WILLIAM CALDWELL ROSCOE. CLXXVII. "LIKE A MUSICIAN." LIKE a musician that with flying finger Startles the voice of some new instrument, And, though he know that in one string are blent CLXXVIII. TO THE HARVEST MOON. AGAIN thou reignest in thy golden hall, Sweet orb, thou smilest from thy starry height; But whilst on them thy beams are shedding bright, To me thou com'st o'ershadowed with a pall; To me alone the year hath fruitless flown; Earth hath fulfilled her trust through all her lands, The good man gathereth where he had sown, But I, as if my task were all unknown, Come to his gates alas! with empty hands. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. CLXXIX. REMEMBER. REMEMBER me when I am gone away, Gone far away into the silent land; When you can no more hold me by the hand, Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. Remember me when no more, day by day, You tell me of our future that you planned: Only remember me; you understand It will be late to counsel then or pray. Than that you should remember and be sad. CLXXX. ONE CERTAINTY. VANITY of vanities, the Preacher saith, All things are vanity. The eye and ear Cannot be filled with what they see and hear. Like early dew, or like the sudden breath Of wind, or like the grass that withereth, Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear: So little joy hath he, so little cheer, Till all things end in the long dust of death. To-day is still the same as yesterday, To-morrow also even as one of them; And there is nothing new under the sun : Until the ancient sea of Time be run, The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem, And morning shall be cold, and twilight grey. CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. CLXXXI. THE WORLD. By day she wooes me, soft, exceeding fair: And subtle serpents gliding in her hair. By day she wooes me to the outer air, Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety : But through the night, a beast she grins at me, A very monster void of love and prayer. By day she stands a lie: by night she stands, In all the naked horror of the truth, With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands. Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell My soul to her, give her my life and youth, Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell. |