Ah, with this sentience quickly will you know
     How like a tree I tremble to the tones
     Of your sweet voice! 
     How keenly I rejoice
     When in me with sweet motions slow
     The spiritual music ebbs and moans —
     Lives in the lustre of those heavenly eyes,
     Dies in the light of its own paradise, —
     Dies, and relives eternal from its death,
     Immortal melodies in each deep breath;
     Sweeps thro’ my being, bearing up to thee
     Myself, the weight of its eternity;
     Till, nerved to life from its ordeal fire,
     It marries music with the human lyre,
     Blending divine delight with loveliest desire.

     Requiem

     Where faces are hueless, where eyelids are dewless,
     Where passion is silent and hearts never crave;
     Where thought hath no theme, and where sleep hath no dream,
     In patience and peace thou art gone—­to thy grave! 
     Gone where no warning can wake thee to morning,
     Dead tho’ a thousand hands stretch’d out to save.

     Thou cam’st to us sighing, and singing and dying,
     How could it be otherwise, fair as thou wert? 
     Placidly fading, and sinking and shading
     At last to that shadow, the latest desert;
     Wasting and waning, but still, still remaining. 
     Alas for the hand that could deal the death-hurt!

     The Summer that brightens, the Winter that whitens,
     The world and its voices, the sea and the sky,
     The bloom of creation, the tie of relation,
     All—­all is a blank to thine ear and thine eye;
     The ear may not listen, the eye may not glisten,
     Nevermore waked by a smile or a sigh.

     The tree that is rootless must ever be fruitless;
     And thou art alone in thy death and thy birth;
     No last loving token of wedded love broken,
     No sign of thy singleness, sweetness and worth;
     Lost as the flower that is drowned in the shower,
     Fall’n like a snowflake to melt in the earth.

     The flower of the ruins

     Take thy lute and sing
     By the ruined castle walls,
     Where the torrent-foam falls,
     And long weeds wave: 
     Take thy lute and sing,
     O’er the grey ancestral grave! 
     Daughter of a King,
     Tune thy string.

     Sing of happy hours,
     In the roar of rushing time;
     Till all the echoes chime
     To the days gone by;
     Sing of passing hours
     To the ever-present sky; —
     Weep—­and let the showers
     Wake thy flowers.

     Sing of glories gone:-
     No more the blazoned fold
     From the banner is unrolled;
     The gold sun is set. 
     Sing his glory gone,
     For thy voice may charm him yet;
     Daughter of the dawn,
     He is gone!