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All day and all night it is ever drawn
And the mountain draws it from Heaven above,
And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full,
NOTHING WILL DIE
WHEN will the stream be aweary of flowing
When will the wind be aweary of blowing
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
Nothing will die ;
All things will change
'Tis the world's winter;
Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,
Through and through,
Here and there,
Till the air
And the ground
Shall be filled with life anew.
The world was never made;
It will change, but it will not fade.
For even and morn
Nothing was born;
Nothing will die ;
All things will change.
ALL THINGS WILL DIE
CLEARLY the blue river chimes in its flowing
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
Hark! death is calling
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
Nine times goes the passing bell:
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
Ye will never see
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
HERO TO LEANDER
Oн go not yet, my love,
The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven above,
And the waves climb high and fast.
Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again,
Lest thy kiss should be the last.
Oh kiss me ere we part;
Grow closer to my heart.
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main.
Oh joy! O bliss of blisses!
My heart of hearts art thou. Come bathe me with thy kisses, My eyelids and my brow. Hark how the wild rain hisses,
And the loud sea roars below.
Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs,
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims.
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night,
Will rend thy golden tresses;
Will be both blue and calm ;
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine.
No western odours wander
On the black and moaning sea,
Thy voice is sweet and low
The turretstairs are wet
That lead into the sea.
Leander! go not yet.
The pleasant stars have set :
Or I will follow thee.
ANGELS have talked with him, and showed him thrones:
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn:
The still serene abstraction: he hath felt
And yet again, again and evermore,
For the two first were not, but only seemed,
For him the silent congregated hours,
Of earliest youth pierced through and through with all
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud
Which droops low hung on either gate of life,
Upburning, and an ether of black blue,
THE DYING SWAN
THE plain was grassy, wild and bare,
An under-roof of doleful gray.
And loudly did lament.
And took the reed-tops as it went.