De Wilde! 'tis not for thy acknowledged skill
In Languages , though that is something still;
It is not for thy Pencil , though the art,
Ev'n in a stranger, wins from me my heart,
And in a friend has a yet dearer spell,
That doth not only win — it binds as well:
It is not for thy Minstrelsy , though few
More than myself, admire and covet too,
Thy happy muse; nor is it for thy mind,
In which such varied knowledge is enshrined; —
'Tis not for these I love thee, and am proud
To call thee friend, and be as such avowed

Wonderful eyes! a leaping fire behind
Burns, and at seasons flames the face-veil through;
As burst their cloudy curtain gleams of blue
When, on a sudden, lo! the sun has shined.
Passion and strong repression-power combined
I see before me,—and a depth as well
That but a hint of what it had to tell
Has cast upon the surface of her mind.

They are not easy natures, these, to grasp
Complete in comprehension, nor do they
Hold their own power circled in a clasp.
They only see the fruit from day to day

The bitter smarte that straines my mated minde,
Through quelling cares that threate my woful wrack:
Doth prick me on against my wyll I finde,
To pleade for grace, or else to pine in lack.
As fainting soule sokt vp with sickly paine,
Prayeth Phisicks aide in hope of helth againe.

Whilste Sea roomes serues, the shipman feares no foyle,
In quiet Porte there needes no Pilotes Arte:
But when through wearie winters tyring toyle,
Cleere Sommers calmes to carefull clowds conuarte.
And streaming stormes at hand do danger threate,

On receiving from her a Purse.

This present, wrought by thy fair hands for me,
Sweet friend! believe me, I shall dearly prize,
For it will waken kindly thoughts of thee,
(Thoughts ever welcome!) when it meets my eyes.

And, while it wakes those welcome thoughts, 'twill bring
Dear recollections of affection, taught
To part with all its former sorrowing,
And taste of feelings that are rapture-fraught.

Not that there needs this token to restore,
To the fond eye of mind or memory,
A form where both delight to find a store

I said, " My love is sweet, and I will seek
Whereto to liken her; her eyes are grey
As the grey water mingled in a creek
With green, and greener than the seas are they,
And browner than the golden moor-fed stream;
Her hands are wonderful, her lips are red,
And as the light of morning is the beam
That like a coronet crowns my lady's head;
She hath a supple fawn's advancing grace,
She hath the flushing of a mountain rose, —
Like some sweet lily in a shady place
My lady, quiet yet most queenly, grows,

Full well I know the grief and smart
That is and will be mine:
Not vain your warning, O poor heart;
But still for love I pine.

From Heliodora fly' — But how?
I have nor strength nor shame.
The very thoughts that warn me glow
Enraptured at her name.

There is a love beyond the love we hold
In earthly grasp of over-eager hand, —
A love that bloometh in another land,
With petals of divine untarnished gold.
When from the shuddering organ notes are rolled
Conveying hints we fail to understand,
Or when with slender moonlight on the sand
A distant horn blends paeans clear and bold: —

When music at these seasons wakes in us
Some glimpse of evanescent heavenly fire,
When learn that love is consummated thus!
Yea, woman's hands in heaven are a lyre,

O Cruel, cruel! As I lie
Upon this ice-cold stone,
So may you sleep whose lovers sigh
In misery alone —
The very neighbours grieve to see
How here I wait in agony.

So may you sleep! Within your heart
No shade of pity lives;
Your pride in mercy has no part,
To love no kindness gives.
Soon will the grey hairs come — and they
Perchance will make you rue this day.

Who shall possess the whole of any flower, —
Both petals, leaves, and fragrance that abides
In the sweet golden core where God resides,
Casting that fragrance forth with lavish power?
Man doth possess a woman for an hour: —
Upon her ample bosom's roseate tides
Softly and sweetly for a month he rides;
Then winter shakes the rose-leaves from his bower.

How shall we grasp in one excessive bliss
The beauty and fragrance that the world has seen,
Even from the rose-red blossom of Eve's kiss
To the rare laughter of the Egyptian queen,

I love thee for thy friendship, which to me
Hath still been true while all were false beside:
I love thee for thy love of Poesy,
And for thy art therein — which is thy pride,
And should be so; I love the melody
Which dwells deep in thy soul, and in a tide
Of silver-toned absorbing witchery,
Rushes upon the listening heart. — Allied
With these fine qualities, I also see
Virtues which raise the heart where they reside
Above the cold world's level: and must be
Prized as gems rich and rare, to most denied: