To him who plays the violin
  All one it is who joins the reel,
Drops from the dance, or enters in;
  So that the never-ending wheel
Cease not its mystic course to spin,
  For weal or woe, for woe or weal.

I

FLOS AEVORUM

You must mean more than just this hour,
  You perfect thing so subtly fair,
Simple and complex as a flower,
  Wrought with such planetary care;
How patient the eternal power
  That wove the marvel of your hair.

How long the sunlight and the sea
  Wove and re-wove this rippling gold
To rhythms of eternity;
  And many a flashing thing grew old,
Waiting this miracle to be;
  And painted marvels manifold,

Still with his work unsatisfied,
  Eager each new effect to try,
The solemn artist cast aside,
  Rainbow and shell and butterfly,
As some stern blacksmith scatters wide
  The sparks that from his anvil fly.

How many shells, whorl within whorl,
  Litter the marges of the sphere
With wrack of unregarded pearl,
  To shape that little thing your ear: 
Creation, just to make one girl,
  Hath travailed with exceeding fear.

The moonlight of forgotten seas
  Dwells in your eyes, and on your tongue
The honey of a million bees,
  And all the sorrows of all song: 
You are the ending of all these,
  The world grew old to make you young.

All time hath traveled to this rose;
  To the strange making of this face
Came agonies of fires and snows;
  And Death and April, nights and days
Unnumbered, unimagined throes,
  Find in this flower their meeting place.

Strange artist, to my aching thought
  Give answer:  all the patient power
That to this perfect ending wrought,
  Shall it mean nothing but an hour? 
Say not that it is all for nought
  Time brings Eternity a flower.

All the words in all the world
  Cannot tell you how I love you,
All the little stars that shine
  To make a silver crown above you;

“All the words in all the world”

All the flowers cannot weave
  A garland worthy of your hair,
Not a bird in the four winds
  Can sing of you that is so fair.

Only the spheres can sing of you;
  Some planet in celestial space,
Hallowed and lonely in the dawn,
  Shall sing the poem of your face.

“I said—­I care not”

I said—­I care not if I can
  But look into her eyes again,
But lay my hand within her hand
  Just once again.

Though all the world be filled with snow
  And fire and cataclysmal storm,
I’ll cross it just to lay my head
  Upon her bosom warm.

Ah! bosom made of April flowers,
  Might I but bring this aching brain,
This foolish head, and lay it down
  On April once again!