O, gather me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it!

For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And Time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!

1874

IV--I. M. To R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE (1846-1899)

Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever G.o.ds may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circ.u.mstance I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is b.l.o.o.d.y, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

1875

V

I am the Reaper.

All things with heedful hook Silent I gather.

Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms - Reaping, still reaping - All things with heedful hook Timely I gather.

I am the Sower.

All the unbodied life Runs through my seed-sheet.

Atom with atom wed, Each quickening the other, Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless Ceaselessly sowing, Life, incorruptible life, Flows from my seed-sheet.

Maker and breaker, I am the ebb and the flood, Here and Hereafter.

Sped through the tangle and coil Of infinite nature, Viewless and soundless I fashion all being.

Taker and giver, I am the womb and the grave, The Now and the Ever.

1875

VI

Praise the generous G.o.ds for giving In a world of wrath and strife With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life.

At whatever source we drink it, Art or love or faith or wine, In whatever terms we think it, It is common and divine.

Praise the high G.o.ds, for in giving This to man, and this alone, They have made his chance of living Shine the equal of their own.

1875

VII

Fill a gla.s.s with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live.

Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met.

All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death.

1875

VIII

We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.

November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June.

The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere.

We'll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear.

We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.

The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune.

Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year.

We'll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear.

We'll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon.

If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon.

No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, We'll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear.

1875