10 Best Famous Frosts Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Frosts poems. This is a select list of the best famous Frosts poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Frosts poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of frosts poems.

• All Famous Frosts Poems

 January

Janus am I; oldest of potentates; 
Forward I look, and backward, and below 
I count, as god of avenues and gates, 
The years that through my portals come and go. 
I block the roads, and drift the fields with snow; 
I chase the wild-fowl from the frozen fen; 
My frosts congeal the rivers in their flow, 
My fires light up the hearths and hearts of men. 

February

I am lustration, and the sea is mine! 
I wash the sands and headlands with my tide; 
My brow is crowned with branches of the pine; 
Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. 
By me all things unclean are purified, 
By me the souls of men washed white again; 
E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died 
Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. 

March

I Martius am! Once first, and now the third! 
To lead the Year was my appointed place; 
A mortal dispossessed me by a word, 
And set there Janus with the double face. 
Hence I make war on all the human race; 
I shake the cities with my hurricanes; 
I flood the rivers and their banks efface, 
And drown the farms and hamlets with my rains. 

April 

I open wide the portals of the Spring 
To welcome the procession of the flowers, 
With their gay banners, and the birds that sing 
Their song of songs from their aerial towers. 
I soften with my sunshine and my showers 
The heart of earth; with thoughts of love I glide 
Into the hearts of men; and with the Hours 
Upon the Bull with wreathed horns I ride. 

May 

Hark! The sea-faring wild-fowl loud proclaim 
My coming, and the swarming of the bees. 
These are my heralds, and behold! my name 
Is written in blossoms on the hawthorn-trees. 
I tell the mariner when to sail the seas; 
I waft o'er all the land from far away 
The breath and bloom of the Hesperides, 
My birthplace. I am Maia. I am May. 

June 

Mine is the Month of Roses; yes, and mine 
The Month of Marriages! All pleasant sights 
And scents, the fragrance of the blossoming vine, 
The foliage of the valleys and the heights. 
Mine are the longest days, the loveliest nights; 
The mower's scythe makes music to my ear; 
I am the mother of all dear delights; 
I am the fairest daughter of the year. 

July

My emblem is the Lion, and I breathe 
The breath of Libyan deserts o'er the land; 
My sickle as a sabre I unsheathe, 
And bent before me the pale harvests stand. 
The lakes and rivers shrink at my command, 
And there is thirst and fever in the air; 
The sky is changed to brass, the earth to sand; 
I am the Emperor whose name I bear. 

August

The Emperor Octavian, called the August, 
I being his favorite, bestowed his name 
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust, 
In memory of him and of his fame. 
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame 
Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage; 
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim 
The golden Harvests as my heritage. 

September 

I bear the Scales, where hang in equipoise 
The night and day; and whenunto my lips 
I put my trumpet, with its stress and noise 
Fly the white clouds like tattered sails of ships; 
The tree-tops lash the air with sounding whips; 
Southward the clamorous sea-fowl wing their flight; 
The hedges are all red with haws and hips, 
The Hunter's Moon reigns empress of the night. 

October 

My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves, 
Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed; 
I do no boast the harvesting of sheaves, 
O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside. 
Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride, 
The dreamy air is full, and overflows 
With tender memories of the summer-tide, 
And mingled voices of the doves and crows. 

November

The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I, 
Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace; 
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly, 
A steed Thessalian with a human face. 
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase 
The leaves, half dead already with affright; 
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race 
Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight. 

December

Riding upon the Goat, with snow-white hair, 
I come, the last of all. This crown of mine 
Is of the holly; in my hand I bear 
The thyrsus, tipped with fragrant cones of pine. 
I celebrate the birth of the Divine, 
And the return of the Saturnian reign;-- 
My songs are carols sung at every shrine, 
Proclaiming "Peace on earth, good will to men."

 1

When the world turns completely upside down 
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore 
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; 
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, 
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown 
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour. 
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, 
We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.

The winter will be short, the summer long, 
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, 
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; 
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. 
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall 
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.

2

The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass 
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold. 
The misted early mornings will be cold; 
The little puddles will be roofed with glass. 
The sun, which burns from copper into brass, 
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold 
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold 
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.

Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; 
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; 
The spring begins before the winter's over. 
By February you may find the skins 
Of garter snakes and water moccasins 
Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.

3

When April pours the colours of a shell 
Upon the hills, when every little creek 
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake 
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, 
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek 
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, 
We shall live well -- we shall live very well.

The months between the cherries and the peaches 
Are brimming cornucopias which spill 
Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; 
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches 
We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill 
Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.

4

Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones 
There's something in this richness that I hate. 
I love the look, austere, immaculate, 
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones. 
There's something in my very blood that owns 
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, 
A thread of water, churned to milky spate 
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.

I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, 
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; 
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, 
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, 
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, 
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,--
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And 't was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,--
Without a chance or spar,--
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

 A BOAT beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear --
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden dream --
Life, what is it but a dream?

THE END

 I 

"Percussus sum sicut foenum, et aruit cor meum." 
- Ps. ci 

 Wintertime nighs; 
But my bereavement-pain 
It cannot bring again: 
 Twice no one dies. 

 Flower-petals flee; 
But, since it once hath been, 
No more that severing scene 
 Can harrow me. 

 Birds faint in dread: 
I shall not lose old strength 
In the lone frost's black length: 
 Strength long since fled! 

 Leaves freeze to dun; 
But friends can not turn cold 
This season as of old 
 For him with none. 

 Tempests may scath; 
But love can not make smart 
Again this year his heart 
 Who no heart hath. 

 Black is night's cope; 
But death will not appal 
One who, past doubtings all, 
 Waits in unhope. 
De Profundis 

II 

"Considerabam ad dexteram, et videbam; et non erat qui cognosceret me 

When the clouds' swoln bosoms echo back the shouts of the many and 
strong 
That things are all as they best may be, save a few to be right ere 
long, 
And my eyes have not the vision in them to discern what to these is 
so clear, 
The blot seems straightway in me alone; one better he were not here. 

The stout upstanders say, All's well with us: ruers have nought to 
rue! 
And what the potent say so oft, can it fail to be somewhat true? 
Breezily go they, breezily come; their dust smokes around their 
career, 
Till I think I am one horn out of due time, who has no calling here. 

Their dawns bring lusty joys, it seems; their eves exultance sweet; 
Our times are blessed times, they cry: Life shapes it as is most 
meet, 
And nothing is much the matter; there are many smiles to a tear; 
Then what is the matter is I, I say. Why should such an one be here? 

Let him to whose ears the low-voiced Best seems stilled by the clash 
of the First, 
Who holds that if way to the Better there be, it exacts a full look 
at the Worst, 
Who feels that delight is a delicate growth cramped by crookedness, 
custom, and fear, 
Get him up and be gone as one shaped awry; he disturbs the order 
here. 
De Profundis 

III 

"Heu mihi, quia incolatus meus prolongatus est! Habitavi cum 
habitantibus Cedar; multum incola fuit aninia mea."--Ps. cxix. 

There have been times when I well might have passed and the ending 
have come - 
Points in my path when the dark might have stolen on me, artless, 
unrueing - 
Ere I had learnt that the world was a welter of futile doing: 
Such had been times when I well might have passed, and the ending 
have come! 

Say, on the noon when the half-sunny hours told that April was nigh, 
And I upgathered and cast forth the snow from the crocus-border, 
Fashioned and furbished the soil into a summer-seeming order, 
Glowing in gladsome faith that I quickened the year thereby. 

Or on that loneliest of eves when afar and benighted we stood, 
She who upheld me and I, in the midmost of Egdon together, 
Confident I in her watching and ward through the blackening heather, 
Deeming her matchless in might and with measureless scope endued. 

Or on that winter-wild night when, reclined by the chimney-nook 
quoin, 
Slowly a drowse overgat me, the smallest and feeblest of folk there, 
Weak from my baptism of pain; when at times and anon I awoke there - 
Heard of a world wheeling on, with no listing or longing to join. 

Even then! while unweeting that vision could vex or that knowledge 
could numb, 
That sweets to the mouth in the belly are bitter, and tart, and 
untoward, 
Then, on some dim-coloured scene should my briefly raised curtain 
have lowered, 
Then might the Voice that is law have said "Cease!" and the ending 
have come.

 I
The rutted roads are all like iron; skies
Are keen and brilliant; only the oak-leaves cling
In the bare woods, or the hardy bitter-sweet;
Drivers have put their sheepskin jackets on;
And all the ponds are sealed with sheeted ice
That rings with stroke of skate and hockey-stick,
Or in the twilight cracks with running whoop.
Bring in the logs of oak and hickory,
And make an ample blaze on the wide hearth.
Now is the time, with winter o'er the world,
For books and friends and yellow candle-light,
And timeless lingering by the settling fire.

While all the shuddering stars are keen with cold.
II

Out from the silent portal of the hours,
When frosts are come and all the hosts put on.
Their burnished gear to march across the night
And o'er a darkened earth in splendor shine,
Slowly above the world Orion wheels
His glittering square, while on the shadowy hill
And throbbing like a sea-light through the dusk,
Great Sirius rises in his flashing blue.
Lord of the winter night, august and pure,
Returning year on year untouched by time,
To hearten faith with thine unfaltering fire,
There are no hurts that beauty cannot ease,
No ills that love cannot at last repair,
In the victorious progress of the soul.
III

Russet and white and gray is the oak wood
In the great snow. Still from the North it comes,
Whispering, settling, sifting through the trees,
O'erloading branch and twig. The road is lost.
Clearing and meadow, stream and ice-bound pond
Are made once more a trackless wilderness
In the white hush where not a creature stirs;
And the pale sun is blotted from the sky.
In that strange twilight the lone traveller halts
To listen to the stealthy snowflakes fall.
And then far off toward the Stamford shore,
Where through the storm the coastwise liners go,
Faint and recurrent on the muffled air,
A foghorn booming through the Smother--hark!
IV

When the day changed and the mad wind died down,
The powdery drifts that all day long had blown
Across the meadows and the open fields,
Or whirled like diamond dust in the bright sun,
Settled to rest, and for a tranquil hour
The lengthening bluish shadows on the snow
Stole down the orchard slope, and a rose light
Flooded the earth with beauty and with peace.
Then in the west behind the cedars black
The sinking sun stained red the winter dusk
With sullen flare upon the snowy ridge,--
As in a masterpiece by Hokusai,
Where on a background gray, with flaming breath
A scarlet dragon dies in dusky gold.

 A boat, beneath a sunny sky
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July --

Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear
Pleased a simple tale to hear --

Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.

Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.

In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:

Ever drifting down the stream --
Lingering in the golden gleam --
Life what is it but a dream?

 If as a flower doth spread and die, 
Thou wouldst extend me to some good, 
Before I were by frost's extremity
Nipt in the bud; 

The sweetness and the praise were thine; 
But the extension and the room, 
Which in thy garland I should fill, were mine
At thy great doom.

For as thou dost impart thy grace, 
The greater shall our glory be.
The measure of our joys is in this place, 
The stuff with thee.

Let me not languish then, and spend 
A life as barren to thy praise, 
As is the dust, to which that life doth tend, 
But with delays.

All things are busy; only I
Neither bring honey with the bees, 
Nor flowers to make that, nor the husbandry
To water these.

I am no link of thy great chain, 
But all my company is a weed.
Lord place me in thy consort; give one strain
To my poor reed.

 1 Faster, faster, 
2 O Circe, Goddess,
3 Let the wild, thronging train 
4 The bright procession 
5 Of eddying forms, 
6 Sweep through my soul! 

7 Thou standest, smiling
8 Down on me! thy right arm,
9 Lean'd up against the column there,
10 Props thy soft cheek;
11 Thy left holds, hanging loosely,
12 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured,
13 I held but now. 

14 Is it, then, evening 
15 So soon? I see, the night-dews, 
16 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 
17 The agate brooch-stones 
18 On thy white shoulder; 
19 The cool night-wind, too, 
20 Blows through the portico, 
21 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 
22 Waves thy white robe! 

Circe. 

23 Whence art thou, sleeper? 

The Youth. 

24 When the white dawn first 
25 Through the rough fir-planks 
26 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 
27 Up at the valley-head, 
28 Came breaking, Goddess! 
29 I sprang up, I threw round me 
30 My dappled fawn-skin; 
31 Passing out, from the wet turf, 
32 Where they lay, by the hut door, 
33 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 
34 All drench'd in dew- 
35 Came swift down to join 
36 The rout early gather'd 
37 In the town, round the temple, 
38 Iacchus' white fane 
39 On yonder hill. 

40 Quick I pass'd, following 
41 The wood-cutters' cart-track 
42 Down the dark valley;-I saw 
43 On my left, through the beeches,
44 Thy palace, Goddess, 
45 Smokeless, empty! 
46 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 
47 The court all silent, 
48 The lions sleeping, 
49 On the altar this bowl. 
50 I drank, Goddess! 
51 And sank down here, sleeping, 
52 On the steps of thy portico. 

Circe. 

53 Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou?
54 Thou lovest it, then, my wine?
55 Wouldst more of it? See, how glows,
56 Through the delicate, flush'd marble,
57 The red, creaming liquor,
58 Strown with dark seeds! 
59 Drink, thee! I chide thee not, 
60 Deny thee not my bowl. 
61 Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! 
62 Drink-drink again! 

The Youth. 

63 Thanks, gracious one! 
64 Ah, the sweet fumes again! 
65 More soft, ah me, 
66 More subtle-winding 
67 Than Pan's flute-music! 
68 Faint-faint! Ah me, 
69 Again the sweet sleep! 

Circe. 

70 Hist! Thou-within there! 
71 Come forth, Ulysses! 
72 Art tired with hunting? 
73 While we range the woodland,
74 See what the day brings. 

Ulysses. 

75 Ever new magic! 
76 Hast thou then lured hither,
77 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 
78 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 
79 Iacchus' darling- 
80 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 
81 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 
82 That he sits, bending downward 
83 His white, delicate neck 
84 To the ivy-wreathed marge 
85 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves
86 That crown his hair, 
87 Falling forward, mingling 
88 With the dark ivy-plants-- 
89 His fawn-skin, half untied, 
90 Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 
91 That he sits, overweigh'd 
92 By fumes of wine and sleep, 
93 So late, in thy portico? 
94 What youth, Goddess,-what guest 
95 Of Gods or mortals? 

Circe. 

96 Hist! he wakes!
97 I lured him not hither, Ulysses.
98 Nay, ask him! 

The Youth. 

99 Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth
100 To thy side, Goddess, from within?
101 How shall I name him?
102 This spare, dark-featured,
103 Quick-eyed stranger?
104 Ah, and I see too
105 His sailor's bonnet,
106 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd,
107 With one arm bare!--
108 Art thou not he, whom fame
109 This long time rumours
110 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves?
111 Art thou he, stranger?
112 The wise Ulysses,
113 Laertes' son? 

Ulysses. 

114 I am Ulysses. 
115 And thou, too, sleeper? 
116 Thy voice is sweet. 
117 It may be thou hast follow'd 
118 Through the islands some divine bard, 
119 By age taught many things, 
120 Age and the Muses; 
121 And heard him delighting 
122 The chiefs and people 
123 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs.
124 Of Gods and Heroes, 
125 Of war and arts, 
126 And peopled cities, 
127 Inland, or built 
128 By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! 
129 I honour and welcome thee. 

The Youth. 

130 The Gods are happy. 
131 They turn on all sides 
132 Their shining eyes, 
133 And see below them 
134 The earth and men. 

135 They see Tiresias 
136 Sitting, staff in hand, 
137 On the warm, grassy 
138 Asopus bank, 
139 His robe drawn over 
140 His old sightless head, 
141 Revolving inly 
142 The doom of Thebes. 

143 They see the Centaurs
144 In the upper glens
145 Of Pelion, in the streams,
146 Where red-berried ashes fringe
147 The clear-brown shallow pools,
148 With streaming flanks, and heads
149 Rear'd proudly, snuffing
150 The mountain wind. 

151 They see the Indian
152 Drifting, knife in hand,
153 His frail boat moor'd to
154 A floating isle thick-matted
155 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants 
156 And the dark cucumber. 

157 He reaps, and stows them,
158 Drifting--drifting;--round him,
159 Round his green harvest-plot,
160 Flow the cool lake-waves,
161 The mountains ring them. 

162 They see the Scythian
163 On the wide stepp, unharnessing
164 His wheel'd house at noon.
165 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal--
166 Mares' milk, and bread
167 Baked on the embers;--all around
168 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd
169 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock
170 And flag-leaved iris-flowers.
171 Sitting in his cart
172 He makes his meal; before him, for long miles,
173 Alive with bright green lizards,
174 And the springing bustard-fowl,
175 The track, a straight black line,
176 Furrows the rich soil; here and there
177 Cluster of lonely mounds
178 Topp'd with rough-hewn,
179 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer
180 The sunny waste. 

181 They see the ferry
182 On the broad, clay-laden
183 Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon,
184 With snort and strain,
185 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow
186 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes
187 To either bow
188 Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief
189 With shout and shaken spear,
190 Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern
191 The cowering merchants, in long robes,
192 Sit pale beside their wealth
193 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops,
194 Of gold and ivory,
195 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst,
196 Jasper and chalcedony,
197 And milk-barred onyx-stones.
198 The loaded boat swings groaning
199 In the yellow eddies;
200 The Gods behold him. 

201 They see the Heroes
202 Sitting in the dark ship
203 On the foamless, long-heaving
204 Violet sea.
205 At sunset nearing
206 The Happy Islands. 

207 These things, Ulysses,
208 The wise bards, also
209 Behold and sing.
210 But oh, what labour!
211 O prince, what pain!
212 They too can see
213 Tiresias;--but the Gods,
214 Who give them vision,
215 Added this law:
216 That they should bear too
217 His groping blindness,
218 His dark foreboding,
219 His scorn'd white hairs;
220 Bear Hera's anger
221 Through a life lengthen'd
222 To seven ages. 

223 They see the Centaurs
224 On Pelion:--then they feel,
225 They too, the maddening wine
226 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain
227 They feel the biting spears
228 Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive,
229 Drive crashing through their bones; they feel
230 High on a jutting rock in the red stream
231 Alcmena's dreadful son
232 Ply his bow;--such a price
233 The Gods exact for song:
234 To become what we sing. 

235 They see the Indian
236 On his mountain lake; but squalls
237 Make their skiff reel, and worms
238 In the unkind spring have gnawn
239 Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see
240 The Scythian: but long frosts
241 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp,
242 Till they too fade like grass; they crawl
243 Like shadows forth in spring. 

244 They see the merchants
245 On the Oxus stream;--but care
246 Must visit first them too, and make them pale.
247 Whether, through whirling sand,
248 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst
249 Upon their caravan; or greedy kings,
250 In the wall'd cities the way passes through,
251 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs,
252 On some great river's marge,
253 Mown them down, far from home. 

254 They see the Heroes
255 Near harbour;--but they share
256 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes,
257 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy;
258 Or where the echoing oars
259 Of Argo first
260 Startled the unknown sea. 

261 The old Silenus
262 Came, lolling in the sunshine,
263 From the dewy forest-coverts,
264 This way at noon.
265 Sitting by me, while his Fauns
266 Down at the water-side
267 Sprinkled and smoothed
268 His drooping garland,
269 He told me these things. 

270 But I, Ulysses,
271 Sitting on the warm steps,
272 Looking over the valley,
273 All day long, have seen,
274 Without pain, without labour,
275 Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad--
276 Sometimes a Faun with torches--
277 And sometimes, for a moment,
278 Passing through the dark stems
279 Flowing-robed, the beloved,
280 The desired, the divine,
281 Beloved Iacchus. 

282 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars!
283 Ah, glimmering water,
284 Fitful earth-murmur,
285 Dreaming woods!
286 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess,
287 And thou, proved, much enduring,
288 Wave-toss'd Wanderer!
289 Who can stand still?
290 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me--
291 The cup again! 

292 Faster, faster,
293 O Circe, Goddess.
294 Let the wild, thronging train,
295 The bright procession
296 Of eddying forms,
297 Sweep through my soul!

 Let us begin, dear love, where we left off; 
Tie up the broken threads of that old dream; 
And go on happy as before; and seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.

Let us forget the graves, which lie between
Our parting and our meeting, and the tears
That rusted out the goldwork of the years; 
The frosts that fell upon our gardens green.

Let us forget the cold malicious Fate
Who made our loving hearts her idle toys, 
And once more revel in the old sweet joys
Of happy love. Nay, it is not too late! 

Forget the deep-ploughed furrows in my brow; 
Forget the silver gleaming in my hair; 
Look only in my eyes! Oh! darling, there
The old love shone no warmer then than now.

Down in the tender depths of thy dear eyes, 
I find the lost sweet memory of my youth, 
Bright with the holy radiance of thy truth, 
And hallowed with the blue of summer skies.

Tie up the broken threads, and let us go, 
Like reunited lovers, hand in hand, 
Back, and yet onward, to the sunny land
Of our To Be, which was our Long Ago.