| |
| 1 |
Dreamer of dreams, born out of my due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked straight? The idle singer of an empty day. |
| An Apology. |
| 2 |
Masters, I have to tell a tale of woe, A tale of folly and of wasted life, Hope against hope, the bitter dregs of strife, Ending, where all things end, in death at last. |
| The Earthly Paradise. Prologue. |
| 3 |
Slayer of the Winter, art thou here again? O welcome, thou that bringst the Summer nigh! The bitter wind makes not thy victory vain, Nor will we mock thee for thy faint blue sky. |
| The Earthly Paradise. March. |
| 4 |
Rejoice, lest pleasureless ye die. Within a little time must ye go by. Stretch forth your open hands, and while ye live Take all the gifts that Death and Life may give! |
| The Earthly Paradise. March. |
| 5 |
Forgetfulness of grief I yet may gain; In some wise may come ending to my pain; It may be yet the Gods will have me glad! Yet, Love, I would that thee and pain I had! |
| The Earthly Paradise. The Death of Paris. |
| 6 |
Earth, left silent by the wind of night, Seems shrunken neath the gray unmeasured height. |
| The Earthly Paradise. December. |
| 7 |
Late February days; and now, at last, Might you have thought that Winters woe was past; So fair the sky was and so soft the air. |
| The Earthly Paradise. February. |
| 8 |
A world made to be lost, A bitter life twixt pain and nothing tost. |
| The Earthly Paradise. The Hill of Venus. |
| 9 |
To happy folk All heaviest words no more of meaning bear Than far-off bells saddening the Summer air. |
| The Earthly Paradise. The Hill of Venus. |
| 10 |
| But boundless risk must pay for boundless gain. 1 |
| The Earthly Paradise. The Wanderers. |
| 11 |
Wert thou more fickle than the restless sea, Still should I love thee, knowing thee for such. |
| Life and Death of Jason. Book ix. |
| 12 |
The majesty That from mans soul looks through his eager eyes. |
| Life and Death of Jason. Book xiii. |
| 13 |
Now such an one for daughter Creon had As maketh wise men fools and young men mad. |
| Life and Death of Jason. Book xvii. |
| 14 |
O thrush, your song is passing sweet But never a song that you have sung, Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear Love and I were young. |
| Other Days. |
| 15 |
From out the throng and stress of lies, From out the painful noise of sighs, One voice of comfort seems to rise: It is the meaner part that dies. |
| Comfort. |