Part 4

Her winds will join us, with their constant kisses Upon the evening as the morning tresses, Her summers breathe the same unchanging blisses.

And we, so altered in our shifting phases, Track one another 'mid the many mazes By the eternal child-breath of the daisies.

I have not writ this letter of divining To make a glory of thy silent pining, A triumph of thy mute and strange declining.

Only one youth, and the bright life was shrouded. Only one morning, and the day was clouded. And one old age with all regrets is crowded.

Oh, hush; oh, hush! Thy tears my words are steeping. Oh, hush, hush, hush! So full, the fount of weeping? Poor eyes, so quickly moved, so near to sleeping?

Pardon the girl; such strange desires beset her. Poor woman, lay aside the mournful letter That breaks thy heart; the one who wrote, forget her.

The one who now thy faded features guesses, With filial fingers thy grey hair caresses, With morning tears thy mournful twilight blesses.

SONG

As the inhastening tide doth roll, Dear and desired, along the whole Wide shining strand, and floods the caves, Your love comes filling with happy waves The open sea-shore of my soul.

But inland from the seaward spaces, None knows, not even you, the places Brimmed, at your coming, out of sight, --The little solitudes of delight This tide constrains in dim embraces.

You see the happy shore, wave-rimmed, But know not of the quiet dimmed Rivers your coming floods and fills, The little pools 'mid happier hills, My silent rivulets, over-brimmed.

What, I have secrets from you? Yes. But, visiting Sea, your love doth press And reach in further than you know, And fills all these; and when you go, There's loneliness in loneliness.

BUILDERS OF RUINS

We build with strength the deep tower-wall That shall be shattered thus and thus. And fair and great are court and hall, But how fair--this is not for us, Who know the lack that lurks in all.

We know, we know how all too bright The hues are that our painting wears, And how the marble gleams too white;-- We speak in unknown tongues, the years Interpret everything aright,

And crown with weeds our pride of towers, And warm our marble through with sun, And break our pavements through with flowers, With an Amen when all is done, Knowing these perfect things of ours.

O days, we ponder, left alone, Like children in their lonely hour, And in our secrets keep your own, As seeds the colour of the flower. To-day they are not all unknown,

The stars that 'twixt the rise and fall, Like relic-seers, shall one by one Stand musing o'er our empty hall; And setting moons shall brood upon The frescoes of our inward wall.

And when some midsummer shall be, Hither will come some little one (Dusty with bloom of flowers is he), Sit on a ruin i' the late long sun, And think, one foot upon his knee.

And where they wrought, these lives of ours, So many-worded, many-souled, A North-west wind will take the towers, And dark with colour, sunny and cold, Will range alone among the flowers.

And here or there, at our desire, The little clamorous owl shall sit Through her still time; and we aspire To make a law (and know not it) Unto the life of a wild briar.

Our purpose is distinct and dear, Though from our open eyes 'tis hidden. Thou, Time-to-come, shalt make it clear, Undoing our work; we are children chidden With pity and smiles of many a year.

Who shall allot the praise, and guess What part is yours and what is ours?-- O years that certainly will bless Our flowers with fruits, our seeds with flowers, With ruin all our perfectness.

Be patient, Time, of our delays, Too happy hopes, and wasted fears, Our faithful ways, our wilful ways, Solace our labours, O our seers The seasons, and our bards the days;

And make our pause and silence brim With the shrill children's play, and sweets Of those pathetic flowers and dim, Of those eternal flowers my Keats Dying felt growing over him.

SONNET

I touched the heart that loved me as a player Touches a lyre; content with my poor skill No touch save mine knew my beloved (and still I thought at times: Is there no sweet lost air Old loves could wake in him, I cannot share?). Oh, he alone, alone could so fulfil My thoughts in sound to the measure of my will. He is gone, and silence takes me unaware.

The songs I knew not he resumes, set free From my constraining love, alas for me! His part in our tune goes with him; my part Is locked in me for ever; I stand as mute As one with full strong music in his heart Whose fingers stray upon a shattered lute.