Ay, thou full fain
In the soft rain
Shalt sing again.'
III.
A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,
Her good days o'er;
'Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved,
Seven--no more.'
Then Echo woke--and spoke
'No more--no more,'
And a wave broke
On the sad shore
When Echo said
'No more,'
Nought else made reply,
Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
Did any comfort try,
But the wave spread
Echo's faint tone
Alone,
All down the desolate shore,
'No more--no more.'
'IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.'
Out of the melancholy that is made
Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs,
Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed,
A note in new love-pipings on the bough,
Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air
And shaken milky corn doth wot of it,
The pity of it trembling in the talk
Of the beforetime merrymaking brook--
Out of that melancholy will the soul,
In proof that life is not forsaken quite
Of the old trick and glamour which made glad;
Be cheated some good day and not perceive
How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view,
How tired trouble fall'n for once on sleep,
How keen self-mockery that youth's eager dream
Interpreted to mean so much is found
To mean and give so little--frets no more,
Floating apart as on a cloud--O then
Not e'en so much as murmuring 'Let this end,'
She will, no longer weighted, find escape,
Lift up herself as if on wings and flit
Back to the morning time.
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