I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the
               dove,
     That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I
               sicken for love.

     I charge you, O dews of the Dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,
     That ye fall at the feet of my Love with the sound of one weeping
               forlorn.

     I charge you, O birds of the Air, O birds flying home to your nest,
     That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled from my
               breast.

     I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most
               fair,
     That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels, consumed by
               despair.

     O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,
     A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.

     Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish, the flames of
               love’s fire,
     Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it, and breaks its
               desire.

     I rise like one in a dream when I see the red sun flaring low,
     That drags me back shuddering from sleep each morning to life with
               its woe.

     I go like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the way
     To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white
               hawthorn of May.

     The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry to its
               core;
     The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him no more.

     The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where I weep,
     My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er soothed
               into sleep.

     The moon returns, and the spring; birds warble, trees burst into
               leaf;
     But Love, once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is the
               grief.

* * * * *

SEEKING

In many a shape and fleeting apparition,
Sublime in age or with clear morning eyes,
Ever I seek thee, tantalizing Vision,
Which beckoning flies.

Ever I seek Thee, O evasive Presence,
Which on the far horizon’s utmost verge,
Like some wild star in luminous evanescence,
Shoots o’er the surge.

Ever I seek Thy features ever flying,
Which, ne’er beheld, I never can forget: 
Lightning which flames through love, and mimics dying
In souls that set.

Ever I seek Thee through all clouds of error;
As when the moon behind earth’s shadow slips,
She wears a momentary mask of terror
In brief eclipse.

Ever I seek Thee, passionately yearning;
Like altar fire on some forgotten fane,
My life flames up irrevocably burning,
And burnt in vain.