Pour forth all thy grief! 
     Passionately sweep the chords,
     Wed them quivering to thy words;
     Wild words of wail! 
     Shed thy withered grief —
     But hold not Autumn to thy bale;
     The eddy of the leaf
     Must be brief!

     Sing up to the night: 
     Hard it is for streaming tears
     To read the calmness of the spheres;
     Coldly they shine;
     Sing up to their light;
     They have views thou may’st divine —
     Gain prophetic sight
     From their light!

     On the windy hills
     Lo, the little harebell leans
     On the spire-grass that it queens,
     With bonnet blue;
     Trusting love instils
     Love and subject reverence true;
     Learn what love instils
     On the hills!

     By the bare wayside
     Placid snowdrops hang their cheeks,
     Softly touch’d with pale green streaks,
     Soon, soon, to die;
     On the clothed hedgeside
     Bands of rosy beauties vie,
     In their prophesied
     Summer pride.

     From the snowdrop learn;
     Not in her pale life lives she,
     But in her blushing prophecy. 
     Thus be thy hopes,
     Living but to yearn
     Upwards to the hidden scopes; —
     Even within the urn
     Let them burn!

     Heroes of thy race —
     Warriors with golden crowns,
     Ghostly shapes with marbled frowns
     Stare thee to stone;
     Matrons of thy race
     Pass before thee making moan;
     Full of solemn grace
     Is their pace.

     Piteous their despair! 
     Piteous their looks forlorn! 
     Terrible their ghostly scorn! 
     Still hold thou fast; —
     Heed not their despair! —
     Thou art thy future, not thy past;
     Let them glance and glare
     Thro’ the air.

     Thou the ruin’s bud,
     Be not that moist rich-smelling weed
     With its arras-sembled brede,
     And ruin-haunting stalk;
     Thou the ruin’s bud,
     Be still the rose that lights the walk,
     Mix thy fragrant blood
     With the flood!

     The rape of aurora

     Never, O never,
     Since dewy sweet Flora
     Was ravished by Zephyr,
     Was such a thing heard
     In the valleys so hollow! 
     Till rosy Aurora,
     Uprising as ever,
     Bright Phosphor to follow,
     Pale Phoebe to sever,
     Was caught like a bird
     To the breast of Apollo!

     Wildly she flutters,
     And flushes all over
     With passionate mutters
     Of shame to the hush
     Of his amorous whispers: 
     But O such a lover
     Must win when he utters,
     Thro’ rosy red lispers,
     The pains that discover
     The wishes that gush
     From the torches of Hesperus.