3211

il a't

ough the heat: r labors lay twilight meet.

e fallen gray
ease complete,

not they who play,

Arthur Symons [1865

us in heavier

55118 borit m LOST IS SA

SAID"

t is said? The flash of the

s the soul, but the earth is mobil Bre Este

dure, the grasses and herbs re

and the sods to my bosom yearn. thon il ba

th is told? A shout to a distant qe bro egina d

hile, but fainter, and fainter still;

ows wide the sweetness of all the old abniw pa on J

ow flies, and the storm in its bosom

e, little heart? A dream when the

g to ebud eealmoold, 1

s, tears, and a kiss, a song.

What's life, what's life, little heart? To beat and be glad of breath

While death waits on either side,—before and behind us,

Death!

Mary Ainge De Vere [1844

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE

HERE, where the world is quiet,
Here, where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams,
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbor,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labor,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift, and whither
They wot not who make thither;
But no such winds blow hither,
And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,
No heather-flower or vine,
But bloomless buds of poppies,
Green grapes of Proserpine,

serpine 3213

blushes

number, corn,ol bliv

and slumber s born; hire

kness
org ovo.I br/

trong as seven,
th shall dwell,

ngs in heaven,
ains in hell;
fair as roses, or
s and closes;

love reposes,
s not well,dW

zavil lil on tod

orch and portal,

h calm leaves, she stands

ll things mortalW

mmortal hands;

ps are sweeter not

who fears to greet her,
mix and meet hero
y times and lands.

or each and other, 10
s for all men born; In
e earth her mother, mi
of fruits and corn;
g and seed and swallow
g for her and follow
mmer song rings hollow
owers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;
And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;
Dead dreams of days forsaken,
Blind buds that snows have shaken,
Wild leaves that winds have taken,
Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure; And Love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be,

That no life lives forever;
That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,
Nor any change of light:
Nor sound of waters shaken,
Nor any sound or sight:
Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,
Nor days nor things diurnal;
Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]