Erratic the metre,
And errant the rhyme;
The form might be neater,
And feater the time,
And yet thy sweet verses could hardly be sweeter,
Though polished the metre,
And perfect the rhyme.

I will not correct them
As though they were prose,
To carve and dissect them
Were rending a rose.
Thy charm and thy beauty preserve and protect them,
I will not correct them
As if they were prose.

The fifth day of the New Year
was here before we knew it,
And we suddenly felt
our lives were fading fast.
Thinking of this
our hearts were moved within us,
So while we yet have time
we have come to view this spot.
The air is mild
and the heavens cloudless,
We spread our mats in order
overlooking the far stream.
Speckled bream
leapt in the slow eddies —
And crying gulls
soared in the lonely vale.
We let our eyes wander
at will over distant lowlands
And gazed with heart-felt longing

Now folds the Tree of Day its perfect flowers,
And every bloom becomes a bud again,
Shut and sealed up against the golden showers
Of bees that hover in the velvet hours ...
Now a strain
Wild and mournful blown from shadow towers,
Echoed from shadow ships upon the foam,
Proclaims the Queen of Night.
From their bowers
The dark Princesses fluttering, wing their flight
To their old Mother, in her huge old home.

IN BLANK VERSE .

My bosom friend, 'tis long since we have looked
Upon each other's face; and God may will
It shall be longer, ere we meet again.
Awhile it seemed most strange unto my heart
That I should mourn, and thou not nigh to cheer;
That I should shrink 'mid perils, and thy spirit
Far away, far, powerless to brave them with me.
Now am I used to wear a lonesome heart
About me; now the agencies of ill
Have so oppressed my inward, absolute self,
That feelings shared, and fully answered, scarce

Learn'd in the law, who leav'st the busy street
And studious chambers for the gowned chair,
Amid the cordial friends that speak thee fair
And thine accession to the laurel greet,
If one slow scholar in his hushed retreat
A little longer than the rest forbear,
'T is but as minstrels that salute some heir
Wait for still night to make their flutes more sweet.
And as in heaven there is more joy o'er one
Repentant worldling than o'er ninety-nine
Good men who love the world or make it loved,
So glad Athena glories in the son

Alas, a veiled and silent Comer
Has dimmed the stars and hid the sun!
Gone is the glory of the summer,
And life is done.

Oh, life is done, for hope is banished,
What joy can be for you in store,
When the one face you loved has vanished
For evermore?

Nay, lonely mother, love is stronger
Than any tyranny of death;
Does faithful love survive no longer

Cherish thy muse! for life hath little more,
Save what we hold in common with the herd:
Oh, blessing of these woods! to walk unstirred
By clash of commerce and the city's roar!
What finds the scholar in those flaming walls
But wearied people, hurrying to and fro,
Most with too high, and many without aim,
Crowded in vans or sweltering in huge halls
To hear loud emptiness or see the show?
Were this a life to — scape the Muses — blame?
Rather than such would I the Pareæ ask,
Folding mine arms, to stretch me on the floor

The bright sun sinks
beyond the western ridge,
The white moon rises
behind the eastern range.
Afar, afar
a myriad miles it flashes,
Immeasurably vast
its light amidst the sky
A wind comes
and enters the bedroom door,
So in the night
pillow and mat are cold.
The air seems different —
I awake to the season's change
I cannot go to sleep
and know the night's eternity,
I wish to speak
but there is no friend to talk to
Raising my cup
I challenge my lonely shadow
The days and months

Her fertile wit and facile mirth
Doubly betray her Irish birth,
And still there lingers in her smile
The sunlight of the Sister Isle.

And though March cometh clad in snow,
She quickens faith and courage so,
That when we see her face we sing,
To-morrow will be surely Spring.

FOR AN ALMS CHEST MADE OF CAMPHOR-WOOD

This fragrant box that breathes of India's balms
Hath one more fragrance,—for it asketh alms;
But though 't is sweet and blessed to receive,
You know who said, “It is more blest to give:”
Give, then, receive his blessing; and for me
Thy silent boon sufficient blessing be!

If Ceylon's isle, that bears the bleeding trees,
With any perfume load the orient breeze;
If Heber's Muse, by Ceylon as he sailed,
A pleasant odor from the shore inhaled,—
More lives in me; for underneath my lid