vault of lucid air! Over the mountains shimmering, Up from the fountains glimmering,— Tis the mystical glow of the inner light, That shines in the very noon of night, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs murmuring down, Through the fairest garden that ever grew; And now, as my boat goes drifting through, A hundred voices arise to drown The river's whisper, and charm my ear With a sound I have often longed to hear,— A magical music, strange and new, The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song, The virginal chant of the lilies' throng, Blue-bells silverly ringing, Pansies merrily singing,— For all the flowers have found their voice; And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs broadening down, Away from the peaceful garden-shore, With a current that deepens more and more, By the league-long walls of a mighty town; And I see the hurrying crowds of men Gather like clouds and dissolve again; But never a face I have seen before. They come and go, they shift and change, Their ways and looks are wild and strange,— This is a city haunted, A multitude enchanted! At the sight of the throng I am dumb with fear, And never a sound from their lips I hear, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs darkly down Into the heart of a desolate land, With ruined temples half-buried in sand, And riven hills, whose black brows frown Over the shuddering, lonely wave. The air grows dim with the dust of the grave; No sign of life on the dreary strand; No ray of light on the mountain's crest; And a weary wind that cannot rest Comes down the valley creeping, Lamenting, wailing, weeping,— I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath Is choked with the clinging fog of death, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs trembling down, Out of the valley of nameless fear, Into a country calm and clear, With a mystical name of high renown,— A name that I know, but may not tell,— And there the friends that I loved so well, Old companions forever dear, Come beckoning down to the river shore, And hail my boat with the voice of yore. Fair and sweet are the places Where I see their unchanged faces! And I feel in my heart with a secret thrill, That the loved and lost are living still, While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs dimly down By a secret way that no man knows; But the soul lives on while the river flows Through the gardens bright and the forests brown; And I often think that our whole life seems To be more than half made up of dreams. The changing sights and the passing shows, The morning hopes and the midnight fears, Are left behind with the vanished years; Onward, with ceaseless motion, The life-stream flows to the ocean, While we follow the tide, awake or asleep, Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep, And the shadows melt, and the soul is free,— The river of dreams has reached the sea.