The Shrines of Old are broken down

The shrines of old are broken down;
the faiths that knelt at them are dead.
Nothing’s strange, and nought unknown:
all’s been done and all been said.
Tired of knowledge, now we sigh
for a little mystery.

Yet, howsoever science delves,
a few things still unplumbed remain.
We know all things save ourselves,
cannot will our joy or pain.
Mysteries our hearts enthral;
and love’s the strangest of them all.

Ah Now this happy month is gone

Ah, now this happy month is gone,
not now, my heart, complain,
nor rail at time because so soon
he takes his own again.

He takes his own, the weeks, the hours,
but leaves the best with thee;
seeds of imperishable flowers
in fields of memory.

The last image

A CHARM invests a face
Imperfectly beheld,—
The lady dare not lift her veil
For fear it be dispelled.
But peers beyond her mesh,
And wishes, and denies,—
Lest interview annul a want
That image satisfies.

Wife

I’M wife; I ’ve finished that,
That other state;
I ’m Czar, I ’m woman now:
It ’s safer so.
How odd the girl’s life looks
Behind this soft eclipse!
I think that earth seems so
To those in heaven now.
This being comfort, then
That other kind was pain;
But why compare?
I ’m wife! stop there!

A rapture of legacies

TO tell the beauty would decrease,
To state the Spell demean,
There is a syllableless sea
Of which it is the sign.
My will endeavours for its word
And fails, but entertains
A rapture as of legacies—
Of introspective mines.

-Emily

Immorality

AMBITION cannot find him,
Affection doesn’t know
How many leagues of Nowhere
Lie between them now.
Yesterday undistinguished—
Eminent to-day,
For our mutual honor—
Immortality!