have known all sorrow, and all delights,
They never could keep us apart hereafter.
Wherever your spirit was sent I know,
I would find my way in the dark, and go.

If they took my soul into Paradise,
And told me I must be content without you,
I would weary them so with my homesick cries,
And the ceaseless questions I asked about you,
They would open the gates and set me free,
Or else they would find you and bring you to me.

ONE NIGHT

Was it last summer, or ages gone,
That damp, dark night in the August dusk,
When I waited for you by the gate alone?
And the air was heavy with scents like musk.
Swiftly and silently shooting down
Like the lonesome light of a falling star,
I saw through the shadows dense and brown,
The dull red light of your fine cigar.

Like a king who taketh his own, you came
Through the lowering night and the falling dew.
Like one who yields to a rightful claim,
I waited there in the dusk for you.
Never again when the day grows late,
Never again in the years to be,
Shall I stand in the dark and dew, and wait,
And never again will you come to me.

But always and ever when high and far
The old moon hideth her troubled face,
I think how the light like a falling star
Lit all my world with a new strange grace.
The passionate glow of your splendid eyes
Shines into my heart as it shone that night,
And its slumberous billows surge and rise
As the ocean is stirred by the tempest's might.

LOST NATION

Oh! we are a lone, lost nation,
We, who sing your songs.
With his moods, and his desolation
The poet nowhere belongs.

We are not of the people
Who labour, believe, and doubt.
Like the bell that rings in the steeple,
We are in the world, yet out.

In the rustic town, or the city
We seek our place in vain;
And our hearts are starved for pity,
And our souls are sick with pain.

Yes, the people are buying, selling,
And the world is one great mart.
And woe for the thoughts that are dwelling
Up in the poet's heart.

We know what the waves are saying
As they roll up from the sea,
And the weird old wind is playing
Our own sad melody.

We send forth a song to wander
Like a spirit of ill or good;
And here it is heard, and yonder,
But is nowhere understood.

For the world it lives for fashion,
For glory, and gain, and strife;
And what can it know of the passion
And pain of a poet