He walks in vain by yonder garden-gate,
Where hollyhocks and tall carnations rise,
Sweet marjoram, and blooms that linger late,
And all the scented herbs that house-wives prize.

A late rose throws soft kisses to the breeze,
On petals sunrise-hued, like his love's cheeks;
He hears a child's voice in the apple-trees;
He starts! Ah, no; it is not she that speaks.

Gone! Lost! Her voice must ever be afar —
Those tones that made his fond heart fervent bound;
'T was not a voice as other voices are,

From of old the love of fair ones Only wont and goal of mine is
And the care thereof the solace Of this heart in dole of mine is

To discern thy mouth of ruby Eyes soul-seeing there behoveth.
What room for this eye, that seith Body, but not soul, of mine is?

Be my friend; for the adornment Of the world-all from thy moonface
And the tears that, like the Pleiads, From these eyes do roll of mine, is.

Since the love of thee in speechcraft Lessoned me whilere, the practice
Of all people's tongues these praises Ever to extol of mine is.

And now, at last, I must away,
But if I tend another fire
In some man's house this you will say
— It is not that her love doth tire:
This is the price she has to pay,
For bread she gets no other way,
Still dreaming of her heart's desire.

And so she went out from the door
While I sat quiet, in my chair:
She ran back once, again — no more ...
I heard a footstep on the stair!
A lifted latch! One moment fleet
I heard the noises of the street,
Then silence booming everywhere!

To be not jealous, give not love!
Rate not thy fair all fair above,
Or thou'lt be decked in green, the hue
That jealousy is bounden to.

That lily hand! Those lips of fire!
Those dewy eyes that spill desire!
Those mounds of lambent snow, may be
Found anywhere it pleaseth thee.

To turn! Then turn, and be not mad
Though all of loveliness she had:
— She hath not all of loveliness!
A store remains, wherewith to bless.

The bee, the bird, the butterfly,
And thou! Go, search with those that fly

O woman full of wiliness!
Although for love of me you pine,
Withhold your hand adventurous,
It holdeth nothing holding mine.

Look on my head, how it is grey!
My body's weakness doth appear;
My blood is chill and thin; my day
Is done, and there is nothing here.

Do not call me a foolish man,
Nor lean your lovely cheek to mine:
O slender witch, our bodies can
Not mingle now, nor any time.

Then take your mouth from mine, your hand
From mine, ah, take those lips away!
Lest thought should ripe to willing, and

" Pity, monarch of the lovely " , Quoth I, " to this stranger show! "
" If, " said she, " the heart they follow, Wretched strangers straying go " .

" Stay awhile " , quoth I; but " Prithee, Hold me " answered she " excused.
" How shall one house-reared and nurtured Bear so many a stranger's woe? "

What reck tenderlings, who couch them On imperial minever,
If the stranger's bed and pillow Thorns and pebbles be or no?

Thou, in whose tress-fetters captive Is so many a lover's soul,

Angel and woman, nearing ninety years,
We lay this amaranth flower at her feet, —
The wide world's love, — a tribute richly meet,
For mid the cannons' carnage and the spears'
She moved heroic, and the soul reveres
Her saintly ministrations, heavenly sweet;
Science to love she joined, and did entreat
Death back to life, and checked a million tears.
At Balaklava, through the dreadful camp
Miles long of maimed men, her lot was cast
Through shrieking, bleeding wrecks of sword and b
And in night hospitals, as on she passed,

(1)

She is the sky
Of the sun!
She is the dart
Of love!

She is the love
Of my heart!
She is a rune!
She is above

The women
Of the race of Eve
As the sun
Is above the moon!

(2)

Lovely and airy
The view from the hill
That looks down
Ballylea!

But no good sight
Is good, until
By great good luck
You see

The Blossom
Of the Branches
Walking towards you,
Airily!

THE LOVER SPEAKS

The gold of Evening into grayness fades;
And now the Twilight spreads her sheltering plumes
 And shields me with her shades,
 E'en as some brooding dove's
Are folded o'er her nestlings which she loves,
 Far in the forest glooms.

The crescent dreams in branches of the fir,
And o'er the woodland path the stars arise
 To light the way for her;
 The wild grass rustles near;
And then a step,—and all my heaven is here,—
 Love, with her longing eyes!

Thou most rare Brown Bird on thine Eden-tree,
All heaven-sweet to me
Cometh thy song of Love's high royalty
And Love's deep loyalty,
And Love's sweet-pleading loneliness in thee.

Our one-star yonder uttereth her light,
Her silver call to Night,
Who, wavering between the Dark and Bright,
On-cometh with timid flight,
As one that could not choose 'twixt wrong and right!

O, never was a night so dark as I!
But thou has sent a sigh
Of love, as a star would send a beam, to fly
Downward from out the sky