I make a garland here of water-flowers 
Gathered in quiet hours 
From banks that Liris hourly eats away: 
From fields that hear all day 
The plaint of Simois for boyhood dead. 
From almond-boughs o'erhead 
I pluck some mocking blossoms: and a spray 
Of euphrasy, 
That I may see on every leafless tree 
The promise of its later royalty 
Of mellow apples, or its summer dower 
Of scarlet thorn or purple Judas-flower. 
I make my garland here, and set between 
Pale poplar leaves and Pan's own parsley green 
From battle-fields where Nike has not been. 
I lift my finished wreath, but make my prayer 
Neither to Jove nor Venus: nor have care 
To plead to Juno, that my unbound hair 
The yellow veil may bear. 
But I make humble prayer 
To Pan, who gives the squirrel winter store, 
Who bids the reeds grow by the river-shore: 
That he will stand before 
My joy and grief, 
And that my withered leaf 
He gather up into his sunburned hand. 
For joy and grief and hope Pan also knew, 
And he hath care to-day for maid and man 
That Love has yet forborne to bless or ban: 
For once in fields that knew no mortal feet 
He harvested Love's wheat, in Love's own land. 
Therefore, my wreath that's pale and little sweet 
I cast before Pan's feet. 

A dewy flower, bathed in crimson light,
May touch the soul—a pure and beauteous sight;
A golden river flashing 'neath the sun,
May reach the spot where life's dark waters run;
Yet, when the sun is gone, the splendor dies,
With drooping head the tender flower lies.
And such is life; a golden mist of light,
A tangled web that glitters in the sun;
When shadows come, the glory takes its flight,
The threads are dark and worn, and life is done.
Oh! tears, that chill us like the dews of eve,
Why come unbid—why should we ever grieve?
Why is it, though life hath its leaves of gold,
The book each day some sorrow must unfold!
What human heart with truth can dare to say
No grief is mine—this is a perfect day?
Oh! poet, take your harp of gold and sing,
And all the earth with heavenly music fill!
You may do this, yet song can never bring
One sunbeam back, let song be what it will.
Oh! painter, you can catch the glowing light
That tints the skies before the coming night;
With throbbing heart and upward lifted eyes,
You paint the splendor of the purple skies;
Yet tell me, does your genius hold the key
To life's strange secrets and its mystery?
Oh! life is sad, yet sunshine, too, is there;
We cannot tell what spell the years may weave—
Perchance a song that dies upon the air—
Perhaps a shadow that the sun doth leave.