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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 139 pages of information about Goblin Market, The Prince's Progress, and Other Poems.

Give me the lowest place:  not that I dare
  Ask for that lowest place, but Thou hast died
That I might live and share
  Thy glory by Thy side.

Give me the lowest place:  or if for me
  That lowest place too high, make one more low
Where I may sit and see
  My God and love Thee so.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 1848-69

DEATH’S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 14, 1848)

Chide not; let me breathe a little,
  For I shall not mourn him long;
Though the life-cord was so brittle,
  The love-cord was very strong. 
I would wake a little space
Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go,—­I shall not weep;
  You can go unto your rest. 
My heart-ache is all too deep,
  And too sore my throbbing breast. 10
Can sobs be, or angry tears,
Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Though with you I am alone
  And must be so everywhere,
I will make no useless moan,—­
  None shall say ‘She could not bear:’ 
While life lasts I will be strong,—­
But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen!  Everywhere
  A low voice is calling me, 20
And a step is on the stair,
  And one comes ye do not see,
Listen, listen!  Evermore
A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me; he is come again,—­
  My own dearest is come back. 
Bring him in from the cold rain;
  Bring wine, and let nothing lack. 
Thou and I will rest together,
Love, until the sunny weather. 30

I will shelter thee from harm,—­
  Hide thee from all heaviness. 
Come to me, and keep thee warm
  By my side in quietness. 
I will lull thee to thy sleep
With sweet songs:—­we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping?—­Yet
  There is something at my heart,
Gnawing, I would fain forget,
  And an aching and a smart. 40
—­Ah! my mother, ’tis in vain,
For he is not come again.

HEART’S CHILL BETWEEN

(Athenaeum, October 21, 1848)

I did not chide him, though I knew
  That he was false to me. 
Chide the exhaling of the dew,
  The ebbing of the sea,
The fading of a rosy hue,—­
  But not inconstancy.

Why strive for love when love is o’er? 
  Why bind a restive heart?—­
He never knew the pain I bore
  In saying:  ’We must part; 10
Let us be friends and nothing more.’ 
  —­Oh, woman’s shallow art!

But it is over, it is done,—­
  I hardly heed it now;
So many weary years have run
  Since then, I think not how
Things might have been,—­but greet each one
  With an unruffled brow.

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