Oh is it food for sighs at Fate,
Or is it food for laughter,
That men should love the best to-day,
And women the day after?

Men seize the hour to vow and kiss,
Forget, and onward wander;
But women on the morrow sigh,
" To-day I would be fonder! "

Women steal back, look through the pales
At finished yesterday.
" Why was it winter with me then,
When now my mood is May? "

How fair for women were the world,
How full of song and laughter,
If they could love to-day, or men
Could love them the day after!

Strive not, dear Love, to hide from me thy pain;
I know thou lov'st, and art not loved again.
So I love thee, yea, just as much in vain;
Shrink not then, Love: we bear a common pain.

We two, alone and chilled, stand side by side,
By a grief severed, by a grief allied.
The earth a snow-clad moorland stretches wide,
And we are far apart, though side by side.

He hath not guessed Christ's agony,
He hath not dreamed his bitterest woe,
Who hath not worn the crown of love
And felt the crown of anguish so.

Ah, not the torments of the cross,
Or nails that pierced, or thirst that burned,
Heightened the kingly Victim's pain,
But grief of griefs, — His love was spurned!

The grateful heart for all things blesses;
Not only joy, but grief endears:
I love you for your few caresses,
I love you for my many tears.

Do and permit whate'er you will
With others, I shall love you stil.
Heaven grant we may not love the most
When to each other we are lost!

Rest of my heart! no verse can tell
My blissful pride, beloved by you;
Yet could I love you half so well
Unless you once had grieved me too?

Love , flying out of sight, o'ershadows me,
And leaves me cold as cold can be;
Farewell alasses! and no-mores! and you,
Sweetest and saddest word, adieu!

" FEAR God!" says Percival: and when you hear
Tones so lugubrious, you perforce must fear:
If in such awful accents he should say,
" Fear lovely Innocence!" you'd run away.

Fate ! I have askt few things of thee,
And fewer have to ask.
Shortly, thou knowest, I shall be
No more . . . then con thy task.

If one be left on earth so late
Whose love is like the past,
Tell her, in whispers, gentle Fate,
Not even love must last.

Tell her, I leave the noisy feast
Of life, a little tired;
Amidst its pleasures few possest
And many undesired.

Tell her, with steady pace to come
And, where my laurels lie,
To throw the freshest on the tomb
When it has caught her sigh.

1

Who breathes to thee the holiest prayer,
O Love! is ever least thy care.
Alas! I may not ask thee why 'tis so . .
Because a fiery scroll I see
Hung at the throne of Destiny,
Reason with Love and register with Woe.

2

Few question thee, for thou art strong
And, laughing loud at right and wrong,
Seizest, and dashest down, the rich, the poor;
Thy scepter's iron studs alike
The meaner and the prouder strike,
And wise and simple fear thee and adore.