Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

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Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret.
Oh death in life, the days that are no more!

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O Love! they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying!
And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

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Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side ?
Is there no baseness we would hide ?
No inner vileness that we dread ?

How many a father have I seen
A sober man, among his boys
Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

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There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dew on the still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

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You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May.

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The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfills himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May he within himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul...

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. . . More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheeps or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Not only for themselves but for those who call them friend?
For so this whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt,
And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith;
She reels not at the storm of warring words;
She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No';
She sees the best that glimmers through the worst;
She feels the sun is hid for the night;
She spies the summer through the winter bud;
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls;
She hears the lark within the songless egg;
She finds the fountain where they wailed 'Mirage!'

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