Eight songs from "The Spanish Gypsy"

Warm whisp'ring through the slender olive leaves
  Came to me a gentle sound,
  Whisepring of a secret found
In the clear sunshine 'mid the golden sheaves:
Said it was sleeping for me in the morn,
  Called it gladness, called it joy,
  Drew me on -- "Come hither, boy" --
To where the blue wings rested on the corn.
I thought the gentle sound had whispered true, --
  Thought the little heaven mine,
  Leaned to clutch the thing divine,
And saw the blue wings melt within the blue!

Day is dying! Float, O song,
  Down the westward river,
Requiem chanting to the Day,
  Day, the mighty giver!

Pierced by shafts of Time he bleeds,
  Melted rubies sending
Through the river and the sky,
  Earth and heaven blending;

All the long-drawn earthy banks
  Up to cloud-land lifting:
Slow between them drifts the swan
  'Twixt two heavens drifting,

Wings half open like a flow'r.
  Inly deeper flushing,
Neck and breast as virgin's pure, --
  Virgin proudly blushing.

Day is dying! Float, O swan,
  Down the ruby river,
Follow, song, in requiem
  To the mighty Giver.

It was in the prime
Of the sweet Spring-time
  In the linnet's throat
  Trembled the love-note,
And the love-stirred air
Thrilled the blossoms there.
  Little shadows danced,
    Each a tiny elf,
  Happy in large light
    And the thinnest self. 

It was but a minute
  In a far-off Spring,
  But each gentle thing,
Sweetly-wooing linnet,
  Soft-thrilled hawthorn-tree,
    Happy shadowy elf,
    With the thinnest self,
  Live on still in me.
It was in the prime
Of the past Spring-time!

Spring comes hither
  Buds the rose;
Roses wither,
  Sweet spring goes.
Ojalà, would she carry me!

Summer soars --
  Wide-winged day
White light pours,
  Flies away.
Ojalà, would he carry me!

Soft winds blow
  Westward borne,
Onward go
  Towards the morn.
Ojalà, would they carry me!

Sweet birds sing
  O'er the graves,
Then take wing
  O'er the waves.
Ojalà, would they carry me!

Came a pretty maid
  By the moon's pure light,
Loved me well, she said,
  Eyes with tears all bright,
    A pretty maid!

But too late she strayed,
  Moonlight pure was there;
She was nought but shade,
  Hiding the more fair,
    The heavenly maid!

The world is great: the birds  ...  fly from me;
The stars are golden fruit upon a tree
All out of reach: my little sister went,
     And I am lonely.

The world is great: I tried to mount the hill
Above the pines, where the light lies so still,
But it rose higher: little Lisa went,
     And I am lonely.

The world is great: the wind comes rushing by.
I wonder where it comes from; sea-birds cry
And hurt my heart: my little sister went,
     And I am lonely.

The world is great: the people laugh and talk,
And make loud holiday: how fast they walk!
I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went,
     And I am lonely.

Maiden, crowned with glossy blackness,
  Lithe as panther forest-roaming,
Long-armed naiad, when she dances
  On a stream of ether floating, --
    Bright, O bright Fedalma!

Form all curves like softness drifted,
  Wave-kissed marble roundly dimpling,
Far-off music slowly wingèd,
  Gently rising, gently sinking, --
    Bright, O bright Fedalma!

Pure as rain-tear on a rose-leaf,
  Cloud high-born in noonday spotless
Sudden perfect like the dew-bead,
  Gem of earth and sky begotten, --
    Bright, O bright Fedalma!

Beauty has no mortal father,
  Holy light her form engendered,
Out of tremor, yearning, gladness,
  Presage sweet, and joy remembered, --
    Child of light, Fedalma!

Should I long that dark were fair? 
Say, O song!
Lacks my love aught, that I should long?

Dark the night, with breath all flow'rs
And tender broken voice that fills
With ravishment the listening hours:
Whisperings, wooings,
Liquid ripples, and soft ring-dove cooings
In low-toned rhythm that love's aching stills.
Dark the night, 
Yet is she bright,
For in her dark she brings the mystic star,
Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love,
From some unknown afar.
O radiant dark! O darkly fostered ray!
Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Day.