Yea, for thou art the fragrant south-west wind,
Its gentle whisper in the summer trees,
Its gentle rustle of the sultry blind
Of summer — what doest thou on mounts that freeze,
Yea, what hast thou, my sweet, to do with these
High rocks that scorn and choke thy summer laughter?
If thou dost venture from thy green calm leas
Then of a surety thy step Death stalks after,
And soon will tremulous shudders shake thy knees
And dissolution thy white body seize:
O south-west wind of mine be wise, nor follow

Under the bright room where they lay,
Deep in the stonework gaunt and grey,
I will build a dungeon grim.
She and her lover (I stabbed him dead,
And his blood-drops splashed her breast with red)
Shall rest in the darkness dim.
Under the bright room where they lay
They shall wait in the dark till the Judgment Day
Flames out upon her and him.

( How it goes ring, ringing, through my brain ,
That foolish light old swift refrain
She was singing when we met in Spain;
“I love you, I love you—” again and again!)

Within a humble London room
A poet lived and wrought:
He saw the sweet spring-blossoms bloom,
But only in his thought.

His eyes were darkened. But his soul
Had power to see the skies:
Of Nature's lore he read the whole
With his heart's loving eyes.

A thousand spirits walk the earth,
Yet have no power to see:
They miss its sorrow, miss its mirth,
Its beauty. Not so he!

For him the sun was full of light,
And blue the clear sea-wave;
The wind-tost woods returned delight
For music that he gave.

Now, saith the spirit of the Lord,
To those who sit on earthly thrones;
Rejoice with trembling at his word,
And at his feet submit your crowns.

With faith and love address the Son,
Lest he grow angry, and ye die;
His wrath will burn to worlds unknown,
If ye provoke his jealousy.

His frowns will drive you quick to hell,
For he is God, and ye but dust;
Happy the souls that know him well,
And make his grace their only trust!

By thee I swore I'd keep away
And from my love two nights would stay;
Dear Venus, when I made the vow
Right merry was your laugh, I trow.

You knew full well I could not bear
More than one night without my dear,
And now that night is left behind
I cast my promise to the wind.

'Twere better, sure, my vow to break
Since it will be for Love's dear sake;
Rather than keep my oath to thee
And die of my own piety.

A gentleman of wit and charm,
A kindly heart, a cleanly mind,
One who was quick with hand or purse
To lift the burden of his kind.
A brain well balanced and mature,
A soul that shrank from all things base,
So rode he forth that winter day,
Complete in every mortal grace.

And then — the blunder of a horse,
The crash upon the frozen clods,
And — Death? Ah! no such dignity,
But Life, all twisted and at odds!
At odds in body and in soul,
Degraded to some brutish state,
A being loathsome and malign,

Golden dawn is breaking
Over land and sea:
All the birds are waking:
Does my love love me?

See, the morning's sweetness
At the window-pane!
Summer's full completeness
Has returned again.

In my heart all flowers
Seem to blossom now:
Bloom of woodbine-bowers;
Buds of apple-bough.

Hardly can I fancy
What is most in bloom, —
Jasmine, purple pansy,

What feet she has, what legs, what waist, what thighs,
What shoulders, breast, what tender neck and eyes!
I rave, I die to touch her rosy arms,
Her round perfections and her secret charms.
How sweet her kisses after other lips,
How quick the movement of her swaying hips.
How soft her voice when at Love's hour she cries:
" Oh let me die in these dear ecstasies."
Her name is Flora — true: she knows no Greek,
Nor any language but her own to speak;
But what is that to me? Did Perseus fear
To wed Andromeda, his Indian dear?

When fair Xanthippi strikes the lyre,
Her dulcet voice, her speaking eye
Kindle within my soul a fire
Responsive to the melody.

When, where and how my passion came
I know not and I may not tell:
But that I burn in love's fierce flame
My heart knows all too well.

I.

God recreates the earth and air,
And makes the vast blue waters fair,
And makes the earth's wide meadows green
For every genius therein born;
For each regards the past with scorn
As if it had not been!

Each genius, by his birthright grand,
Inherits sea and sky and land;
For each God clothes all stars anew
In fiery splendour. — Shakespeare's dead!
But still the sun is golden-red,