SOFT, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.
What shall be done for sorrow
With love whose race is run?
Where help is none to borrow,
What shall be done?
SORROW, on wing through the world for ever,
Here and there for awhile would borrow
Rest, if rest might haply deliver
Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
From the depths of the green garden-closes
Where the summer in darkness dozes
Till autumn pluck from his hand
An hour-glass that holds not a sand;
STATELY, kindly, lordly friend,
Here to sit by me, and turn
Glorious eyes that smile and burn,
A Baby's feet, like sea-shells pink,
Might tempt, should heaven see meet,
An angel's lips to kiss, we think,
A baby's feet.
We mix from many lands,
We march for very far;
In hearts and lips and hands
Our staffs and weapons are;
Asleep or waking is it? for her neck,
Kissed over close, wears yet a purple speck
Wherein the pained blood falters and goes out;