. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . on, we two rose,There — closing like an individual life —In one blind cry of passion and of pain,Like bitter accusation evn to death,Caught up the whole of love and utterd it,And bade adieu for ever. Live —yet live —Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing allLife needs for life is possible to will —Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by Love and Duty. 103 My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to IMemorys darkest hold, If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. S
. Maud, Locksley hall, and other poems . on, we two rose,There — closing like an individual life —In one blind cry of passion and of pain,Like bitter accusation evn to death,Caught up the whole of love and utterd it,And bade adieu for ever. Live —yet live —Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing allLife needs for life is possible to will —Live happy ; tend thy flowers ; be tended by Love and Duty. 103 My blessing ! Should my Shadow cross thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to IMemorys darkest hold, If not to be forgotten — not at once — Not all forgotten. Should it cross thy dreams, O might it come like one that looks content, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth. And point thee forward to a distant light. Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freiir, till thou wake refreshd Then when the first low matin-chirp hath grown Full quire, and morning drivn her plow of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack. Beyond the fair green field and eastern morning driv n her plow of pearl far furrowinginto light the mounded rack. THE GOLDEN YEAR. WEiyiv, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote :It was last summer on a tour in Wales :Old James was with me : we that day had beenUp Snowdou; and I wishd for Leonard there,And found him in Llanberis : then we crostBetween the lakes, and clamberd halfway upThe counter side ; and that same song of hisHe told me ; for I banterd him, and sworeThey said he lived shut up within himself,A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days,That, setting the hozu inuch before the horu,Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, Give,Cram us with all, but count not me the herd! To which They call me what they will, he said But I was born too late : the fair new forms,That float about the threshold of an age,Like truths of Science waiting to be caught —Catch me who can, and make the catcher crownd —Are taken by the forelock. Let it if you care indeed to listen,
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