III.

A fair wife making her moan, despised, forsaken,
    Her good days o’er;
’Seven sweet years of my life did I live beloved,
    Seven—­no more.’

  Then Echo woke—­and spoke
    ‘No more—­no more,’
  And a wave broke
    On the sad shore
  When Echo said
    ‘No more,’

  Nought else made reply,
  Nor land, nor loch, nor sky
  Did any comfort try,
  But the wave spread
  Echo’s faint tone
  Alone,
  All down the desolate shore,
  ‘No more—­no more.’

‘IF I FORGET THEE, O JERUSALEM.’

Out of the melancholy that is made
Of ebbing sorrow that too slowly ebbs,
Comes back a sighing whisper of the reed,
A note in new love-pipings on the bough,
Grieving with grief till all the full-fed air
And shaken milky corn doth wot of it,
The pity of it trembling in the talk
Of the beforetime merrymaking brook—­
Out of that melancholy will the soul,
In proof that life is not forsaken quite
Of the old trick and glamour which made glad;
Be cheated some good day and not perceive
How sorrow ebbing out is gone from view,
How tired trouble fall’n for once on sleep,
How keen self-mockery that youth’s eager dream
Interpreted to mean so much is found
To mean and give so little—­frets no more,
Floating apart as on a cloud—­O then
Not e’en so much as murmuring ‘Let this end,’
She will, no longer weighted, find escape,
Lift up herself as if on wings and flit
Back to the morning time. 
                          ’O once with me
It was all one, such joy I had at heart,
As I heard sing the morning star, or God
Did hold me with an Everlasting Hand,
And dip me in the day. 
                       O once with me,’
Reflecting ’’twas enough to live, to look
Wonder and love.  Now let that come again. 
Rise!’ And ariseth first a tanglement
Of flowering bushes, peonies pale that drop
Upon a mossy lawn, rich iris spikes,
Bee-borage, mealy-stemmed auricula,
Brown wallflower, and the sweetbriar ever sweet,
Her pink buds pouting from their green. 
                                        To these
Add thick espaliers where the bullfinch came
To strew much budding wealth, and was not chid. 
Then add wide pear trees on the warmed wall,
The old red wall one cannot see beyond. 
That is the garden. 
                    In the wall a door
Green, blistered with the sun.  You open it,
And lo! a sunny waste of tumbled hills
And a glad silence, and an open calm. 
Infinite leisure, and a slope where rills
Dance down delightedly, in every crease,
And lambs stoop drinking and the finches dip,
Then shining waves upon a lonely beach. 
That is the world.