Dear friend, I shed no tear while yet you stayed,
  Nor vexed your soul with unavailing word,
But you are gone, and now can all be said,
  And tear and sigh too surely fall unheard. 
So long I kept for you an undimmed eye,
  Surely for grief this hour may well be spared,
Though could you know I still must keep it dry.

For what can tears avail you? the spring rain
  That softly pelts the lattice, as with flowers,
Will of its tears a daisied counterpane
  Weave for your rest, and all its sound of showers
Makes of its sobbing low a cradle song: 
  All tears avail but these salt tears of ours,
These tears alone ’tis idle to prolong.

Yet must we shed them, barren though they be,
  Though bloom nor burden answer as they flow,
Though no sun shines that our sad eyes can see
  To throw across their fall hope’s radiant bow. 
Poor selfish tears! we weep them not for him,
  ’Tis our own sorrow that we pity so,
’Tis our own loss that leaves our eyes so dim.

SUNSET IN THE CITY

Above the town a monstrous wheel is turning,
  With glowing spokes of red,
Low in the west its fiery axle burning;
  And, lost amid the spaces overhead,
A vague white moth, the moon, is fluttering.

Above the town an azure sea is flowing,
  ’Mid long peninsulas of shining sand,
From opal unto pearl the moon is growing,
  Dropped like a shell upon the changing strand.

Within the town the streets grow strange and haunted,
  And, dark against the western lakes of green,
The buildings change to temples, and unwonted
  Shadows and sounds creep in where day has been.

Within the town, the lamps of sin are flaring,
  Poor foolish men that know not what ye are! 
Tired traffic still upon his feet is faring—­
  Two lovers meet and kiss and watch a star.

THE CITY IN MOONLIGHT

Dear city in the moonlight dreaming,
  How changed and lovely is your face;
Where is the sordid busy scheming
  That filled all day the market-place?

Was it but fancy that a rabble
  Of money-changers bought and sold,
Filling with sacrilegious babble
  This temple-court of solemn gold?

Ah no, poor captive-slave of Croesus,
  His bond-maid all the toiling day,
You, like some hunted child of Jesus,
  Steal out beneath the moon to pray.

OF POETS AND POETRY

To James Ashcroft Noble,

Poet and Critic, a small acknowledgment of much unforgotten kindness

INSCRIPTIONS

Poet, a truce to your song! 
  Have you heard the heart sing? 
    Like a brook among trees,
    Like the humming of bees,
    Like the ripple of wine: 
Had you heard, would you stay
Blowing bubbles so long? 
You have ears for the spheres—­
  Have you heard the heart sing?