Love, that in my mind seeks Reason’s aid. Paraphrase.

I crave not love, for it would only bring

Tears to your eyes, and anguish to your heart;

I am in Autumn, you are still in Spring,

And you must linger after I depart.

Then to you Summer would scarce Summer be,

Vainly for you the roses bloom and climb,

Vainly Life’s harvest ripen on the tree,

Withered by Winter long before its time.

Therefore, let loving, dear, be mine alone,

You yielding only tenderness and trust,

So that to you be widowhood unknown,

And you with tears not deify my dust.

Enough for me if in your voice, your eyes,

I dream of bliss, but strain not for the prize.

You say that I am fitful. Sweet, ’tis true;

But ’tis that I your fitfulness obey.

If you are April, how can I be May,

Or flaunt bright roses when you wear sad rue?

Shine like the sun, and my sky will be blue;

Sing, and the lark shall envy me my lay:

I do but follow where you point the way,

And what I feel you doing, straight must do.

The wind might just as well reproach the vane,

As you upbraid me for my shiftings, dear:

Blow from the south, and south I shall remain;

If you keep fixed, be sure I shall not veer.

Nay, on your change my changes so depend,

If ends your love, why then my love must end.

Why love life more, the less of it be left,

And what is left be little but the lees,

And Time’s subsiding passions have bereft

One’s taste for pleasure, and one’s power to please?

Is it not better, like the waning year,

Without lament resignedly to fade,

Since by enduring ordinance all things here

Are in their season shattered and decayed?

If you have shared in April’s freshet song,

And Summer can without reproach recall,

Yearn not Autumnal harvest to prolong,

Nor shrink from Winter that awaits us all;

But, lightened of the load of earthly ties,

Pursue with homeward step your journey to the skies.

Why love life more, the less of it be left,

And what is left be little but the lees,

And Time’s subsiding passions have bereft

One’s taste for pleasure, and one’s power to please?

Is it not better, like the waning year,

Without lament resignedly to fade,

Since by enduring ordinance all things here

Are in their season shattered and decayed?

If you have shared in April’s freshet song,

And Summer can without reproach recall,

Yearn not Autumnal harvest to prolong,

Nor shrink from Winter that awaits us all;

But, lightened of the load of earthly ties,

Pursue with homeward step your journey to the skies.

Sweet lark! that, bedded in the tangled grass,

Protractest dewy slumbers, wake, arise!

The brightest moments of the morning pass-

Thou shouldst be up, and carolling in the skies.

Go up! go up! and melt into the blue,

And to heaven’s veil on wings of song repair;

But, ere thou dost descend to earth, peep through,

And see if She be there.

Sweet stockdove! cooing in the flushing wood,

On one green bough brooding till morn hath died,

Oh, leave the perch where thou too long hast stood,

And with strong wings flutter the leaves aside!

Fly on, fly on, past feathery copse, nor stay

Till thou hast skimmed o’er all the woodlands fair!

And when thou hast, then speeding back thy way,

Tell me if She be there.

Sweet breeze! that, wearied with the heat of noon,

Upon a bank of daffodils didst die,

Oh, if thou lov’st me, quit thy perfumed swoon,

And, all refreshed, hither and thither hie.

Traverse the glades where browse the dappled deer,

Thrid the deep dells where none but thou mayst dare;

And then, sweet breeze, returning, to my ear

Whisper if She be there.

Sweet rivulet! running far too fast to stay,

Yet hear my plaint, e’en as thou rollest on!

I am alone-alone-both night and day,

For she I love was with me, and is gone.

Oh, shouldst thou find her on the golden beach

Whither thou speedest ocean’s joys to share,

Remount thy course, despite what sophists teach,

And tell me She is there.

Not there! Nor there! Not in the far-off sky,

Close-keeping woods, or by the shining sea!

When lark, dove, breeze, and rivulet vainly try

To find my sweet-oh, where then may she be?

Hath she then left me-me she vowed so dear,

And she whose shadow dusks all other charms?

O foolish messengers! Look, look! She’s here,

Enfolded in my arms!

Look up, desponding hearts! See, Morning sallies

From out her tents behind the screening hill,

And speeds her glittering lances on the valleys

Where hostile mists, unconscious, slumber still.

Roused from their vain security, they clamber

Up the far slopes and seek the open sky,

Till hill and dale are tinged with gold and amber,

The spoils of victory from those that fly.

Thus when, as though surrendered to the Night,

Men’s spirits sleep, shall wakeful Freedom burst

With piercing ray even here, and flood with light

Each skulking nook by loutish custom curst;

But in the glow of victory will spare,

Turning all ill to good, all foul to fair.

I

“River rolling past the grey

Battlements of yesterday,

Palace strongholds reared by hands

Summoned from transalpine lands,

Skilled in wedding strength with grace,

Fort with stately dwelling-place,

Vizored brow with siren tress,

Majesty with loveliness,-

River, that beheld their sway

Dawn and dwindle, then decay,

Linger, loiter, while I sit,

As the sunshine-shadows flit,

Pondering pictures of the vast

Panorama of the Past,

And, with retrospective gaze,

Tell me of the vanished days.”

II

Still the river rolled and rolled

‘Twixt its banks of green and gold,

Winding, wandering, slowly through

Starwort white and speedwell blue,

Flowing onward, heedless where,

Irresponsive to my prayer.

III

But, as motionless I dreamed

Of dim yesterdays, there seemed

From the plain to reach mine ears

Murmurings of the bygone years,

Till the river’s undertone

Blent its musings with my own.

IV

“Seaward I meander on,

All unchanged to gaze upon,

As when sceptre, pomp, and power,

Threatening parapet and tower,

Warrior grim and maiden gay

Fought and laughed the hours away:

Captains, Cardinals, and Kings,

Sepulchred with meaner things,

Nothing to distinguish now

Mitred head from minion brow,

Fleshless skull from fleshless skull,

Arrogant from beautiful;

Nameless relics of a name:-

I alone abide the same.”

V

Lingering still, I sate and mused,

Thought and feeling interfused

With the Châteaux and the stream

In an intermittent dream,

Till the Future wore at last

Likeness to the shadowy Past,

And I wondered if to-day,

Loftily as yesterday,

Will, departing, leave behind

Monuments of heart and mind,

Love and reverence will restore,

When men dwell in them no more.