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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSnV 
 
lEihiarb W. Jfarkaon 
 
 " O learn to read what silent love has ivrit^ 
 
 To hear with eyes belongs to Love's fine wit. 
 
 \ 
 
 I 1905 
 
Copyright 1904 by Edward O. Jackson 
 All rights reserved 
 
 LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
 Two Copies HeceJveci 
 
 DEC 5iO iyu4 
 
 Copyrifc-ni tntry 
 
 cuss a, XXc. Not 
 
 COPY B. 
 
 
 PRINTED AT 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 
 BOSTON, U. S. A. 
 
I £)et»tcatelr 
 
 J^ WITH GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF THOUGHTFUL 
 
 \ FRIENDSHIP 
 
 TO VIRGINIA 
 
I 
 
 Not Summer's breathing, spiced with pink and rose, 
 
 Nor Beauty that is felt beyond the day, 
 
 Upon my spirit more refreshment throws 
 
 Than do those beams that from thy wild eyes play; 
 
 Nor have I more admired the fragrancy 
 
 And many colors of the gaudy Spring 
 
 Than that bright hue which every day I see 
 
 Upon thy lips and damask cheeks to cling: 
 
 For thou art Nature's sweet compendium 
 
 Of her delights, abridged in thy small frame. 
 
 And so thy haunt is Love's emporium. 
 
 Whose busy suitors give thee forth to fame. 
 
 And I, in these poor words, have power to make 
 
 Even thy matchless charms new glories take. 
 
 II 
 
 Then do not scorn me when, with lowly mien, 
 I creep into the summer of thy glance. 
 For that thy dear delights are by me seen 
 Can do thee neither spite nor sufferance. 
 I count me rich with but the silent bliss 
 Of gazing on thy star-ennobled face. 
 And thou, though conscious of my joy in this, 
 Need not enhance by art one single grace; 
 For, as the candle to night's winging moth, 
 Or to the Magian the sacred star. 
 Art thou to me, and am I nothing loth 
 To perish where thy fateful beauties are: 
 But thou wilt not, with cruel treachery. 
 Betray to scorn one who so worships thee. 
 
Ill 
 
 So Ermingarde, the Lady of the Maine, 
 
 Is made to live by poet's words of fire, 
 
 Long after Time, that made her sweet, has slain 
 
 And buried from our sight the world's desire. 
 
 So, Ermingarde, my Lady of Delight, 
 
 To thy great name I dedicate my pen. 
 
 That when thou sink'st below the marge of night. 
 
 Thy excellence shall still flame forth to men. 
 
 Oh ! may my verse like that great music sound 
 
 That echoes in the cadence of thy voice, 
 
 And with its subtlety en wheel thee round, 
 
 Within the wonder of a poet's choice: 
 
 Then, though thou perish in thy living form. 
 
 Still shalt thou live in language ever warm. 
 
 IV 
 
 Oh, never tell me that the rose is red. 
 When on thy cheeks I see the rose's shame, 
 Nor with the violet be astonished, 
 When thy fair eyes outgo the violet's fame: 
 Thou art the chronicler of every sweet, 
 And every beauty's bright historian 
 That in the world doth speed its mission fleet, 
 And with a single season's pride is gone. 
 Oh, can it be that such Perfection's power 
 Is not eternal, but must fade away. 
 If slower, yet as surely as the flower — 
 That emblem of immortal joy's decay? 
 Immortal shalt thou be, if through my will 
 Thy beauties in my happy verse distill. 
 
Ah, what a barrier hath thy beauty built 
 Between thy glory and my faultiness; 
 And here, I pray, absolve me of the guilt 
 Of publishing my love's extreme distress : 
 For when the heart is freighted with despair, 
 And lonely woe outweighs the world's delight, 
 Then some lament, though sighed in empty air, 
 Makes sorrow's burden for a time more light. 
 And if strange eyes dwell on my halting lines, 
 I have the blame and thou hast all the praise - 
 They smile at one who all his all resigns 
 To make one fair shine in his labored lays: 
 But, while they scorn the poet, they express 
 Marvel at thy inspiring loveliness. 
 
 VI 
 
 And yet emblazoning thy brilliancy 
 Hath to the poet's heart its compensation. 
 Which comforts, with its swift resiliency 
 Of praise, his obscure slighted occupation: 
 Thou canst not stand too high for my intent 
 Of rightful praise to compass all thy bloom, 
 And set thee forth with all that Nature meant 
 Of ornament thy beauty to illume. 
 And in this task I work with Nature's might, 
 And high permission of her laws' decree. 
 To give thy charms their full desert of light. 
 That all who read thy deathless grace may see. 
 And this dear privilege is precious, 
 And hath in it enlargement spacious. 
 
VII 
 
 As snow upon the highest mountain-tops 
 
 Is never melted by the summer's sun, 
 
 But an eternal whiteness keeps, nor stops 
 
 Its sacred purity when winter's run; 
 
 As flowers more beauteous every day succeed 
 
 The season's steps to Autumn's golden prime. 
 
 Keeping, with glorious pace, the fleeting speed 
 
 Of Spring's wild race, and Summer's spacious time: 
 
 So thou, my Flower of exceeding fame. 
 
 Wastes not thy sweetness as the seasons go, 
 
 Nor doth the summer heat of life inflame 
 
 Thy spirit's citadel of chastest snow — 
 
 Add thou to sweetness greater sweetness still, 
 
 To chastest conduct yet a chaster will. 
 
 VIII 
 
 I cannot whisper to thee in the ear 
 
 The words of love my foolish heart doth make, 
 
 For thy bright eyes inspire a laggard fear, 
 
 Which from my tongue its eloquence doth take: 
 
 But in that silence of delicious thrill 
 
 When our eyes meet I find the nourishment 
 
 For later speech, surpassing poet's skill. 
 
 In whose feigned lines are truth and flourish blent; 
 
 And, though I want the glib and oily art 
 
 To pour my words into thy flattered ears. 
 
 How much more true and just is this, my part. 
 
 To set thee forth where nought but truth appears : 
 
 For all my verse is lit at Truth's bright wick — 
 
 Scorning the aid of lying rhetoric. 
 
IX 
 
 Ah, since we met the world hath shifted thrice 
 About the sun in seasons' difference; 
 Three times hath Summer sweetened with her spice, 
 Three Springs have shed their flowery incense; 
 And with these seasons' harvest of delights, 
 Thy beauty hath increased in its degree, — 
 For all these charms in thy face Nature writes. 
 Where, more refreshed, their richness we may see: 
 So that thy face is made the continent 
 And treasury of all joy's vanished days, — 
 Their powers to prolong when they are spent. 
 And to redouble with their death their praise: 
 And I am sent to make those beauties live. 
 Which Nature in her love doth to thee give. 
 
 X 
 
 Or else had I bewept the violet 
 
 That from Earth's lap the Summer stole away: 
 
 How else might I that second loss forget, 
 
 When rude winds swept the roses from their spray? 
 
 How else could Autumn's stores of golden grain 
 
 Find yet as rich a joy within my sight, 
 
 After the snows have healed the blackened plain, 
 
 And made the earth pure spirit robed in white ? 
 
 But, having thee, I let each pleasure go 
 
 In rapid rondure as the seasons roll, 
 
 And with that comfort kill each separate woe. 
 
 And strengthen with that joy my wayward soul: 
 
 Oh, do not wonder that I hold thee dear, 
 
 Restorer of the wastes of each cruel year. 
 
XI 
 
 A poet's heart Is like the tender leaf 
 Of that frail plant, the Sensitive by name, 
 And takes alarum at as slight a grief 
 As touch the other closes — feels the blame 
 Of that it clings to, sharp as the bitter frost 
 That th' other withers at the summer's close. 
 And, through refinement, is so quickly lost 
 The reason of its death itself not knows : 
 And yet one sweet affectionate caress, 
 Of eyes or mouth, can so embolden it, 
 That with sweet posie blossoms it can bless, 
 And savor those it loves with deathless wit. 
 And this sweet power gives me the confidence 
 To sing to thy surpassing excellence. 
 
 XII 
 
 Sometimes a frown across thy face is seen 
 To war with beauty, like a sullen cloud. 
 Which swoops in April on a hill-top green. 
 And hides its gleaming color in a shroud : 
 Yet with such care doth Nature guard the prize 
 Of Sovereign Beauty's high prerogatives. 
 That in a trice the defect's blemish dies, 
 And but another form of Beauty lives. — 
 Thou canst not monster so thy countenance 
 As to destroy its stamp of sovereign might, 
 Set there by Fate, to abide to th'outerance, 
 So long as Thou remain'st in the light : — 
 And so a frown on thy harmonious face 
 Transforms itself into an added grace. 
 
 lO 
 
XIII 
 
 Breathe softly now upon the pillowed head 
 
 Of her I love, ye breezes of the night : 
 
 Now o'er the earth one-half the world seems dead, 
 
 Hushed till the sun rears up his orient light : 
 
 But over one abode the stars shine bright, 
 
 And my adoring eyes seek one small gleam, 
 
 Which from her window streams to my glad sight, 
 
 And bids me know my Love is safe adream : 
 
 O what security doth that lamp seem 
 
 Which lights the shadows of her blessed room, 
 
 How of its powers my heart doth strongly deem 
 
 To keep from her all threat of violent doom! 
 
 For surely could foul Murder that face see, 
 
 He ne'er would suffer by the gallows-tree. 
 
 XIV 
 
 Dull Night, though thou the roses hide from view, 
 
 That is not my impatience with your reign — 
 
 Nor that the birds are silenced all by you, 
 
 Is not the heaviness that I complain : 
 
 No, these delights, while sweet, are not so dear 
 
 But they in Sleep's dim fields may be forgot, 
 
 While dreams the fabric of their visions rear — 
 
 Cheating the soul with wonders that are not : 
 
 Dark Night, the reason I complain is this. 
 
 That your advent must take away from me 
 
 The breathing presence of my Lady's bliss. 
 
 Whose sovereign charms I then no longer see — 
 
 This darkens to my eyes your silver moon. 
 
 And, even in summer, makes me sigh : " Too soon." 
 
 II 
 
XV 
 
 But I have sung in praises of the morn 
 
 With every bird whose throat has swelled with joy, 
 
 And I have laughed away my grief forlorn, 
 
 Happy that slow Night worked no more annoy : 
 
 For then I know my Lady, like the light 
 
 That blesses in the east the gates of Day, 
 
 Again calls down from Heaven to Earth her spright, 
 
 Making renewed Earth with her presence gay: 
 
 Then with the dewy and refreshed flowers, 
 
 Reopens to the sun my joyful heart, 
 
 And in my soul renews the wonted powers 
 
 To sing beyond the reach of singing art : 
 
 For Thou, my music, once again art heard, 
 
 And in my breast my heart becomes a bird. 
 
 XVI 
 
 Then do not marvel at my power to sing 
 
 With happiness at thy sweet eyes' command ; 
 
 ('Tis not so great a cause for marveling, 
 
 As that bright flowers spring to thy lily hand) : 
 
 When to the Earth thou giv'st the small seeds 
 
 The grateful Earth returns thee blossoming — 
 
 From that light act of thine the bloom proceeds. 
 
 And charms the world with fragrant quickening. — 
 
 Oh how much greater is my Spirit's cause 
 
 For putting forth the blossom of its speech. 
 
 When not your hands, but your great eyes give laws, 
 
 The gospel of Life's majesty to teach: 
 
 So if my verse is lovely unto thee, 
 
 'Tis but the reflex of thy soul in me. 
 
 12 
 
XVIt 
 
 Return, thou Muse of that sublimed stream, 
 
 In goodly England's silver-fretted isle. 
 
 Whose genius cast upon the world a dream. 
 
 Through power of Shakespeare's superhuman style — 
 
 Avon's Sweet Swan ! What gives me power to sing 
 
 In outward form of thy surpassing strains, 
 
 Which are as far removed from rivaling 
 
 As Philomela's passion pleaded pains? 
 
 What gives me courage to but touch the hem 
 
 Of thy proud robe of unimpeached song. 
 
 But power of Beauty's golden diadem, 
 
 Which holds o'er reason still the sceptre strong: 
 
 Making me tune my pipe in ruder lays. 
 
 And fainting echo of those braver days. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Why is there ever on Joy's face a stain — 
 
 As blot upon the heavens, or a worm 
 
 Within the rose, or mildew-blasted grain 
 
 In Autumn's golden harvest, or a germ 
 
 Of foul disease in blood of maid that mounts 
 
 Into her face with health's rich coloring. 
 
 Or mud at bottom of the crystal founts. 
 
 Or filthy toad in clearest woodland spring? — 
 
 Why are these defects by great Nature seen. 
 
 And yet permitted to soil Beauty's name, 
 
 Wither the leaf of Pleasure's living green, 
 
 And bring admired aspects into disdain ? — 
 
 Or is it these defects are often sent. 
 
 To clothe Perfection with more wonderment ? 
 
 »3 
 
XIX 
 
 Perhaps this knowledge makes me wonder more 
 
 At that warm flawless beauty that doth sit 
 
 Upon that slender form that I adore, 
 
 And seek to blazon with my laboring wit : — 
 
 But no, that beauty needs no foreign aid 
 
 Of abstruse wisdom's circumspect regard 
 
 To accomplish that for which 'twas subtly made, 
 
 And which thought's quickest motion would retard : 
 
 Its power is with an instantaneous stroke 
 
 Of majesty, to dazzle all who see, 
 
 To bind beholders in subjection's yoke, 
 
 And rule them with the wand of mystery: 
 
 And all my wise coined phrases are a sham 
 
 Of reason to account for where I am. 
 
 XX 
 
 I only know that thou art like the rose, 
 
 Gifted by heaven with supernal charm. 
 
 From whence 'tis brought, no son of wisdom knows. 
 
 Nor will savants vouchsafe us to inform : 
 
 But still, thou hast the elemental power 
 
 Which doth surpass man's knowledge as the light 
 
 Surpasses darkness, or as beauty's flower 
 
 Makes plainness visible and sables night. 
 
 And with that power it is thy privilege 
 
 To sway with tyranny both old and young. 
 
 To make youth aged and a youth of age. 
 
 With greater ease than is of Medea sung. — 
 
 And I am in thy netted wiles fast bound. 
 
 And with thy arts my wisdom all-confound. 
 
 14 
 
XXI 
 
 Sweet Sovereign Victress, thou and Nature rule 
 
 Together on one throne the tides of life, 
 
 If thou seem'st harsh, then is but Nature cruel — 
 
 For as betwixt ye there can be no strife : 
 
 I will not blame thee then for scanted slights. 
 
 With which sometimes thou giv'st me to shame. 
 
 For who would question make of Nature's rights 
 
 To bless him or to humble him with blame? 
 
 Thou art with Nature indissoluble, 
 
 Co-ruler with her of the universe, — 
 
 As birds in praise of her are voluble, 
 
 So should we not thy equal charms inhearse : — 
 
 And may my sonnets prove no sepulchre 
 
 In praise of thee, acknowledgment of her. 
 
 XXII 
 
 How may I sing thee when for smile a scorn 
 I reap from thee, and feel my hope deferred ; 
 When coming to pluck the rose I feel the thorn — 
 Bitter for sweetness that my soul preferred ! 
 How may I sing thee, then, when gall of grief, 
 With wormwood potion gnaws upon my lip, 
 And on my tongue I crush the acrid leaf 
 Of Cinchona, when I would nectar sip ! 
 Oh, how? but as the birds in summer's front 
 Sing still, though teased with frost and mocked with 
 
 snow — 
 With Spring's rude buffets taking no affront, 
 Because they feel a gentler season grow: 
 And well I know that after passion's storm 
 Blows over thee, 'twill leave thy nature warm. 
 
 15 
 
xxin 
 
 Why should my pen then faint to write her praise, 
 So much like Nature's beauty is she is, 
 And Nature open to the Poet lays 
 The secret beauties of her house of bliss? 
 Is not my Love's love even as kind as hers 
 Whose fresh delight delights to fold around 
 The loving heart, and lovingly confers 
 Thereon the choicest joys of sight and sound? 
 My Love cannot be less in love than Earth, 
 Nor hath she less my deathless homage won — 
 More than Earth's gems her priceless eyes are worth. 
 And fine spun gold her hair is in the sun : 
 She holds me with a ceaseless heart-delight — 
 Then why not of her deathless beauties write? 
 
 XXIV 
 
 Sweet are the lilies, but their scent is faint, 
 Sweet are the roses, but they bear a thorn. 
 Sweet, too, the canker bloom, but soon doth taint. 
 Sweet morning-glories, but they close with morn; 
 Sweet is the orange, but hath a bitter skin. 
 Sweet is the chestnut, but its burr is rough, 
 Sweet is the grape, but hard the seeds within. 
 Sweet the persimmon, but its skin is tough: 
 So every sweet of sight or taste or smell 
 Hath some defect to lessen our delight 
 Save thee, thou living human miracle. 
 Within whose charms abide no hidden blight: 
 Could but my song be perfect as thou art. 
 Then would it charm the world's obdurate heart. 
 
 i6 
 
XXV 
 
 Some things of beauty find we in the path 
 
 Of deadly force and fierce bloodthirsty power, 
 
 Like beauty in the clouds of heaven's wrath, 
 
 That darts its lightning as from Death's high tower; 
 
 Or white foam on the foul, death-doing boar, 
 
 When his wide jaws are with the fight embossed, 
 
 Or flight triumphant of the hawks that soar 
 
 At high-most pitch ere they the prey accost ; 
 
 Or sinuous grace of slimy serpent's coil, 
 
 Whose fangs bear in their hollows venomed death; 
 
 Or false-sweet blooms of poison plants that foil 
 
 With cureless agony life's vital breath: — 
 
 But Thou, my Sweet, combinest every charm, 
 
 And own as adjunct not one single harm. 
 
 XXVI 
 
 How sweet it Is upon a summer day 
 To view the wide sweep of the golden field, 
 To catch the fragrance of the ripened hay. 
 And glut the eyes upon the harvest's yield: 
 How sweet it is to see the cattle stand 
 Beneath tall oaks and elms deep in the shade. 
 And with the charmed eye long views command 
 Of terraced wood and cat-tail spiked glade: 
 How sweet the vistas of the meadow's green, 
 And at the end of every view the sky. 
 Wherein, with vagrant wing, some bird is seen 
 In sweet abandonment to pitch and fly: 
 O sweet it is, and so, my Love, I say. 
 That unto me thou art a summer day. 
 
 17 
 
XXVII 
 
 So every voice doth sing in unison 
 
 On this wide earth unto thy goodly praise, 
 
 And not the pathos of the time that's gone 
 
 Is needed thy encomiums to raise: 
 
 No, Thou are loved as freely and as well 
 
 As those whose graves have added death to plead 
 
 And soften human tongues their worth to tell. 
 
 And sweeten grief with panegyric's meed : 
 
 Thy gifts and merits are before the eyes 
 
 Of living men, and blush with life's warm glow. 
 
 And from Fame's laggard lips full praise surprise. 
 
 Whilst Thou art living thy full fame to know : 
 
 And to thy praise my wit hath added wings. 
 
 And set a music that forever sings. 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 Foul envy rails at everything that's good. 
 
 And with curst slander seeks to soil its fame : 
 
 Stones are but stones, and mud, alas, is mud. 
 
 And praised or blamed remain for aye the same : 
 
 And so the rose cannot be made the weed 
 
 By loud aspersion of malicious tongue, 
 
 Nor ugly act transformed to gracious deed 
 
 By all the flattery ere said or sung : — 
 
 Let evil minds speak evil of my Love, 
 
 And I will take it as beyond compare 
 
 Approbative, for does it not approve 
 
 How far above such rides my shining Fair? 
 
 Such blame is praise, and praise from these were 
 
 blame. 
 Because like seeks for like, same praises same. 
 
 i8 
 
XXIX 
 
 " Full fair and sweet," is all my spirit's song, 
 
 When thy fair form presenteth to my view ; 
 
 " Full fair and sweet," all these to thee belong. 
 
 All these not all enough to picture you: 
 
 " Full fair and sweet " — Yea, sweet as is the moon, 
 
 And as her light as sweetly soft art thou, 
 
 And Thou art fair as is the rose in June — 
 
 Thy cheek love's flame is, and as snow thy brow: 
 
 " Full fair and sweet," might I forever sing 
 
 Of thee this burden with melodious breast, 
 
 But Death's sharp knife must the full period bring 
 
 To my song's life, and lay my heart to rest : 
 
 But still my lines shall to the world repeat 
 
 That Thou wast in my sight " full fair and sweet." 
 
 XXX 
 
 And so, my Love, I hold thee in my breast 
 
 As spotless as the lily's deathless white; 
 
 Above all earthly purity expressed. 
 
 More blessed than the truest pen can write : 
 
 For Thou art sweeter than young apples' sweet, 
 
 More luscious than the first white summer cherry. 
 
 And from thy golden hair to thy white feet 
 
 As tender as the ripest mulberry: 
 
 The silk of primrose petals is but rough, 
 
 When likened to the smoothness of thy skin — 
 
 And, though of outward bloom thou own'st enough, 
 
 More beautiful thy soul is still within : 
 
 Oh, thy sweet charms put thoughts into my head 
 
 Like hounds sharp-set with hunger, hawks unfed. 
 
 19 
 
XXXI 
 
 Earth's happiness, as such, I do not prize, 
 The illusion of the fool's felicity 
 Grows but absurd to truth-anointed eyes 
 Which know earth's folly, life's duplicity: 
 No, these I care not for : the low success 
 Of worming, snail-like, to some petty power, 
 Or heaping the drossy gold in huge excess 
 The selfish heart to harden hour by hour: — 
 No! these to me are but the hollow shams 
 And makeshifts of those ignorant of life — 
 Seeking to glorify themselves with flams — 
 Making for foolish things a hideous strife: 
 No ! these I care not for — But give to me 
 One golden glance to smooth life's troubled sea. 
 
 XXXII 
 
 Rather would I with sportive children weave 
 
 In cobweb chains the fragrant clover-blooms. 
 
 And for the lily-bed the capitol leave 
 
 To admire where Nature buried joy exhumes: 
 
 Rather would I, in some sweet woodland aisle, 
 
 Hark to the tonguing of the trembling thrush. 
 
 Till, bathed in the glory of the Day's last smile — 
 
 Soothed with the gentle evening's quiet hush: 
 
 Rather would I such joyful innocence 
 
 Drink deep, than praises win from hostile men, - 
 
 Striving to pass each other in pretense, 
 
 Whirling about within a narrow den : — 
 
 But, over all these, my sweetheart, I would fain, 
 
 With perfect song thy true ears entertain. 
 
 20 
 
XXXIII 
 
 When in the clouds of this dull earthly den 
 
 The bright sun of thy beauty orbed to view, 
 
 My Spirit, like the ancient Persian, 
 
 No other worship than that Beauty knew ; 
 
 And in that light my doubts were stricken blind, 
 
 For heaven's glory was a thing to see — 
 
 Not figured darkly and by guess assigned. 
 
 But real and palpable, as evils be: 
 
 And every evil flees before thy face. 
 
 As from the day Night's shadow-prowlers run, 
 
 But even in fleeing snatch a gleam of grace. 
 
 Like iridescent lizards in the sun: 
 
 For Beauty such as thine is of such might, 
 
 It gives both good and evil of the light. 
 
 XXXIV 
 
 And thy sweet face is as a summer still. 
 
 Even in coldest seasons of dismay. 
 
 When, thwarted by disfavor, my weak will 
 
 Shivers with terror and omits to pray : 
 
 Yea, like a reassurance from above 
 
 Of prosperous joy and of life's priceless worth, 
 
 Thy face doth quicken all my springs of love. 
 
 And gives my desperation hope's new birth 
 
 How in my fancy doth thy image grow 
 
 Into divinity, and span the earth, 
 
 Canceling with pleasure all my deepest woe. 
 
 Giving new riches to my spirit's dearth ! 
 
 And, like the swallow on a tireless wing, 
 
 Fain would I follow thy summer and ever sing. 
 
 91 
 
XXXV 
 
 And did the summer birds sing but for thee, 
 
 Or were their hymns intended for all ears? — 
 
 When thou art gone it seems their melody 
 
 Stops in my heart, frozen with winter fears : 
 
 It cannot be but that the world should note 
 
 That 'tis thy absence pales the summer day, 
 
 And steals the sweet tongue from the wild bird' 
 
 throat. 
 And from life's pleasures takes the gloss away ; 
 For when thy form is by the happy soul 
 Feeds from the open granary of life, 
 And knows itself the master of the whole 
 Of joy with which this subtle world is rife, — 
 Take then my heart with thee, and when we part 
 I shall be dead till thou return my heart. 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 Thou sly elf, Cupid, how thou teasest me. 
 Giving me neither pain nor peaceful rest — 
 But keeping me trembling in the ecstasy 
 Of hopes and fears embattled in my breast : 
 Now straight thou please'st me with golden hope — 
 Then quick anon, like to a treacherous sun 
 That shines the brightest at its latest slope — 
 That hope soon sets, and stars shine not a one : 
 Then in the night of dastard black despair 
 My spirit trembles all with fears foreshent, 
 And wails the loss of my ingrateful fair, 
 And feels its golden treasury all spent: — 
 Then quickly dost thou whisper in my ears. 
 And thy false words flatter my heart to tears. 
 
 22 
 
XXXVII 
 
 Where is that Muse whose shining words were fire, 
 
 Kindled by Love in passion's flaming breast; 
 
 Whose song leapt living from poetic lyre, 
 
 Like lightning In the tempest's wild unrest: 
 
 Whose heart, the evening canopy aglow 
 
 With scintillating presences of light. 
 
 Yet, spite of glory, bore the solemn woe, 
 
 And awful grandeur of Immortal night? — 
 
 Oh, had I but that energy to tell 
 
 My passion's flame, in words of greater power. 
 
 Then would your name remain perdurable, 
 
 Beaconing the centuries from Fame's Pharos 
 
 Tower — 
 Then should all men the strength of my Love see, 
 And join in deathless marveling at thee. 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Now, with what stealthy pace and unforetold, 
 Hour by hour slips my life away, 
 And of the time that has been nought to say. 
 Nor given me any certain thing to hold, 
 As hither and thither my intent is rolled. 
 And back and forth with each succeeding day, 
 Like to the changeful deep's inconstant play. 
 Which in the distance sounds a death-knell knolled. 
 So every creature framed in mortal mold 
 Has passed unknowing through the strange array 
 Of many-colored life, and has grown old — 
 Learning by this and that to scoff and pray, 
 To garner wisdom and to store up gold — 
 And some would fain make haste, and some would 
 stay. 
 
 23 
 
XXXIX 
 
 And I have grieved for early youth long fled, 
 And I have sighed the sure approach of age, 
 And thought upon the earth-encumbered dead, 
 Whose days are past upon the human stage : 
 And I have doubted all things in despair, 
 And said that life was sad, and wailed my fate, 
 And asked myself in bitterness, oh where 
 Might I find solace, grief to expiate! 
 Then in my degradation hope is born. 
 Observances of Nature to apply. 
 And shows me to have or fruit or wheat or corn. 
 The seed must first within the furrow die : 
 This makes me hope that all my joys now dead 
 Some future life will find replenished. 
 
 XL 
 
 These things are pleasant: winds in summer woods. 
 That toss the plumed grass, whirl the leaves with 
 
 glee; 
 The song of water from sweet solitudes. 
 The drowsy hum of honey-building bee, 
 The first notes of the dawn-awakened birds. 
 The shrill of cicada, the tree-toad's song — 
 Evening's field crickets, where the harvest girds 
 The golden sheaves like sentinels along; 
 The white leaves of the maple ere the storm, 
 The lace-like foliage of the wall-fed vine; 
 The girl-like grace of drooping birch tree's form. 
 The youth in age of sturdy mountain pine: — 
 All these are pleasant, but how twofold sweet 
 When Thou art by to make their joy complete. 
 
 H 
 
XLI 
 
 How dear the pleasure that we Idly find 
 
 Abroad in Nature, when we seek it not, 
 
 Like tender fancies springing in the mind, 
 
 No effort needing of the conscious thought: 
 
 These things are given by all-generous earth, 
 
 Whose bountiful expression is for all. 
 
 So that the poorest need not suffer dearth, 
 
 The richest in perception need not pall. — 
 
 The silent mysteries are manifold 
 
 Of life and its deep process, and the worth 
 
 Of life's great lessons is not weighed in gold, 
 
 Nor measured by pretense of state or birth: 
 
 They are for those whose eyes their worth perceive, 
 
 And those who find them not in darkness leave. 
 
 XLII 
 
 The green turf's velvet, eyed with pink and gold. 
 
 Is like the field of poesie's gloried page, 
 
 Where still succeeding joys are outward rolled. 
 
 In full delight of wonder's equipage: 
 
 The heavens and the earth new clothe with glory 
 
 Unto the roused imagination's eye. 
 
 The soft wine of the summer's stillatory 
 
 Makes bright the happied moments as they fly: 
 
 So summer lives, and while she lives, we wonder 
 
 How life falls ever into barren cold. 
 
 Or what tumult of lightning and of thunder 
 
 Can shake our peaceful joy from summer's hold : — 
 
 Ah, Love, all sorrows then are hideous dreams. 
 
 Of whose sad power the glad soul nothing deems. 
 
 25 
 
XLIII 
 
 I walked one day upon a pleasant sward 
 
 Of summer-sweetened green and posied sod, 
 
 And In my soul I saw my Ermingarde 
 
 In every flower whose face was raised to God : 
 
 Such beauty was not lifted from the clod 
 
 By God's word, but to give the world a sign 
 
 Of those blest paths where her white feet had trod, 
 
 And beautied more than rose or eglantine ; 
 
 And where the slanting trees were most divine, 
 
 And where the sky was sweetest in its sweep, 
 
 I caught a glimpse of that complete design 
 
 Of glory's graces given to her keep ; 
 
 And in the song of waters, birds, and wind. 
 
 The note of Ermingarde my ear did find. 
 
 XLIV 
 
 The hum of the bee about the honeycomb. 
 The smell of the apple upon the bended tree. 
 The rich attire of the grape's empurpled gloam. 
 The gleam of the cherries ripening pleasantly: 
 The golden glow of the orange's tender rind. 
 And the blush of the peach's nectar-swimming flesh, 
 The fiery color of Southern spiced wine. 
 And the green of the arbor's vine-entangled mesh : 
 All these are things of a pure and high delight. 
 All these make music to charm the weary soul, — 
 But the sweetest glory upon the charmed sight. 
 Is the face of her who doth my love control : 
 Would that my eyes might feast continually 
 On what doth fill them up so wondrously. 
 
 26 
 
XLV 
 
 If thou shouldst ever deem me insincere, 
 
 To that suspicion I can make no plea, 
 
 Knowing how often my poor words appear 
 
 But contrary to what they seek to be : 
 
 It is not always given me to speak, 
 
 With perfect truth, my feeling heart's intent, 
 
 And oft when I my laboring heart would wreak, 
 
 In feeble lines my rhyming fury's spent: 
 
 But I beseech thee, that thou do not blame 
 
 My heart for this, which is a fault of skill, 
 
 And 'tis unworthy, for the parent's shame, 
 
 All of his gentle progeny to kill : — 
 
 For I have shown thee truth and beauty knit, 
 
 In some as perfect rhymes as ever writ. 
 
 XLVI 
 
 So often have I heard old poets feign 
 
 Absurd hyperboles of those they love, 
 
 Drawing upon the lovesick, bankrupt brain 
 
 For sugared epithets, from " duck " to " dove ": 
 
 " O daughter of the rose, thy cheeks unite 
 
 The beauties of heaven and earth, and well display, 
 
 The differing petals of the red and white, 
 
 The blush of morning and the milky way." 
 
 But I have never w^ritten so of thee. 
 
 Nor such word surfeits as *' my ownest own ": 
 
 And all who read my verses must agree 
 
 I've left such cloying honeycomb alone: 
 
 And yet one glance of thine doth chain me more 
 
 Than the world's wisdom or the sages' lore. 
 
 27 
 
XLVII 
 
 Not with the lips are great devotions made, 
 
 For shallow hearts speak phrases happiest, 
 
 And sentiments are placed upon parade 
 
 Mainly by those who speak in trick or jest: 
 
 Therefore, " the candied tongue licks absurd pomp," 
 
 And orators speak better when they're paid, 
 
 And monej^-getters fill the speaking tromp 
 
 Of current fame, and simple truth's betrayed. — 
 
 And so I have not praised thee with my tongue, 
 
 Nor spent my breath in idle flattery — 
 
 Seeking to creep thy courtiers among. 
 
 With compliments' quick-firing battery: 
 
 But in my lines thy image shall shine forth, 
 
 When spoken words are found of nothing worth. 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 Canst thou, my Love, still love tho' Fortune bars 
 
 Her strong-set gates upon me and prevents 
 
 The smooth ascent of those of happier stars 
 
 To worldly honors and emoluments? 
 
 Canst thou, my Love, love in adversity. 
 
 And smile upon the petty blows of chance — 
 
 Read with contempt Fate's huge perversity 
 
 In frowning on merit while vain fools advance? 
 
 Canst thou distinguish in thy heart between 
 
 The humble wise man and the gilded clown : 
 
 Dost thou observe the system of the mean 
 
 Who grovel to wealth and grind misfortune down ? 
 
 Love, thou art not of this world's frantic crowd, 
 
 Too noble thou art, too haughty and too proud. 
 
 28 
 
XLIX 
 
 For thou dost know that wealth is but annoy, 
 
 And worldly honor often cloaks but vice; 
 
 The gods first madden whom they would destroy, 
 
 And they who buy with soul must pay the price. — 
 
 Thou know'st that self-respect is more than gain — 
 
 The profit's small that buys the world with sin ; 
 
 It costs far more false pretense to sustain 
 
 Than those well know who with false pretense win : 
 
 Thou know'st 'tis easier for the blind to see, 
 
 Or to get reason from the lunatic, 
 
 Than for the world to judge with equity. 
 
 And from the draff and bran the true grain pick: 
 
 And this philosophy, though old, is young, 
 
 And makes thee wise the folly-mad among. 
 
 I ask not of the miser's piteous hoard, 
 
 Nor do I envy rulers' temporal power : 
 
 Too rich the time of asking to afiford, 
 
 I better these with genius' happy dower. — 
 
 Having the kernel, who would hoard the shell? 
 
 Knowing life's true worth, who would glance aside 
 
 To explore the path of some false heaven's hell, 
 
 And with deluded votaries abide? 
 
 Nor gold, nor sway, nor impotent control 
 
 And ownership of gross material things 
 
 Hath ever yet ennobled human soul 
 
 Nor lent the spirit inspiration's wings: 
 
 But I have heard the golden-snooded Muse 
 
 Sing in my soul, so all these things refuse. 
 
 29 
 
LI 
 
 Here, at the little apex of the hour, 
 
 My sheltered spirit gains a moment's space 
 
 To gaze upon the high-endowered face 
 
 Of Beauty, and to feel the ceaseless power. 
 
 Building the soul an ever-strengthening tower, 
 
 In which all loveliness finds life and place, 
 
 By tireless Time's embodiments of grace. 
 
 In ripening fruit or incense-wafting flower. — 
 
 Is it for these sw^ift moments of delight 
 
 The heart endureth all the bitter day, 
 
 When sick and weary hours lag on in pain, 
 
 And eyes, bewildered, turn themselves away 
 
 From all the earth can offer to the sight. 
 
 And the soul feels 't were better dead and slain? 
 
 LII 
 
 As in a dream the mind makes play upon 
 
 All the disordered elements of life. 
 
 And from experience strange impressions drawn, 
 
 With prophesies and large alarums rife, 
 
 Shake with blind gusts of terror slumber's peace - 
 
 So in the very symbols of thy love 
 
 Find I suspicion that its joys may cease. 
 
 And from my life its strength of hope remove. — 
 
 But as the morning with a silver wand 
 
 Wafts from the troubled sleeper false surmise, 
 
 So from the deep slough of my love's despond 
 
 My spirit springs at bidding of thy eyes — 
 
 Thy eyes! thy eyes! Thy threefold lovely ejTs! 
 
 Give but one glance and foul suspicion dies. 
 
 30 
 
LIII 
 
 Oh, can it be my Love will ere forget, 
 
 That she was my Beloved, and to me, 
 
 The brightest gem of Beauty's amulet — 
 
 Sweeter than all the Flowers of Chivalry? 
 
 Will that time come when she will give me 
 
 thought — 
 (If ever in her mind I have a place) 
 As a superfluous friend, whose worth was nought, — 
 Whose unrequited love was his disgrace? 
 Should that time come, may this sweet woof of 
 
 things. 
 The earth, and all her treasuries, dissolve. 
 The sun, which morning to the heaven brings. 
 No longer on his mighty wheels revolve : — 
 Or if these things endure, I fain would die, 
 For black eclipse would swallow up the sky. 
 
 LIV 
 
 Sweet Love, my Love, though with an ardent flame, 
 
 Thou kindlest love here in my flaming breast, 
 
 Yet toward thee still my passion's pride I tame, 
 
 And humble desire when most I am possessed ; 
 
 For though I fain would thee incorporate 
 
 Within my being, an inseparate part. 
 
 Yet passion's ruleless sway I here prostrate, 
 
 And offer thee a clean and contrite heart: 
 
 For as the sun doth not, with all his fire. 
 
 Burn the fair bosom of the fruitful earth, 
 
 But mildly fosters all her green attire. 
 
 So would my love still give thee beauties' birth — 
 
 And well I know that thy sweet eyes are mild, 
 
 And lovely as the earth with Spring beguiled. 
 
 31 
 
LV 
 
 But as the star whose brightest fire is pale, 
 
 And, though excessive, still is sweetly so. 
 
 Would my love's flame thy purest heart assail. 
 
 And burn thee not with passion's furnace glow. — 
 
 Thou canst not fathom all the dear conceits 
 
 Which body in the poet's teeming brain, 
 
 And oft by force of thought his end defeats, 
 
 For that he lacks the art of being plain : 
 
 But yet would I these teeming atomies 
 
 Of love's imaginations show to thee 
 
 In such true words that all their subtleties 
 
 Were but as bright stars for thy eyes to see : 
 
 And to this end I trust the god of song 
 
 May flatter my lines with his full cadence strong. 
 
 LVI 
 
 Sweetheart, my soul burns in a lonely fire, 
 Smothering my heart with passion's smoke and 
 
 flame — 
 On blasted hopes' and lost affections' pyre. 
 Kindles that blaze which gives thee forth to fame; 
 For from dead days of soul's delight long dead 
 Issue those poignant pains of wild regret, 
 From which a glory on thy form is shed, 
 And to thy name their blazoning is set : 
 So that the torch of my lone agony 
 Gives thee to countless centuries' regard, 
 And in its light all future time shall see 
 The star-bright beauty of my Ermingarde: 
 For she who doth my joy and pain inspire 
 Vestals the flame of that immortal fire. 
 
 32 
 
LVII 
 
 How long shall I this fatal fever nurse, 
 
 Whose hearted fang upon my bosom prej^s ? 
 
 Desire finds no phlebotom)/ in verse, — 
 
 Poetry but adds new fuel to the blaze. — 
 
 Sick with Love's sting I turn me unto thee, 
 
 And find in human form an angel there, 
 
 Bright with chaste light of heavenly radiancy. 
 
 For earthly passions too divinely rare: 
 
 What refuge have I then but Time and Death, 
 
 Who work together in eternity. 
 
 To cure the living of too painful breath, 
 
 And give the hopeless lover leave to die? 
 
 Then Time and Death, speed on, and say in flyinj 
 
 " Love has found out a way to live by dying." 
 
 LVIII 
 
 Oh, wherefore should my loneliness repine 
 When thou, sweet maid, art part and all of me? 
 The Muse thou art of every happy line 
 Which mirrors Nature for the mind to see: 
 Else had my days been void of blessedness. 
 And barren as the ragged winter's time, 
 My heart but felt the pain of life's distress, 
 The bitter poverty of dearth's sad clime: 
 Oh what a thing had this my being been 
 Had not the muse and thee enriched my heart! 
 What haven might I then have hoped to win 
 To steel me to the woes of lovelorn smart? 
 But having thee and poesie's magic gift, 
 Above the joy of kings my heart doth lift. 
 
 33 
 
LIX 
 
 So many joys, so many sweets, so many flowers, 
 
 So many years have fallen dumb away, 
 
 Before the ceaseless tempest of swift hours 
 
 Blown down and buried from the living day — 
 
 Yet with the swift corrosive course of Time, 
 
 In even-paced power new joys arise, 
 
 And to their sweet meridians aye climb. 
 
 To bless with pleasure all beholding eyes, 
 
 That while we v/ail we wonder at the wealth 
 
 And spendless might of Nature's treasury. 
 
 Which still supplies the thefts of Time's soft stealth, 
 
 Making what has been still remain to be: 
 
 So doth my love renew its endless might, 
 
 Giving to death new life, new day to night. 
 
 LX 
 
 Creep on, proud Time, adown the sightless track 
 
 Of centuries and wallowing nations wrecked. 
 
 Heap on deceased life oblivion's black, 
 
 And bring all things to an annulled effect: 
 
 Yea, Time, thou treacherous traitor of deceit, 
 
 That seem'st to give what thou dost take away. 
 
 Here I predict thy ignomy's defeat. 
 
 And all thy cruel crimes in hate array: 
 
 Thou canst not, with thy false adulterate spite, 
 
 Take from my Love's fame one superfluous beam 
 
 Of glory's guerdon of eternal light 
 
 Which to posterity shall ever gleam — 
 
 For why ? — my lines shall flout thy foul dismay, 
 
 And in my lines my Love shall win the day. 
 
 34 
 
LXI 
 
 Where doth the summer hide the vanished sweets 
 
 Whose multitudes obscure their rapid flight, 
 
 So that we guess not how earth's pleasure fleets, 
 
 Till all is hid in winter's haggard night? 
 
 Could but one flower from the lap of spring 
 
 Remain throughout the swift change of decay, 
 
 Some permanence upon that joy to fling, 
 
 And live as memory of a better day! 
 
 Oh, could one sweet remain but as a dial 
 
 To show the frailty of Beauty's life, 
 
 Embalming as within a crystal vial 
 
 The spirits of the spoils of Time's sharp knife, 
 
 Then might we say some mercy Death could show, 
 
 And find some solace in our wail of woe. 
 
 LXII 
 
 The winds have whispered to me, and the rain 
 Hath lisped in tinkling sweetness to my ear, 
 That all the violets that Time hath slain 
 In thy sweet body find a living bier: 
 That all the roses by the summer winds 
 Shattered in petaled sweetness to the ground. 
 Their life as roses ceased, new life begins. 
 And in thy cheeks and lips their hues are found. 
 How hath thou captured in strong toils of grace 
 All of the pride and freshness of the earth, 
 And to thy wondrous form annexed a face 
 Whose hues of color give dead flowers new birth. 
 And to the magic strangeness of that might 
 Added the weird touch of the dim twilight? 
 
 35 
 
LXIII 
 
 Happy the soul that knows the nothingness 
 Of Time's huge bulk of frothy circumstance, 
 And in the world's dross finds the fruit to bless 
 Its life, despite the rapid whirls of chance : 
 Change hath no power the essential joy to harm 
 Of him who finds the master chord of love. 
 Nor can man's false authority alarm 
 That spirit fed on beauty from above : — 
 All things bring beauty to the eye that goes 
 Into the core and center of intent, 
 And sees the universe a blowing rose 
 Whose thorns but make its sweets more evident 
 But sweeter are the thornless flowers, I wot, — 
 Thou art a rose, my sweet, where thorns are not. 
 
 LXIV 
 
 High-seated on a golden chariot, drawn 
 
 By winged coursers of the beaming sun 
 
 Across the bank of cloud-drift, white and dun — 
 
 The rolled-back curtain of the rosy dawn — 
 
 The shade of Shelley saw I, clothed upon 
 
 With robe of purity, and crown he won 
 
 By his sweet song of human benison, 
 
 Hang in the sky suspended — then 'twas gone. 
 
 To poets' souls great spirits live for aye ; 
 
 They are an abiding presence and a power 
 
 To raise into nobility each day, 
 
 And glorify with light each passing hour — 
 
 So with their beauty all our lives we fill, 
 
 Then go to meet them on the sunset hill. 
 
 36 
 
LXV 
 
 Star-fallen, burning, from the vasty sky, 
 Shakespeare's great soul descended to the earth, — 
 Suffered the myriad woes of mortal birth, 
 The which he wrought into expression high, 
 Whose eloquence and music cannot die : 
 Gilded by grandeur of his pristine worth. 
 His words reflect all human tears and mirth — 
 Dazzling like lightning — flashing as they fly. 
 Then, after speaking all, he held his peace, 
 And, greatly silent, like departing day. 
 Calm, unaffronted, modest, at his ease. 
 His godlike wisdom watched as at a play. 
 Until, with sudden, unannounced decease, 
 His matchless soul went out the hidden way. 
 
 LXVI 
 
 How may my Muse gain that great power to sing 
 
 Of Shakespeare, Spenser, Shelley, and the knight 
 
 Who fell at Zutphen — with an eagle wing 
 
 To sweep from starry height of song to height, 
 
 Above the reach of human marveling, — 
 
 To gaze with unseared eye upon the light 
 
 Of Apollonian orbs of beauty bright. 
 
 And to the earth the heaven's wonders bring? 
 
 How can my words achieve the rush and swing 
 
 Of that great living singer, who has heard 
 
 With his soul's flower the bulbul warbling, 
 
 And with his rhythmic rapture shames the bird? 
 
 How, but by prayer unto the god of song. 
 
 To whose great choir these splendid ones belong. 
 
 37 
 
LXVII 
 
 Like the unfolded bud of summer's rose, 
 
 Or little unblown firstlings of the spring, 
 
 That wait to bloom until the winter goes. 
 
 My heart was all athrob for blossoming. 
 
 Yet in the w^orld's cold wind was sore afraid, 
 
 And dare not put its sw^eetness to the flower, 
 
 Fearing to find its tenderness betrayed, 
 
 And crushed beneath the roaring wheels of power : 
 
 But thy warm presence, like the April light. 
 
 Its gentleness and glory shed on me. 
 
 And at the touch of that divine delight 
 
 My heart 'gan burgeon like a locust tree — 
 
 Now rough winds in its branched flowers but shed 
 
 A richer incense on thy golden head. 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 Like to that Dardan shepherd, called of old 
 To sit as Judge for goddesses unveiled, 
 And to the fairest give the fruit of gold, 
 I here acknowledge that thou hast prevailed 
 O'er Wisdom's beauty, and my golden words 
 I spend in praises of thy love-soft form. 
 Rendering to thee what wealth my Muse affords. 
 And celebrating all thy beauties warm. — 
 But Love, thou know'st that Paris was repaid 
 By grateful Venus for his right aw^ard. 
 With power to take for his the sweetest maid 
 Whose foot then trod upon the Grecian sward : — 
 So, if thou art, as Venus was, divine. 
 Thou wilt acknowledge Thou thyself art mine. 
 
 38 
 
LXIX 
 
 How can my pencil thy true praises write, 
 
 When of your excellence I only see 
 
 The moiety which here I do indite, 
 
 While all the rest escapes away from me: 
 
 The standard of thy beauty is not this, 
 
 The little portion such as I may take, 
 
 Such rule in practice needs must narrow bliss 
 
 To that small estimate a fool might make. — 
 
 So, Love, if any beauties harbor here. 
 
 Within the little poems that I sing. 
 
 They are but random rays of that full sphere, 
 
 Which swings in heaven for thy inhabiting: — 
 
 Such glimpses as I draw from those sweet eyes 
 
 Of thy complete and rounded paradise. 
 
 LXX 
 
 Helen was once the paragon of Fame, 
 
 The nonpareil of the world for joy — 
 
 Hebe's fresh youth of beauty held the same, — 
 
 'Tis said Adonis was a wondrous boy : 
 
 And yet my eyes need not to be confirmed 
 
 In their report that thou art fairer still 
 
 Than all these prodigies, by poets termed 
 
 The ne plus ultra of great Nature's skill : — 
 
 Beauties have grown (since these were patterns 
 
 set), 
 To be more common and more excellent. 
 Hence no more thought from pampered memories 
 
 get 
 Than spendthrift's gold, forgot as soon as spent: 
 But thou hast still a prophet and a shrine, 
 So long as live these praiseful songs of mine. 
 
 39 
 
LXXI 
 
 Who dares to stand before thy peerless face, 
 
 And question thy superiority 
 
 In ripe expression of external grace 
 
 To fill with beauty's wonderment the eye ? 
 
 Where are those Fair of ages long since fled ? — 
 
 (Since living wights are none to equal thee) 
 
 Call Lady Flora from the Roman dead, 
 
 From Greekish burial fetch Hermione: 
 
 Can Hero face thee, or can Thais stand 
 
 Unshamed before, or that Irish maid. 
 
 Peerless Isoude of the white, white hand. 
 
 Of such comparison be not afraid? — 
 
 Oh, all must yield to thee the palm of praise 
 
 For beauty which the world holds in amaze. 
 
 LXXII 
 
 How often have I dressed thee out in tricks 
 
 Of fancy to beguile my doting mind, 
 
 (As often crystal-vialed aromatics 
 
 Sweeten that breath, which I all sweetness find) 
 
 For though thyself art beauty's paragon, 
 
 Yet oft thy image dress I out in whim 
 
 Of fancied garments of long ages gone, 
 
 Yet gloried round about with halo dim. — 
 
 One favorite picture on my mind outroUed, 
 
 Shows thee a lady of the Tudor's reign, 
 
 In lacquered costume, laced with tinseled gold — 
 
 Around thy waist a jeweled chatelaine. 
 
 And from thy temples falls thy shaded hair, 
 
 Like clouded sunshine, not too brown nor fair. 
 
 40 
 
LXXIII 
 
 Of what avail in this cold age is love? 
 
 Love, that is fruit and bloom of alien things: 
 
 The pledge on earth of that white heaven above, 
 
 Whose music is the pulse of angels' wings: 
 
 In some hid place Love ever plains and sings, — 
 
 But oh he sings but as a secret bird, 
 
 That in a lone heart nestles close and clings, 
 
 Whose music by the world is never heard : 
 
 And yet 'tis written in the holy word 
 
 That God is love — so love is God, I say — 
 
 And this consideration hath me stirred 
 
 To let my love have in these songs its way. — 
 
 If from the world I garner but a sneer. 
 
 Still shall my love be not one whit less dear. 
 
 LXXIV 
 
 But I have heard full many a singing moan 
 Of hopeless lovers, troubled with despair, 
 Take on the tongue the wild unearthly tone 
 Of music soft, and charm with sweet the air, — 
 Oh, what a world of richness lingers there ! 
 Making of human words pale haunted things 
 Of passioned beauty, even more wondrous rare 
 Than flows to earth from heaven-smitten strings. 
 And so if I might render unto thee 
 Those plaintive sighs that from my bosom flow, 
 The world would pause to hear that melody, 
 Of unimagined inextinguished woe. — 
 But this wild music is a sacred thing. 
 Which only heaven's elect to earth can bring. 
 
 41 
 
LXXV 
 
 My Love's sweet lineaments, tho' never seen 
 
 Embodied in flesh, save in her countenance, 
 
 Abide in Nature's all-creative sheen. 
 
 Confronting my mind with subtle remembrance: 
 
 The violet, what is it but her eye? 
 
 The red rose strangely pictures me her mouth. 
 
 Her motion of grace the waving wheat or rye. 
 
 And her fragrant breath, a kiss of the gentle South: 
 
 The lily is Nature's mirror of her hand. 
 
 The bloom of her cheek the glow of the nectared 
 
 peach — 
 And more of her charms my memory might com- 
 mand 
 Within the range of the glory of Nature's reach, — 
 But over them all she throws that nameless grace, 
 Which alone in her finds earthly abiding place. 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 The birds have music, and also hath the wind. 
 And the ripple of rain is a lulling pleasant sound ; 
 But the sweets of music my ear will never find 
 In another place that in my Love's voice is found : 
 There wind and water and symphony of string. 
 And a music that stirs the soul beyond despair, 
 Combine with the lisp of the frighted turtle's wing 
 To sway my soul and to float it into air. — 
 Oh, never a song of the wondrous bird that sings 
 In the heart of the night, and in the flying rains, 
 Such ravishing rapture the music lover brings, 
 As the note luxuriant that in her voice complains : — - 
 And I have felt that death would be most sweet. 
 If the soul were wafted above on its rhythmic beat. 
 
 42 
 
LXXVII 
 
 The day of Beauty's command can never die, 
 For beauty's desire is the life of the growing soul, 
 And the height of the spirit's eloquent majesty 
 Is the measure it hath of this sovereign Power's 
 
 control : 
 My Love is the Rose of Sharon unto me, 
 The lemon-blossom and lily-of-the-vale ; 
 And the sound of her foot is a trancing melody, 
 And the note of her voice surpasses the nightingale : 
 I see her abroad in the blush of the radiant dawn ; 
 She walketh the night as sweetly as the moon, 
 And when she departs the light of my day is gone, 
 And when she returns, it hastens to me as soon : — 
 So this is the song that unto her I sing : 
 The beauty of love is the magic of the Spring. 
 
 LXXVIII 
 
 Beauty, thou hast, with strange consistency, 
 
 Favored the humble and the true of heart: 
 
 Who searches thee out must, with persistency, 
 
 Abase himself and choose the nobler part: 
 
 Then Beauty, that to the worldling seems a dream, 
 
 And seen (if seen at all) as through a glass, 
 
 To its lover becomes a bright revealing gleam. 
 
 That out of his life again can never pass. 
 
 And with this wondrous talisman, the face 
 
 Of things misunderstood comes clear to view, 
 
 Showing in pain and death pathetic grace. 
 
 And over the powers of bale the good and true : — 
 
 Beauty, I seal myself thy worshiper — 
 
 Life's only true and free interpreter. 
 
 43 
 
LXXIX 
 
 And why is Beauty but a stranger here, 
 
 Forever and aye an alien wanderer, 
 
 Held pendulous within a falling tear — 
 
 Known only to its patient ponderer? 
 
 Then why, with wings of fire, should take its flight, 
 
 As soon as guessed, this Heavenly Visitor, 
 
 As swift as lightning in the collied night, 
 
 Fleeing before the rapt inquisitor? 
 
 How many have gone before, how many will come. 
 
 Who scarce one glimpse of that great face shall see, 
 
 On earth's dark highway stumbling blind and dumb, 
 
 Adown the voiceless paths of misery ! — 
 
 And, yet, my Love, sometimes, through heaven's 
 
 grace. 
 Love's beauty's steadfast in a human face. 
 
 LXXX 
 
 Ah, what a habitation hath he got 
 
 Who in this sorry world dwells close to thee, 
 
 So that thy paradise is ne'er forgot 
 
 In all the whelming floods of misery : 
 
 The beauty of the sun, the cloud, the rose, 
 
 The pure ethereal bosom of the lake, 
 
 The green leaves' whispering to the breeze that 
 
 blows. 
 Some faint perception of heaven's sweetness wake: 
 But these are distant and unmating things. 
 And leave the heart, tho' gladdened, still alone. 
 While thy sweet image to the memory clings. 
 And gives the soul fruition of joy shown : 
 It is enough to see thee, to be fed 
 With all the bliss of earthly goodlyhead. 
 
 44 
 
LXXXI 
 
 As angels issuing from the pearly gate 
 Of heaven, thy sweet words take winged flight 
 From thy soft lips, love's wrongs to arbitrate. 
 And fill thy faithful wooer with delight ; 
 But, ah, too soon doth heaven's portals close. 
 Denying knowledge of the ravished sense, 
 And thence proceeds thy lover's hopeless woes, 
 And wild despair of emulous innocence. 
 Why should all perfect excellence create 
 In earthly viewer an immortal fear 
 And awesome feeling of remorseless fate, 
 And imminence of swift destruction near? 
 Is it the knowledge that all beauty dies. 
 And from earth's darkness swift to heaven flies ? 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 How shall I make compare of thy true might 
 
 Of beauty which in Nature passeth art, 
 
 And gives thee all the charm of life's delight 
 
 Of which all other joys hold but a part? — 
 
 Thy soul's irradiation, like a star, 
 
 Makes Night's black face a foil for whitest fair, 
 
 And brings bright gleams of heaven from afar 
 
 To flitter-mice and night-jars in the air: 
 
 The beauty of thy image, who can tell — 
 
 Its delicate ethereal bloom complete? 
 
 The sun-kissed edge of smoothest-lipped sea-shell. 
 
 Or pearl's soft lustrousness cannot compete : — 
 
 Thou art a gem beyond the treasury 
 
 Of all the heaped delights of earth or sea. 
 
 45 
 
LXXXIII 
 
 I saw Love sitting on a sundown hill, 
 
 His little wings furled closely to his side, 
 
 And yet 'twould overgo the painter's skill 
 
 To show the colors that those small wings dyed ; 
 
 Some wound had troubled him, and, woe betide ! 
 
 His gentle plalnings came upon my ear, 
 
 In murmurs sweeter than those sirens cried. 
 
 To fill the Argonauts with subtle fear : — 
 
 Why did I not as swiftly from him steer? — 
 
 Fain was I, but Fate would not let me go, 
 
 And now I bear within my bosom here 
 
 The sorrow of that little god's soft woe; 
 
 And I can find for this no alchemy, 
 
 Save that which sparkles from my Lady's eye. 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 Oh, with what varied charm dost thou Invest 
 Of thy sweet being every day and hour! 
 Each minute with a newer joy Impressed, 
 Expresses new thy inexpressive power: 
 Yet, Ignorant of thy supreme command, 
 Some say my praise Is but hyperbole. 
 When truly but Inadequate do stand 
 My words, to show thee to posterity. 
 Could I Imprison but one single grace 
 Of thy perfection, to exalt my rhyme. 
 Its estimate would take the highest place 
 Of golden numbers In the scrolls of time — 
 And, while to show thy charms Inadequate, 
 Still will thy beauty give Its life long date. 
 
 46 
 
LXXXV 
 
 I saw thee blooming like a wayside flower, 
 Whose sweetness made the dust a precious thing, 
 And clothed my spirit with the sacred power 
 My soul's astonishment to clearly sing: 
 I saw thee, like a gem cast in the mire. 
 Make glorious the common roadside clay, 
 Obscurely wasting all that precious fire 
 Which from thy eyes, the stars of souls, did play : 
 Yet when I saw thee, heaven's restless front 
 Bore to my heart, new-opened, brighter stars, 
 A livelier emerald than was Nature's wont 
 Made happier the clustered summer bowers. 
 And even that Magician called the sea 
 Spread on his pallette fresher hues for me. 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 This Is the time and this the glorious year 
 When to the world thy beauties shall be known. 
 Piercing the deep sense of the general ear. 
 About the world by Fame's great trumpet blown : 
 I am the instrument of that reward, 
 Written In heaven for thy beauty's meed : 
 Through words of mine the white swan Ermlngarde 
 Receives the incense of the fluted reed. — 
 Oh, were my oat a Minclus' pipe Indeed, 
 With highest strain to set her beauty forth, 
 Tin all might hear the wondrous song proceed — 
 Perfection to perfection giving birth; 
 But pipe as rude as mine can charm the sense, 
 When tuned to triumph in her excellence. 
 
 47 
 
LXXXVII 
 
 I cannot love thee more, although I say 
 My love increaseth with an endless growth — 
 Growth at each stage of increase seems to stay, 
 Like time, which to eternity aye goeth. — 
 There is no measure of infinity; 
 The little reckoning sciences of men 
 Are swallowed in the gulf of that great sea 
 Whence ages issue and return again. — 
 I cannot tell thee then how much I love, 
 Nor with exactness my love's period give, 
 Although, in truth, I swear by all above, 
 I shall not cease to love thee while I live : — 
 And this assertion sums my loving powers — 
 Whole ages past are less than present hours. 
 
 LXXXVIII 
 
 Infinite summers o'er the firm-set earth. 
 
 Before I was, burned warm and passed away — 
 
 Summers unnumbered still shall quicken birth 
 
 Of myriad bloom beyond my fleeting day; 
 
 Yet, being here, I hold all time in lease — 
 
 Days long deceased and days that are to come, — 
 
 And cannot think that I shall ever cease. 
 
 And, like those summers fled, lie cold and dumb: 
 
 So doth the finite ape the infinite. 
 
 So doth the smallest for the greatest serve, 
 
 So doth all nature, in eternal flight 
 
 Of days and seasons, permanence preserve: 
 
 So, Love, through time untold I have loved thee. 
 
 Although our love may by days numbered be. 
 
 48 
 
LXXXIX 
 
 Thy hand in my hand, Love, the way's not long 
 Which I entreat thee to traverse with me, 
 'Tis but to tread adown the fields of song, 
 The sunflowered paths of Summer's Arcady; 
 The golden days of brown cicada's joy 
 Are numbered on the fingers of the year; 
 What better way that precious time employ 
 Than to love lightly and court Nature, dear? 
 Some other day will other lovers share, 
 Some other joy will others reap alone. 
 Still other summers will make Nature rare, 
 And gild earth's palace after we are gone ; 
 Then do not wait to share our earthly bliss, 
 To capture joy no haste is found amiss. 
 
 xc 
 
 The banner of love is spangled with sweet stars, 
 
 Embroidered with all Nature's ornaments. 
 
 Quaint with the likeness of all wondrous flowers, 
 
 Perfumed with all the summer earth's incense ; 
 
 It is an oriflamme of rare design, 
 
 More beauteous than the evening ether's dyes, 
 
 Beyond the rainbow is its color fine. 
 
 And sweeter than the wings of butterflies : 
 
 The redolence of all the tender life 
 
 Of innocence and infancy is there, 
 
 With mercy's gentleness its folds are rife. 
 
 Its woof more bright than strand of Helen's hair; 
 
 And this sweet banner is my standard true. 
 
 Borne in the list of love by sacred you. 
 
 49 
 
XCI 
 
 Who dulls his eye in reading Wisdom's page, 
 To learn of life in musty leaves of books? 
 What more renowned than knowledge of the sage 
 Who but abroad in Nature's college looks? 
 More truly taught is he who but observes 
 The lessons of the earth, the sea, the sky, 
 Than he who in his memory preserves 
 The dead cold seeing of another's eye. 
 So from the source of Nature's Academe 
 I draw my inspiration for thy love, 
 And all the dearer do those lessons deem 
 For coming from our reason's last remove : 
 Who for an essay on love's sweetness cares. 
 When golden butterflies drift by in pairs? 
 
 XCII 
 
 The peony, the lily, and the rose, 
 
 Tulips and zinnias, pinks and hollyhock, 
 
 All these the wealth of hidden joy disclose. 
 
 And death's cold dullness with live beauty mock ; 
 
 And then the asters and the sunflowers tall 
 
 Brave with their royal richness later frost, 
 
 Emblazoning the wistfulness of fall 
 
 With beauty chastened, but not wholly lost: 
 
 Oh, see how beauty clings to every day 
 
 And gives to every season of its own ! 
 
 So life's enjoyment falls not all away 
 
 Till we are locked in tombs of whited stone — 
 
 And to that sleep some sacred key may bring 
 
 The youth and fragrance of celestial spring. 
 
 50 
 
XCIII 
 
 Ah, never from the pipes of shepherds rang 
 
 More sweet and fresh a rural melody ; 
 
 Not half so sweet the white-throat milkmaid sang, 
 
 Within the watered glades of Arcady; 
 
 No wileful siren's voice did ever chant 
 
 A strain so tempting unto mortal ear, 
 
 As thou hast sung, my heart's Hierophant, 
 
 And in my soul I still that music hear: 
 
 Could I but give it forth unto the world. 
 
 Like fauns and satyrs men would dance and sing, 
 
 Till round the earth the summer sun had whirled, 
 
 And in the east the moon came glistening : — 
 
 For such a song great Jove himself would swear 
 
 That better than a god a goat-herd were. 
 
 XCIV 
 
 Vain now to speak of Tempe's lovely vale, 
 
 Of Arcady or happy Thessaly ; 
 
 The world will hearken to no flowery tale, 
 
 Nor give old sylvan music sympathy: 
 
 Oh lake and field and sky and running stream. 
 
 No longer do ye move the hearts of men 
 
 To love life's simple joys and live in dream 
 
 As innocent as little children: 
 
 Oh could that happy time but come again. 
 
 Of " pipes and timbrels and wild ecstasy," 
 
 Its sweet enjoyment were well worth the pain 
 
 Of all the present age of misery. — 
 
 How honey-sweet the old glad pagan smile 
 
 To those who had forgot and slept awhile! 
 
 51 
 
xcv 
 
 I saw my Lady in a troubled dream, 
 
 Like some white doe that fled the hounds afar, 
 
 Glance through the hawthorn blossoms, like a 
 
 gleam, 
 Or startled radiance of a falling star; 
 But to pursue her. Love did lend me wing, 
 And as she fled I followed like the wind, 
 But to my woe and to my wondering, 
 I ever more fell far away behind : — 
 Then saw I that her radiant sides were clad 
 With innocence, that fledged her like a dove, 
 And to my heart was borne the tidings sad : 
 " Thou art not worthy of so pure a love ": 
 At this I waked, or else my heart had died, 
 And this, my Love, hath slain my wonted pride. 
 
 XCVI 
 
 Now fullest summer on the green bough sleeps, 
 
 The tide of life is at its full of joy; 
 
 Though Time seems still, yet summer onward creeps 
 
 Toward the barren winter's cold annoy : — 
 
 Could but the summer of all joy survive, 
 
 And aye endure in its sublimity. 
 
 How much less weeping then to be alive, 
 
 The death of every charm in time to see : 
 
 Nature but lends us for a little space 
 
 Those things we proudly speak of as our own, 
 
 And when are past her granted days of grace. 
 
 She, like a usurer, collects her loan. — 
 
 But to thy fame in Time my verse shall stand, 
 
 A rock of refuge in a barren land. 
 
 5* 
 
XCVII 
 
 All-whelming Silence, how we haste to thee 
 Adown the noisy channels of the world ! 
 All strife, all turmoil, and all agony 
 Become as dead leaves in the autumn whirled: 
 So shall all passions soften into mold, 
 Aye locked in Nature's fastnesses of sleep; 
 Each hour is some solemn death-knell knoUed, 
 Above the grass the silent death-shades creep. — 
 Eternal silence on the mountains' crest. 
 Silence forever on the valley falls, 
 Silence and slumber and eternal rest 
 Await us in the vast of Death's dark halls: 
 Over all heights is rest — Love, silence creeps 
 Upon all feeling that or sings or weeps. 
 
 XCVIII 
 
 Oh, cease, my heart, thy song! the summer day 
 
 Grows wider, fuller, deeper, more complete — 
 
 Full-orbed the circle of earth's proud array 
 
 Of fruit and blossoms in her generous heat : 
 
 Oh, majesty! above the green arcade 
 
 Of sweetest leaves that over-canopy 
 
 The dreaming herds in deepest woodland shade 
 
 How blue, how wondrous azure is the sky! 
 
 Hear'st the deep breath of the full-drawn breeze, 
 
 Sigh and sob full, then softly die away? 
 
 Bathing the soul in luxury of ease, 
 
 And bidding balmy summer stay, oh, stay! 
 
 Oh, cease, my heart, thy song ! too sweet the time 
 
 For desecration of unworthy rhyme. 
 
 SS 
 
XCIX 
 
 Earth, thou perforce art very beautiful; 
 
 From thy warm bosom all the flowers spring, 
 
 Into thy bosom all the summers fall. 
 
 After the long sweet days of blossoming; 
 
 And every lovely image that has fled 
 
 Across thee since the origin of life 
 
 Has ever returned to thee with drooping head, 
 
 When cut by Death's irrevocable knife. — 
 
 Earth, Mother of all, whose lap receivest all, 
 
 And ever revivest some with fairest show, 
 
 Unto thy tender love I plain and call : 
 
 When into thy heart my Lady and I must go, — 
 
 Oh, of our mold may pansy blooms be made. 
 
 To sweeten the gloom of Death's long narrow glade. 
 
 Farewell ! ah, wherefore should that word be spoken, 
 In hopeful mockery of the soul's despair. 
 As though 'twere possible for love's heart broken 
 Again to build enjoj^ment anywhere: — 
 Farewell, yea, I would fain fare well and linger 
 Within the hallowed precinct of thine eye. 
 Or at thy lattice, like some woodland singer, 
 Sweeten thy slumbers with a lullaby : — 
 Farewell ! the iron wheel of Fate is turning, 
 Bearing thee from my heart perforce away, 
 Not all the potency of love's deep yearning 
 Can for another hour bid thee stay: — 
 Farewell ! — one love-long kiss, one quivering sigh 
 Seals now our love to all eternity. 
 
 54 
 
J 
 
 LefC. 
 
CI 
 
 One in a quivering grove at summer's eve, 
 Where tremulous pale leaves made music low 
 When fondled by the breezes, sat below 
 
 The marvelous sweet shadows, and did grieve 
 
 To see the season and the day take leave, — 
 Patient, with pale and melancholy woe, 
 As one whose sad heart all too well did know 
 
 The power of Love's wild passion to deceive. 
 
 So as he sat, the heat-exhausted sun, 
 As sinks a burning vessel in the sea, 
 Sank in the west, and red upon the sky 
 Flamed his last rays, and cold and tremblingly 
 As some pale bride who sees her husband die. 
 The night-lone moon her vigil had begun. 
 
 CII 
 
 So wrapped in gloom, and yet not all forlorn, 
 Because of that rich tint that memory spread 
 Upon the season and the day now dead. 
 
 The Muser sat and waited for the morn — 
 
 As sad as Ruth in the strange field of corn. 
 When homesick longing all her tears had shed 
 Yet as some mourner at a pale deathbed. 
 
 Whose greatest woe finds yet some comfort born. 
 
 And on the lonely middle of the night 
 The modulation of a harp was heard. 
 And a sad-voiced singer — and his song 
 Was stately as a sea-wide-winging bird. 
 Whose plumage glistens in the evening light. 
 As over soundless deeps he floats along. 
 
 57 
 
cm 
 
 And in that song there was the tremolo 
 Of hopes unrealized and heart-troth slain, 
 Yet so subdued the passion and the pain, 
 
 That whether its sweetness balanced with its woe. 
 
 Or whether 'twas grief or whether joy to show, 
 The sad glad melting cadence of the strain — 
 Like the wind's rapture with the weeping rain — 
 
 Quavered and sobbed and sang — and none could 
 know. — 
 
 Nay, none save those whose souls are sensitive 
 
 To others' griefs deep hidden hold the key 
 
 To turn the wards of such song's mystery. 
 
 Search out and find the secret primitive 
 
 Which prompts such songs of shadowy woe or 
 
 bliss : — 
 And in the night the singer's song was this: 
 
 CIV 
 
 " Oh, was it the pale face of the wandering moon, 
 Or some sweet flower of summer, richer still, 
 Which for a season tranced my heart and will. 
 
 And caught my reason in a sweeter swoon 
 
 Than falls on one night-charmed by elfish rune 
 Upon some magic Caledonian hill? 
 Or was it but the weaker human skill 
 
 Of one whose voice was passion's life and tune ? 
 
 " What nights of joy have held me in their thrall ! 
 What days of bliss have sealed my waking eye — 
 So that I cared not whether to live or die, 
 But that my love might gain resistless way 
 Into her heart whose sweet eyes were my day 
 One fleeting summer of joy — and this is all ! 
 
 S8 
 
cv 
 
 " Now, on my sight there floats a dead-white face 
 Of one whose love hath been my soul's eclipse, 
 Who by the honey-feeing of her lips 
 
 Led me beyond the tender pale of grace, 
 
 Down to this starless, hopeless, sunless place. 
 Whereto the bale-star of wrecked lovers dips. 
 And the cold tear of passion ceaseless drips. 
 
 And of life's warmth there is nor sign nor trace. 
 
 " But, O white face, like to an azure dove. 
 Winging the darksome recess of a cave. 
 Thou bring'st me plaintive memories of love. 
 And in those memories my soul must lave 
 For strength to struggle to the air above — 
 No soul so dark but strength of love may save. 
 
 CVI 
 
 " O love-dead face, beyond the furthest years 
 
 Thou art swept from me ! Once so near to thee, 
 I need not call the tides of memory 
 
 My heart to moisten with sweet showers of tears : 
 
 How can I gaze upon that face of hers 
 
 Whom once my heart possessed, and fail to see 
 In it the treasure that was given to me 
 
 In bygone days to still the tides of fears? 
 
 " Oh, pity me. Love, and of that pity still 
 I'll build me yet a fortress of strong hope. 
 Broad-based upon the inaccessible 
 Rock of remembrance, safe beyond the scope 
 Of the sea-wrath of envious hate to kill, 
 When vials of wrath thy love's sweet heaven shall 
 ope." 
 
 S9 
 
[DEC 20 1904