当我们都躺在墓地松树funeral vigil keep, Thou shalt rise up early While the dews are deep; Thee the earliest bird shall rouse From thy maiden sleep, Thy white bed in the old house Where we all, in our day, Lived and loved so cheerly. And thou shalt take thy way Where the nodding daffodil Tells thee he is near; Where the lark above the corn Sings him to thine ear; Where thine own oak, fondly grim, Points to more than thou canst spy; And the beckoning beechen spray Beckons, beckons thee to him, Thee to him and him to thee; Him to thee, who, coy and slow, Stealest through dim paths untrod Step by step, with doubtful glance, Taking witness quick and shy Of each bud and herb and tree If thou doest well or no. Haste thee, haste thee, slow and coy! What! art doubting still, though even The white tree that shakes with fear When no other dreams of ill, The girl-tree whom best thou knowest, Waves the garlands of her joy, And, by something more than chance, Of all paths in one path only The primroses where thou goest Thicken to thy feet, as though Thou already wert in heaven And walking in the galaxy. Do those stars no longer glisten To thy steps, ah! shivering maid, That, where upper light doth fade At yon gnarled and twisted gate, Thou dost pause and tremble and so, Listening stir, and stirring listen? Not a blossom will illume That chill grove of cambering yew Wherein Night seems to vegetate, And, through bats and owls, a dew Of darkness fills the mortal gloom. Haste thee, haste thee, gaze not back! Of all hours since thou wert born, Now thou may'st not look forlorn; Though the blackening grove is dread, Shall he plead in vain who pled 'To-morrow?' Through the tree-gloom lonely One more shudder, and the track Softens: this is upland sod, Thou canst smell the mountain air, What was heavy overhead Lightens, the black whitens, the white brightens! Ah, dear and fair, Lo the dazzling east, and lo, Someone tall against the sky Coming. coming, like a god, In the rising morn! And when the lengthening days whose light we never saw Have melted his sweet awe, And thy fond fear is like a little hare, Large-eyed and passionately afraid, That peepeth from the covert of her rest Into the narrow glade Between two woods, and doth a moment dare The sunshine, and leap back; yet forth will fare Again, and each time ventures further from the nest, Till, having past the midst ere she be 'ware, Bold with fear to be so much confest She flees across the sun into the other shade; Flees as thou that didst so coyly draw Near him and nearer, and art trembling there Midway 'twixt giving all and nought, In a moment, at a thought, Bashful to panic, hidest on his breast; Once again beneath the hill Where round our graves these funeral pines refuse The clamorous morning, thou shalt rise up early When we all lie still. Thou shalt rise up early while Down the chimney, ample and deep, Dreaming swallows gurgle, and shrill In window-nook the mossy wren Chirps an answer cheerly, Chirps and sinks to sleep. In the crossed and corbelled bay Of that ivied oriel, thou Lovest at morn and eve to muse; But this once thou shalt not stay To mark the forming earth. and how Far and near, in equal grey Of growing dawn, thy well-known land Now to the strained gaze appears The nebulous umbrage of itself, and now, Ere one can say this or this, Divides upon the sense into the world that is, As the slow suffusion that doth fill Tender eyes with soft uncertainties, Suddenly, we know not when, Shapes to tears we understand; Such tears as blind thy eyes with light, When thou shalt rise up, white from white, In thy virgin bed On that morn, and, by and by, In thy bloom of maidenhead Beam softly o'er the shadowy floor, And softly down the ancient stairs, And softly through the ancestral door, And o'er the meadow by the house Where thy small feet shall not rouse From the grass those unrisen pray'rs, The skylarks, though thy passing smile Shall touch away the dews. And thou shalt take thy way, Ah whither? Where is the dear tryst to-day? Trembler, doth he wait for thee By the ash or the beech-tree? With the lightest earliest breeze The dodder in the hedge is quaking, But the mighty ash is still a-slumber; All its tender multiplicity Drooped with a common sleep, by twos and threes, That triple into companies, Which, in turn, do multiply Each by each into an all So various, so symmetrical, That the membered trunk on high Lifts a colour'd cloud that seems The numberless result of number. Now still as thy still sleep, soft as thy dreams, They slumber; bu