Not through the poet's heart one rapture flows
When love, that rules him to the end, is won.
He wins the raptures of the past, — he knows
The joy of deeds in old-world eras done.

Nor only in fancy, — for each brain contains,
Writ small but clear, the history of the race,
A thousand pleasures and a thousand pains: —
Thought conquers time, and passion baffles space.

The magic touch of woman's hand restores
With thrilling present half miraculous power
The sense of all the past — its sunlit shores,

What are the unions of the present? — poor
And pallid, mere forlorn sick shades of love.
When Beatrice kissed Dante from above
Then first their joy shone, glorious to endure.
The love that death can shorten or obscure
Is not love, — love alone which hath no ending,
For ever towards God's throne on sweet wings tending,
Is love that touching, touches to secure.

The lips of love may touch, the breasts may meet,
And yet there shall be separation after;
God's scorn and all heaven's high tempestuous laughter
May round about such ghosts of lovers beat: —

See, 'tis an apple I throw you,
Your heart to prove,
Token of all that I vow you,
If you will love;
Take it, my sweetest, and bring to my arms
All the fresh fragrance of maiden-hood's charms.

But if you mean to deny me —
Heaven forfend —
Think ere with " No" you reply me
Of beauty's end;
Look at this apple and see how its bloom
Swiftly will fade and to rottenness come.

I.

A Year of love, and not one quarrel yet!
Most strange it seems to some that this should be.
Nothing to pain us! nothing to regret!
Bright sunlight in the eyes that gaze at me!

II.

Yet this is as it should be. Life is short:
Not long enough to make a loved one weep.
We love in sober earnest, not in sport;
Where quiet waters flow, the stream runs deep.

III.

Love, who hast aided where so many failed
And given me rest and solace for awhile,
Light in the evening skies where sunshine paled,

To thee far-off on sunlit land,
'Mid fragrant meads, 'neath blossomy tree,
I send this gift to heart and hand,
This song, O love, to thee.

Here, where the green waves curve and curl
And where the wide-winged winds are free,
I think of one far-off, a girl
Whose eyes are as the sea.

The sea's strange light within them shines,
The light whose gleam may never be
'Mid forests green, 'mid oaks or pines,
But only on the sea.

Here, where the sun's gold arrows dart
On waves to windward and to lee,

I.

“Leave him to me, ye roses which he sought,
And all ye hills and vales,—
And all ye green-robed dales
Made lovelier now for ever by his thought.

II.

“Leave this dead poet unto me,” God said:
“And all ye women fair
Whose sweet breath and whose hair
Round him for passion's aureole was shed.

III.

“Ye understood him not: the waves he sang
Were deaf and mute and blind
And soulless, and mankind
Was soulless too,—while yet his harp-string rang.

IV.

I.

I claim the eternal right to love, — without conditions.
To crown thee with my love, and crown thee with love's visions,
Though all men stand i' the way.
Oh, is not Love enough? If in a golden carriage,
Sweet, thou wast drawn along, towards a golden marriage,
Could Love have more triumphant words to say?

II.

I love thee with my soul. Heaven knows I love thee truly.
Each time I see thy face, the tide of love flows newly
Round laughing happier shores.
Each time I see thine eyes, my soul bursts into gladness

Would you, my friend, for-e'er remove
From all the pangs of hopeless love?
Go — take the lover's leap, and break
At once your passion, and your neck.

After Metaphysic's dreary song
Back to thee I turn,
Finding much of love's pure lore I long
Yet to learn.

After all the feasts of learning spread
Grand before my gaze,
Love's sweet mandate thrills my heart instead
At a glance of May's.

After all the lengthy windy words
Spun from mankind's tongue,
Strange relief to hear a girl's, or bird's,
Said or sung.

After wandering through the weary days,
Sad, alone,
Glad delight to feel one hour of May's

Full well I know the grief and smart
That is and will be mine:
Not vain your warning, O poor heart;
But still for love I pine.

From Heliodora fly' — But how?
I have nor strength nor shame.
The very thoughts that warn me glow
Enraptured at her name.