“O, love Louise, this is the key
Of the happy golden land!
O, sisters, cross the bridge with me,
My eyes are full of sand.
What matter that I cannot see,

If ye take me by the hand?"

And ever the great bell overhead
And the tumbling seas mourn'd for the dead;
For their song ceased, and they were dead.

FROM "THE EARTHLY PARADISE"

THE SINGER'S PRELUDE

OF Heaven or Hell I have no power to sing,

I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your tears,

Or hope again for aught that I can say,
The idle singer of an empty day.

But rather, when aweary of your mirth
From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh,
And, feeling kindly unto all the earth,
Grudge every minute as it passes by,
Made the more mindful that the sweet days
die.
Remember me a little then, I pray,
The idle singer of an empty day.

ATALANTA'S VICTORY

Through thick Arcadian woods a hunter went,

Following the beasts up, on a fresh spring day;

But since his horn-tipp'd bow but seldom bent,

Now at the noontide nought had happ'd to slay,

Within a vale he call'd his hounds away, Hearkening the echoes of his lone voice cling

About the cliffs, and through the beech-trees ring.

But when they ended, still awhile he stood,

And but the sweet familiar thrush could hear,

And all the day-long noises of the wood, And o'er the dry leaves of the vanish'd year

His hounds' feet pattering as they drew

Merry it was: about him sung the birds,

The spring flowers bloom'd along the firm, dry road,

The sleek-skinn'd mothers of the sharthorn'd herds

Now for the barefoot milking - maidens low'd ;

While from the freshness of his blue abode,

Glad his death-bearing arrows to forget,

The broad sun blaz'd, nor scatter'd plagues as yet.