My love is dead, dead and in spite of me,— 
Dead while I lived,—while yet my blood was rife 
With hope and pleasure and the pride of life. 
For my love ended unexpectedly 
During the Winter, stricken like a tree 
By a night's cold, and frozen to the blood, 
Whose leaves fell off and never were renewed 
By any promise of the years to be. 
And, when the Spring came, and the birds, to mate 
Among its branches, lo! they found it bare, 
Though all around was Summer in the wood. 
Yet they took heart awhile, incredulous 
That such a tree should be for ever dead. 
'Tis early yet,” they cried. “The Spring is late. 
It shall still be as in the days that were.” 
But summer came and went while the tree stood 
Bare in the sun like a deserted house. 
—Then the birds suddenly despaired and fled. 

The stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay,
And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away:

The wave is very still—the rudder loosens in our hand,
The zephyr will not fill our sail and waft us to the land;
O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,
And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.

No sound but sound of rest is on the bosom of the deep,
Soft as the breathing of a breast serenely hushed with sleep:
Lay by the oar; there is a voice at heart to sing or sigh—
O what shall be the choice of barcarolle or lullaby?

Say shall we sing of day or night, fair land or mighty ocean,
Of any rapturous delight or any dear emotion,
Of any joy that is on Earth, or hope that is above—
The holy country of our birth, or any song of love?

Our heart in all our life is like the hand of one who steers
A bark upon an ocean rife with dangers and with fears;
The joys, the hopes, like waves or wings, bear up this life of ours—
Short as a song of all these things that make up all its hours.

Spread sail! for it is Hope to-day that like a wind new-risen
Doth waft us on a golden wing towards a new horizon,
That is the sun before our sight, the beacon for us burning,
That is the star in all our night of watching and of yearning.

Love is this thing that we pursue to-day, to-night, for ever,
We care not whither, know not who shall be at length the giver:
For Love,—our life and all our years are cast upon the waves;
Our heart is as the hand that steers;—but who is He that saves?

We ply with oars, we strive with every sail upon our mast—
We never tire, never fail—and Love is seen at last:
A low and purple mirage like a coast where day is breaking—
Sink sail!—for such a dream as Love is lost before the waking.