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1864–1915

STEPHEN PHILLIPS.

Stephen Phillips

Thou who hast follow'd far with eyes of love The shy and virgin sights of Spring to-day, Sad soul, what dost thou in this happy grove? Hast thou no pipe to touch, no strain to play,

Where Nature smiles so fair and seems to ask a lay? Ah! she needs none! she is too beautiful. How should I sing her? for my heart would tire, Seeking a lovelier verse each time to cull,

In striving still to pitch my music higher: Lovelier than any muse is she who gives the fire! No impulse I beseech; my strains are vile: To escape thee, Nature, restless here I rove.

Look not so sweet on me, avert thy smile! O cease at length this fever'd breast to move! I have loved thee in vain; I cannot speak my love. Here sense with apathy seems gently wed:

The gloom is starr'd with flowers; the unseen trees Spread thick and softly real above my head; And the far birds add music to the peace, In this dark place of sleep, where whispers never cease.

Hush, then, my pipe; vain is thy passion here; Vain is the burning bosom of desire! Forever hush'd, let me this silence hear, As a sad Muse in the melodious choir

Hushes her voice, to catch the happier voices by her. Deep-shaded will I lie, and deeper yet In night, where not a leaf its neighbour knows; Forget the shining of the stars, forget

The vernal visitation of the rose; And, far from all delights, prepare my heart's repose. Strive how I may, I cannot slumber so: Still burns that sleepless beauty on the mind;

Still insupportable those visions glow; And hark! my spirit's aspirations find An answer in the leaves, a warning on the wind. ‘ O crave not silence thou! too soon, too sure,

Shall Autumn come, and through these branches weep: Soon birds shall cease, and flowers no more endure; And thou beneath the mould unwilling creep, And silent soon shalt be in that eternal sleep.

‘ Green still it is, where that fair goddess strays; Then follow, till around thee all be sere. Lose not a vision of her passing face; Nor miss the sound of her soft robes, that here

Sweep over the wet leaves of the fast-falling year.’

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STEPHEN PHILLIPS. · Stephen Phillips · Poetry Cove