Juliet will never rise
In her passion's paradise;
Dust is in her ears and eyes.
And time too, as all men know,
There is so much in us is
Love lifts us to heaven
that is ours.
When morn is wandering on the seas,
And birds are singing in the trees,
And all the time is flushed with flowers,
Comes the night that brings me rest,
Comes the dark that folds me in
This of all my nights the best,
And what think ye of Shakespeare? 'Twas not he
Of Stratford is the lord of England's lyre;
Ay, not the rustic lad, whoe'er it be,
The dew fell on her upturned brow
That is as white's the lily;
The moonlight in her yellow hair,
In her hand a daffodilly;
Without us and within us mind is all;
The truth of life and knowledge still are one,
And though all be a dream, yet in the dream
Her glove! It was rare Ben who sung it,
That best of gloves of the lady dead!
Another's here, as one had flung it
In anger at her lover's head.
There is in us a hue and cry,
The hart of Life is up;
But when the chase is done, we'll lie
Where we with Death shall sup.