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The philosophy of the highest minds still partook of a visionary character. But the antiquity of Spenser's style has a peculiar charm. of sentiment, or a finer flush in the colours of language, than in this Rubens of English poetry. the Night durst ride,” “The House of Riches,” “The Canto of Jealousy,” “The Masque of Cupid.
Table of contents

• Mr. Yeats’s Kubla Khan
• Swiss Journeys: Neuchâtel – combining nature and culture (Part I)
• Site Information Navigation
• from The Prelude: Book 1: Childhood and… | Poetry Foundation
• Funeral Poems for Loved Ones

Clouds will separate us — the time to part has come now.

Mr. Yeats’s Kubla Khan

Wild goose flies away A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily. Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow. We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied— We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died. For when the morn came, dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed—she had Another morn than ours. I had not known before Forever was so long a word. The slow stroke of the clock of time I had not heard.

You are turned wraith. And yet you will not let me rest, crying And calling down the night to me A thing that when your body moved and glowed, Living, you could not make me see. Lean down your homely, mist-encircled head Close, close above my human ear, And tell me what of pain among the dead— Tell me, and I will try to hear. How prone we are to hide and hoard Each little treasure time has stored, To tell of happy hours! We lay aside with tender care A tattered book, a lock of hair, A bunch of faded flowers.

When death has led with silent hand Our darlings to the "Silent Land," Awhile we sit bereft; But time goes on; anon we rise, Our dead are buried from our eyes, We gather what is left. The books they loved, the songs they sang, The little flute whose music rang So cheerily of old; The pictures we had watched them paint, The last plucked flower, with odor faint, That fell from fingers cold. We smooth and fold with reverent care The robes they living used to wear; And painful pulses stir As o'er the relics of our dead, With bitter rain of tears, we spread Pale purple lavender.

And when we come in after years, With only tender April tears On cheeks once white with care, To look on treasures put away Despairing on that far-off day, A subtle scent is there. Dew-wet and fresh we gather them, These fragrant flowers; now every stem Is bare of all its bloom: Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here To lend our relics, sacred, dear, Their beautiful perfume.

The scent abides on book and lute, On curl and flower, and with its mute But eloquent appeal It wins from us a deeper sob For our lost dead, a sharper throb Than we are wont to feel.

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It whispers of the "long ago;" Its love, its loss, its aching woe, And buried sorrows stir; And tears like those we shed of old Roll down our cheeks as we behold Our faded lavender. O Captain! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. This arm beneath your head! But I with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

Strew on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee.

But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be. Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death. COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast; allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

Still are there wonders of the dark and day; The muted shrillings of shy things at night, So small beneath the stars and moon; The peace, dream-frail, but perfect while the light Lies softly on the leaves at noon. These are, and these will be Until Eternity; But she who loved them well has gone away.

The wild flowers that she loved down green ways stray; Her roses lift their wistful buds at dawn, But not for eyes that loved them best; Only her little pansies are all gone, Some lying softly on her breast. And flowers will bud and be Until Eternity; But she who loved them well has gone away. Where has she gone? And who is there to say? But this we know: her gentle spirit moves And is where beauty never wanes, Perchance by other streams, mid other groves; And to us here, ah! Places among the stars, Soft gardens near the sun, Keep your distant beauty; Shed no beams upon my weak heart.

Since she is here In a place of blackness, Not your golden days Not your silver nights Can call me to you. Since she is here In a place of blackness, Here I stay and wait.

Down to the borders of the silent land He goes with halting feet; He dares not trust; he cannot understand The blessedness complete That waits for God's beloved at his right hand. He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure Beholding him are blest, Yet in his sight no evil can endure; And still with fear oppressed He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure? The world beyond is strange; the golden streets, The palaces so fair, The seraphs singing in the shining seats, The glory everywhere,— And to his soul he solemnly repeats.

The visions of the Book.

Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood Through service and through pain; The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good; Sure, dying must be gain To one who living hath done what he could. The light is fading in the tired eyes, The weary race is run; Not as the victor that doth seize the prize. But as the fainting one, He nears the verge of the eternities. And now the end has come, and now he sees The happy, happy shore; O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these The things thou fearedst before— The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace?

This land is home; no stranger art thou here; Sweet and familiar words From voices silent long salute thine ear; And winds and songs of birds, And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near. The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien; The gems and robes—but signs Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean; The glory—such as shines Wherever faith or hope or love is seen.

And he, O doubting child! Doth it not shine on thee With a great light of love that fills the place? O happy soul, be thankful now and rest! Heaven is a goodly land; And God is love; and those he loves are blest;— Now thou dost understand; The least thou hast is better than the best.

That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes The new life opens fair; Before thy feet the Blessed journey lies Through homelands everywhere; And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise. Good night! Until the shadows from this earth are cast, Until He gathers in His sheaves at last; Until the twilight gloom be over past Good night! Until the Easter glory lights the skies, Until the dead in Jesus shall arise, And He shall come, but not in lowly guise Good night! Until, made beautiful by love divine, Thou, in the likeness of thy Lord shall shine, And He shall bring that golden crown of thine Good night!

Only Good night, beloved not farewell! A little while, and all His saints shall dwell In hallowed unison indivisible Good night! Until we meet again before His throne, Clothed in the spotless robe He gives His own, Until we know even as we are known Good night! It is the joy, it is the zest of life, To know that Death, ungainly to the vile, Is not a traitor with a reckless knife, And not a serpent with a look of guile, But one who greets us with a seraph's smile, — An angel — guest to tend us after strife, And keep us true to God when fears are rife, And sceptic thought would daunt us or defile.

He walks the world as one empower'd to fill The fields of space for Father and for Son. He is our friend, though morbidly we shun His tender touch, — a cure for every ill. He is the king of peace, when all is done. Earth and the air are moulded to his will. VITAL spark of heav'nly flame! Quit, O quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying!

Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life. What is this absorbs me quite? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death? The world recedes; it disappears! Heav'n opens on my eyes!

Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! O Grave! O Death!

NO coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life—that in me has rest, As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!