On longer evenings,
Light, chill and yellow,
Bathes the serene
Foreheads of houses.
A thrush sings,
In the deep bare garden,
Its fresh-peeled voice
Astonishing the brickwork.
It will be spring soon,
It will be spring soon --
And I, whose childhood
Is a forgotten boredom,
Feel like a child
Who comes on a scene
Of adult reconciling,
And can understand nothing
But the unusual laughter,
And starts to be happy.
On longer evenings,
The evening star, that in deep sadness sank,
Your beam had silvered the plains’ extinguished scopes.
The dreamy bay, the highland’s tops and slopes.
I like your frugal light on the celestial height:
It woke the sacred thoughts, which slept inside my heart.
I do recall your rise, star beautiful and sole,
Above the peaceful land, that pleases every soul,
Where slender poplars rise to skies in florid dells,
Where sleeps a gentle myrtle, and blackens a cypress,
And waves sing lullabies of the delightful South.
There, full of hearty thoughts, I pointlessly browsed
Amidst the silent rocks, and dragged the thoughtful sloth,
When night was covering the huts with its dark cloth,
And, in the dark, the lass was seeking me alone,
And telling her girlfriends my name in ways her own.
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:
So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.
And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
I look along the years
And see the flowers you threw …
And sprigs of gray
Sparse heather of the rocks,
Or a wild violet
Or daisy of a daisied field …
But each your best.
I might have worn them on my breast
To wilt in the long day …
I might have stemmed them in a narrow vase
And watched each petal sallowing …
I might have held them so -- mechanically --
Till the wind winnowed all the leaves
And left upon my hands
A little smear of dust.
I hid them in the soft warm loam
Of a dim shadowed place …
In a still cool grotto,
Lit only by the memories of stars
And the wide and luminous eyes
Of dead poets
That love me and that I love …
Deep … deep …
Where none may see -- not even ye who gave --
About my soul your garden beautiful.