There lies above our grosser air
A region of blue heaven fair,
Too thin a feather's weight to bear, —

And there to souls like white snow driven
From earth's rough waves a rest is given, —
A harbour locked by lands of heaven.

Ah, to reach to it! Only one
Of men I know beneath the sun
Who to this home of rest has won.

All shapes of beauty he can see,
All hues of bright divinity.
Trust him! He cannot lie to thee!

For though betwixt dull earth and him
Such clouds and mists deceptive swim.
That to his eyes life's ways look dim;

Yet when on high he lifts his gaze,
He sees the stars' untroubled ways,
And the divine of endless days.

To us this star or that seems bright,
And oft some headlong meteor's flight
Holds for a while our raptured sight.

But he discerns each noble star;
The least is only the most far,
Whose worlds, may be, the mightiest are.

He marks not meteors that go by.
Fired for one moment as they fly;
He heeds not, knowing they must die.

How should he care what men may say,
Who see no heaven day by day.
And dream not of his hidden way?

He cares not, though they call him mad.
Yet who would see his fellows glad,
From sympathy with woe is sad.

And he is sad, not for himself,
But for the inhuman lust of pelf;
All knees bowed to one Baal, — Self.

'Tis vain to preach, and no men know
The sweetness 'twere with him to go,
Leaving our beaten life below.

So like a lovely vine he stands,
That stretches sympathetic hands,
To cling with all its thousand bands.

Yet, though, because no prop be nigh,
Its yearning tendrils droop and die, —
It stands, for it is stayed on high.

Farewell! since never more for thee
⁠The sun comes up our eastern skies.
Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be
⁠To some fond hearts and saddened eyes.

There are who for thy last, long sleep
⁠Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore —
Shall weep because thou canst not weep,
⁠And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er.

Sad thrift of love! the loving breast
⁠On which the aching head was thrown,
Gave up the weary head to rest.
⁠But kept the aching for its own.

When the autumn winds go wailing
⁠Through branches yellow and brown.
When the grey sad light is failing.
⁠And the day is going down, —
I hear the desolate evening sing
Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring,
And which no heart had for gathering.

I and my lover we dwell apart,
⁠We twain may never be one —
We shall never stand heart to heart.
⁠Then what can be said or done.
When winds, and waters, and song-birds sing
Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring.
And which no heart had for gathering?

When day is over and night descends,
⁠And dank mists circle and rise,
I fall asleep, and slumber befriends.
⁠For I dream of April skies.
But I wake to hear the silence sing
Of a Love that bloomed in the early spring,
And which no heart had for gathering.

When the dawn comes in with wind and rain,
⁠And birds awake in the eaves.
And rain-drops smite the window-pane.
⁠And drench the eddying leaves, —
I hear the voice of the daybreak sing
Of a love that bloomed in the early spring.
And which no heart had for gathering.