VI.

Such life here, through such lengths of hours,
Such miracles performed in play,
Such primal naked forms of flowers,
Such letting nature have her way
While heaven looks from its towers!

VII.

How say you? Let us, O my dove,
Let us be unashamed of soul,
As earth lies bare to heaven above!
How is it under our control

To love or not to love?

VIII.

I would that you were all to me,

You that are just so much, no more. Nor yours nor mine, nor slave nor free! Where does the fault lie? What the core O' the wound, since wound must be?

IX.

heart

I would I could adopt your will,
See with your eyes, and set my
Beating by yours, and drink my fill

At your soul's springs, your part my part In life, for good and ill.

X.

No. I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away. I kiss your cheek,

Catch soul's warmth, I pluck the rose

your

And love it more than tongue can speak Then the good minute goes.

XI.

Already how am I so far

Out of that minute? Must I go

Still like the thistle-ball, no bar,

Onward, whenever light winds blow,

Fixed by no friendly star?

XII.

Just when I seemed about to learn!

Where is the thread now? Off again!

Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to, So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

II.

This is a heart the Queen leant on.

Thrilled in a minute erratic,
Ere the true bosom she bent on,

Meet for love's regal dalmatic.
Oh, what a fancy ecstatic

Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on
Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on!

A SERENADE AT THE VILLA.

I.

That was I, you heard last night
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight

Tent of heaven, a planet small :
Life was dead and so was light.

II.

Not a twinkle from the fly,

Not a glimmer from the worm; When the crickets stopped their cry,

When the owls forbore a term, You heard music; that was I.

III.

Earth turned in her sleep with pain,

Sultrily suspired for proof:

In at heaven and out again,

Lightning!-where it broke the roof, Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.

IV.

What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best,
And when singing's best was done,
my lute I left the rest.

To

V.

So wore night; the East was gray,
White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers

There would be another day;

Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.

VI.

What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you "When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell
Light last on the evening slopes,

"When no moon succeeds the sun,

Nor can pierce the midnight's tent

Any star, the smallest one,

While some drops, where lightning rent, Show the final storm begun —

--

All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strew them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!

Let them lie. Suppose they die?

The chance was they might take her eye.

II.

How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.

She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music's wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

III.

My whole life long I learned to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion-heaven or hell?

She will not give me heaven? "T is well!
Lose who may I still can say,

Those who win heaven, blest are they!

ANOTHER WAY OF LOVE.

I.

June was not over

Though past the full, And the best of her roses Had yet to blow,

When a man I know (But shall not discover, Since ears are dull, And time discloses)

Turned him and said with a man's true air,
Half sighing a smile in a yawn, as 't were,
"If I tire of your June, will she greatly care?"

II.

Well, dear, in-doors with you!

True! serene deadness

Tries a man's temper.

What's in the blossom

June wears on her bosom?

Can it clear scores with you?

Sweetness and redness,

Eadem semper !

Go, let me care for it greatly or slightly!

If June mend her bower now, your hand left unsightly By plucking the roses, my June will do rightly.

And after, for pastime,

III.

If June be refulgent
With flowers in completeness,
All petals, no prickles,
Delicious as trickles

Of wine poured at mass-time,

And choose One indulgent

To redness and sweetness:

Or if, with experience of man and of spider,

June use my June-lightning, the strong insect-ridder,

And stop the fresh film-work, why, June will consider.