How can a soul of sinless ray,
Now breathing love, incline to stray,
Or need to be forgiven?
O Innocence, with laughing eyes!
Thou art a cherub from the skies,
A wanderer from heaven.

Ha! gentle spirit, gift divine,
There's nectar on those lips of thine,
And sweet the kiss I've won:
There dwells no dew on proffered lip,
That's pure, like that on thine, to sip, —
On loveliest woman's, — none.

With heart sincere, while it shall beat,
May violets spring beneath thy feet,
And roses crown thy youth;

If lock'd in soft and sweet repose
(The balm which Heaven assigns to woe,)
Thy soul ideal pleasure knows,
And gentle passions calmly glow,
Still, still entranc'd in slumber lie,
Till morn invades the eastern sky.

But if contending passions tear
That bosom form'd for love alone;
If haggard Grief, and wild Despair,
Torment thee with fictitious moan;
O quit the scene of misery,
And wake, dear maid, to love and me.

Go forth, deep lost in thought,
Where none intrude,
And let thy faith be wrought
In solitude:
Truth waits, yet must be sought.

Yes, with thyself commune,
And, soft as lute,
Thy heart-strings thus attune
To love that's mute,
And vain aspirings prune.

'Tis only love — complete —
That will endure,
When earth-life frail and fleet,
And hopes not sure,
Depart, — pure love, I weet, —

The sentiment that's shrined
Deep in the heart;
The wealth of soul and mind;
That better part

I love to think that spirits dwell
Upon the earth, — the beautiful, the good,
Whose sympathies are pure, yet understood
By none save those who feel the spell.

I love to think that in life's vale
There are ungathered flowers, whose bosoms glow
With silent feeling and with tender woe
For him whose hopes, long cherished, fail.

I love to think that still a ray,
Divine like that of hope, will long be felt
By her to whom in earlier years I knelt, —
The vision of my darkened way.

I love to think that golden hours

Cold, cold in her little bed,
With all the spring returning!
Can flowers come back while she lies dead,
And the world go unmourning?

Cold, cold, in her little bed,
Snowdrops her starry cover ...
Oh, Spring, go softly overhead
For the sake of those who love her!

I had believed love vast and tragic,
Surging music heard afar,
Something misty, mystic, glamorous,
Dim and lofty as a star.

We have found out love together,
(All my empty dreaming done),
Sturdy as the yellow daisies
Growing in the sun!

The petals of the water-lilies tremble
as the wind murmurs
through the Palace of the Waters.

The King of Lou
lounges idly on the terrace of Kou-Sou;
before him is Sy-che;

she is dancing,
and her movements are rhythmical
and full of delicate grace.

Then she laughs,
sensuous in her weariness;
she leans against the royal white jade bed,
and gazes towards the east.

What is love like? The wind
That tears great temples down?
Ah, no, the cruelest wind
Leaves some few stones behind.

What is love like? The roar
And anger of a tempest-ridden sea?
Ah, no, the angriest sea
Cast back some bits of wreckage to the shore.

The blackbirds fly before the cold,
The painted grosbeaks go;
Not any tanager is so bold
As to brave the snow.

There's a look of storm about the skies,
There's trouble in the west;
And Love, who's old and very wise,
Love flies off with the rest.

An old wife
Someone who appears in the middle of a conversation
A beggar standing at the gate
The officious parent of one's boy favorite
A woman who falls asleep after making love.