Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/822

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681. Grief

I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless;
That only men incredulous of despair,
  Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air
Beat upward to God's throne in loud access
Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness
  In souls as countries lieth silent-bare
  Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare
Of the absolute Heavens. Deep-hearted man, express
Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death—
  Most like a monumental statue set
In everlasting watch and moveless woe
Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.
  Touch it; the marble eyelids are not wet:
If it could weep, it could arise and go.


Sonnets from the Portuguese


682. i

I thought once how Theocritus had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-for years,

 Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals old or young: And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,

 I saw in gradual vision through my tears
 The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years—

Those of my own life, who by turns had flung A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,

 So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;

 And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,

'Guess now who holds thee?'—'Death' I said. But there

 The silver answer rang—'Not Death, but Love.'