How long, O Lord, how long
These penal fires among?
— Till love with fiercer flame
The strength of torture tame.

Nay , be not June, nor yet December, dear,
But April always, as I find thee now:
A constant freshness unto me be thou,
And not the ripeness that must soon be sere.
Why should I be Time's dupe, and wish more near
The sobering harvest of thy vernal vow?
I am content, so still across thy brow
Returning smile chase transitory tear.
Then scatter thy April heart in sunny showers;
I want nor Summer drouth nor Winter sleet:
As Spring be fickle, so thou be as sweet;
With half-kept promise tantalise the hours;

I HEARD one cry out strongly, " Love is dead! "
And then we went and looked upon his face,
Turned into marble by Death's final grace:
His silent lips, that once so vainly pled,
Smile now, as men smile being newly wed;
Since some strange joy Life's sorrows did efface
When Death's arms clasped him in supreme embrace,
All his long pain of living comforted.

And you would wake him? Dare you him recall
From Death's enamouring to Life's stern pain;
Make him again the old grief's hopeless thrall;
Bind him once more with the old clanking chain,

Oh, foolish fay,
Think you because
Man's brave array
My bosom thaws
I'd disobey
Our fairy laws?
Because I fly
In realms above,
In tendency
To fall in love
Resemble I
The amorous dove?

Oh, amorous dove!
Type of Ovidius Naso!
This heart of mine
Is soft as thine,
Although I dare not say so!

On fire that glows
With heat intense
I turn the hose
Of Common Sense,
And out it goes
At small expense!
We must maintain
Our fairy law;
That is the main
On which to draw —
In that we gain

Do I love thee? Who can tell?
Time was when I loved thee well:
Is this love that now I bear,
Or does Use Love's semblance wear?

Should I grieve if thou wert gone?
Should I miss thee, left alone?
Would the summer be less sweet
If our lips should never meet?

If some other fairer Fair
Fettered thee with silken snare,
Should I sorrow to behold
Thee her captive — mine of old?

Ah, it may be, should we part,
I should learn how dear thou art, —
When the gods withdraw we know
How divine the feet that go.

Roses the lover gives to his love;
Roses we lay on the breast of death
That nevermore fondest whisper can move, —
Which is the sweeter, answer and prove,
Passionate love, or sleep without breath?

For love you burn with a crimson fire,
For death you are pale as the winter's snow:
Warm for the one, with the heart's desire,
Cold for the other, since hopes expire, —
Which is the sweeter? When shall we know?

I HAD never kissed her her whole life long,—
Now I stand by her bier does she feel
How, with love that the waiting years made strong,
I set on her lips my seal?

Will she wear my kiss in the grave's long night,
And wake sometimes with a thrill
From dreams of the old life's missed delight,
To feel that the grave is chill?

“It was warm,” will she say, “in that world above;
It was warm, but I did not know
How he loved me there, with his whole life's love—
It is cold, down here below.”

For L. C. B.

WHAT hap dismays the dead? Their couch is low;
And over it the summer grasses creep,
Or winter snows enshroud it, white and deep,
Or long-prevailing winds of autumn blow.

They hear no rumor of our joy or woe:
The ways we tread are perilous and steep;
They climb no longer, free at last to sleep,
Our weariful, vexed life no more to know.

Do they forget their loves of long ago,
And the glad hopes that made their glad hearts leap?
Or the spent joys for which they used to weep,
When Love and Sorrow buffeted them so?

Fill the swift days full, my dear,
Since life is fleet;
Love, and hold Love fast, my dear,
He is so sweet—
Sweetest, dearest, fleetest comer,
Fledgling of the sudden summer.

Love, but not too well, my dear!
When skies are gray,
And the autumn winds are here,
Love will away—
Fleetest, vaguest, farthest rover
When the summer's warmth is over.

By Barada the citron now
Displays its cloud of bloom;
By Barada the almond bough
Is like a lovely loom;
And with a tide of gold unrolled
The meadows sweep and swell;
By Barada, by Barada,
Behold the asphodel!

By Barada pomegranate fires
With hues of sunset vie;
By Barada the lilt of lyres
Upon the wind goes by;
And in the vale the nightingale
Lifts its immortal tune,
By Barada, by Barada,
Beneath the sun and moon!

By Barada from crest to crest
Red gleams the cinnabar;
By Barada on night's blue breast