Must toward the mystic shaping work:
Sweet fruit and bitter both must fall
When the boughs bend, at each year's autumn-call.

Ah, dear defect! that aye shall lift
Us higher, not through craven shift
Of fault on common frailty;--nay,
But twofold hope to help with generous stay!

I shall be nearer, understood:
More prized art thou than perfect good.
And since thou lov'st me, I shall grow
Thy other self--thy Life, thy Joy, thy Woe!



THE FISHER OF THE CAPE.

At morn his bark like a bird
Slips lightly oceanward--
Sail feathering smooth o'er the bay
And beak that drinks the wild spray.
In his eyes beams cheerily
A light like the sun's on the sea,
As he watches the waning strand,
Where the foam, like a waving hand
Of one who mutely would tell
Her love, flutters faintly, "Farewell."

But at night, when the winds arise