It was never more than a face,
An impression merely; a bit
Of failing landscape — her grace
Just caught as the rain-cloud split
And the air grew warm a space.

And now it is many years,
And I, with my thin hair gray,
Face wrinkled — perhaps by tears! —
'Tis strange how my yesterday
Of dead youth reappears.

I wonder if after all
I've any right to complain!
As the shadows weave on the wall,
And we feel the wash of rain
Through the light grown thin and small;

As we sit and cherish the hearth,

O Love, there is no beauty,
No sorrowful beauty, but I have seen;
There is no island that has gathered sound
Into dim stone from many reeded waters
But we have known.
Heart of my sorrowful heart,
Beauty fades out from sleepy pool to pool
And there is a crying of wings about me
And a crying in me lest I lose you. Glimmer
Around me; sound, O weir, within my heart;
Bring calm on many waters, for I will be hearing
The salmon shatter the air into silver when
The chill grass ends their leaping.
As I was dreaming

Do not repent, mine own love, that thou so soon didst surrender!
Trust me, I deem thee not bold! reverence only I feel.
Manifold workings the darts of Amor possess; some but scratching,
Yet with insidious effect, poison the bosom for years.
Others mightily feather'd, with fresh and newly-born sharpness
Pierce to the innermost bone, kindle the blood into flame.
In the heroical times, when loved each god and each goddess,
Longing attended on sight; then with fruition was bless'd.
Think'st thou the goddess had long been thinking of love and its pleasures

Wonder we that the highest star above
Sprang forth to thy embrace,
O Leda! wonder we, when daring Love
Turn'd thy averted face?

Smiles he had seen in Hebe, such as won
Him of the poplar crown.
Jove, until then half-envious of his son,
Then threw his scepter down.

Loose hung his eagle's wings; on either side
A dove thrust in her head:
Eagle had lost his fierceness, Jove his pride . .
And Leda what? . . her dread.

Carelessly over the plain away,
Where by the boldest man no path
Cut before thee thou canst discern,
Make for thyself a path!

Silence, loved one, my heart!
Cracking, let it not break!
Breaking, break not with thee!

Thus roll I, never taking ease,
My tub, like Saint Diogenes,
Now serious am, now seek to please;
Now love and hate in turns one sees;
The motives now are those, now these;
Now nothings, now realities.
Thus roll I, never taking ease,
My tub, like Saint Diogenes.

Two words there are, both short, of beauty rare,
Whose sounds our lips so often love to frame,
But which with clearness never can proclaim
The things whose own peculiar stamp they bear.

'Tis well in days of age and youth so fair,
One on the other boldly to inflame;
And if those words together link'd we name,
A blissful rapture we discover there.

But now to give them pleasure do I seek,
And in myself my happiness would find;
I hope in silence, but I hope for this:

Gently, as loved one's names, those words to speak,

THE DOUBTERS .

Y E love, and sonnets write! Fate's strange behest!
The heart, its hidden meaning to declare,
Must seek for rhymes, uniting pair with pair:
Learn, children, that the will is weak, at best.

Scarcely with freedom the o'erflowing breast
As yet can speak, and well may it beware;
Tempestuous passions sweep each chord that's there,
Then once more sink to night and gentle rest.

Why vex yourselves and us, the heavy stone

On Petrarch's heart, all other days before,
In flaming letters written, was impress'd
Good F RIDAY . And on mine, be it confess'd,
Is this year's A DVENT , as it passeth o'er.

I dOnot now begin, — I still adore
Her whom I early cherish'd in my breast,
Then once again with prudence dispossess'd,
And to whose heart I'm driven back once more.

The love of Petrarch, that all-glorious love,
Was unrequited, and, alas, full sad;
One long Good Friday 'twas, one heartache drear;

But may my mistress' Advent ever prove,

The remembrance of the Good
Keep us ever glad in mood.

The remembrance of the Fair
Makes a mortal rapture share.

The remembrance of one's Love
Blest is, if it constant prove.

The remembrance of the One
Is the greatest joy that's known.