The Dove

by Sidney Lanier

If haply thou, O Desdemona Morn,

Shouldst call along the curving sphere,

"Remain, Dear Night, sweet Moor; nay, leave me not in scorn!"

With soft halloos of heavenly love and pain; --

Shouldst thou, O Spring! a-cower in coverts dark,

'Gainst proud supplanting Summer sing thy plea,

And move the mighty woods through mailed bark

Till mortal heart-break throbbed in every tree; --

Or (grievous `if' that may be `yea' o'er-soon!),

If thou, my Heart, long holden from thy Sweet,

Shouldst knock Death's door with mellow shocks of tune,

Sad inquiry to make -- `When may we meet?'

Nay, if ye three, O Morn! O Spring! O Heart!

Should chant grave unisons of grief and love;

Ye could not mourn with more melodious art

Than daily doth yon dim sequestered dove.

Waikiki

by Rupert Brooke

Warm perfumes like a breath from vine and tree

Drift down the darkness. Plangent, hidden from eyes

Somewhere an `eukaleli' thrills and cries

And stabs with pain the night's brown savagery.

And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,

Gleam like a woman's hair, stretch out, and rise;

And new stars burn into the ancient skies,

Over the murmurous soft Hawaian sea.

And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,

And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,

An empty tale, of idleness and pain,

Of two that loved -- or did not love -- and one

Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,

A long while since, and by some other sea.

The Night Journey

by Rupert Brooke

Hands and lit faces eddy to a line;

The dazed last minutes click; the clamour dies.

Beyond the great-swung arc o' the roof, divine,

Night, smoky-scarv'd, with thousand coloured eyes

Glares the imperious mystery of the way.

Thirsty for dark, you feel the long-limbed train

Throb, stretch, thrill motion, slide, pull out and sway,

Strain for the far, pause, draw to strength again. . . .

As a man, caught by some great hour, will rise,

Slow-limbed, to meet the light or find his love;

And, breathing long, with staring sightless eyes,

Hands out, head back, agape and silent, move

Sure as a flood, smooth as a vast wind blowing;

And, gathering power and purpose as he goes,

Unstumbling, unreluctant, strong, unknowing,

Borne by a will not his, that lifts, that grows,

Sweep out to darkness, triumphing in his goal,

Out of the fire, out of the little room. . . . --

There is an end appointed, O my soul!

Crimson and green the signals burn; the gloom

Is hung with steam's far-blowing livid streamers.

Lost into God, as lights in light, we fly,

Grown one with will, end-drunken huddled dreamers.

The white lights roar. The sounds of the world die.

And lips and laughter are forgotten things.

Speed sharpens; grows. Into the night, and on,

The strength and splendour of our purpose swings.

The lamps fade; and the stars. We are alone.