96
SONNETS.
That I might hive with me such thoughts, and please
My soul so, always. Foolish counterpart
Of a weak man's vain wishes! While I spoke,
The thought I called a flower, grew nettle-rough—
The thoughts called bees, stung me to festering.
Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she woke,)
Four best and gladdest thoughts but long enough,
And they will all prove sad enough to sting.
My soul so, always. Foolish counterpart
Of a weak man's vain wishes! While I spoke,
The thought I called a flower, grew nettle-rough—
The thoughts called bees, stung me to festering.
Oh, entertain (cried Reason, as she woke,)
Four best and gladdest thoughts but long enough,
And they will all prove sad enough to sting.
AN APPREHENSION.
If all the gentlest-hearted friends I know
Concentred in one heart their gentleness,
That still grew gentler, till its pulse was less
For life than pity,—I should yet be slow
To bring my own heart nakedly below
The palm of such a friend, that he should press
Motive, condition, means , appliances,
My false ideal joy and fickle woe,
Out full to light and knowledge. I should fear
Some plait between the brows—some rougher chime
In the free voice . . . . O angels, let your flood
Of bitter scorn dash on me! Do ye hear
What I say, who bear calmly all the time
This everlasting face-to-face with GOD?
Concentred in one heart their gentleness,
That still grew gentler, till its pulse was less
For life than pity,—I should yet be slow
To bring my own heart nakedly below
The palm of such a friend, that he should press
Motive, condition, means , appliances,
My false ideal joy and fickle woe,
Out full to light and knowledge. I should fear
Some plait between the brows—some rougher chime
In the free voice . . . . O angels, let your flood
Of bitter scorn dash on me! Do ye hear
What I say, who bear calmly all the time
This everlasting face-to-face with GOD?
DISCONTENT.
Light human nature is too lightly tost
And ruffled without cause; complaining on—
Restless with rest—until, being overthrown,
It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost
Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost
Of our ripe peach; or let the wilful sun
And ruffled without cause; complaining on—
Restless with rest—until, being overthrown,
It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost
Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost
Of our ripe peach; or let the wilful sun
