I walk among them all alone, His silly, stupid wife; The world seems tasteless, dead and done-- An empty thing is life.

At night his window casts a square Of light upon the lawn; I sometimes walk and watch it there Until the chill of dawn.

I have no brain to understand The books he loves to read; I only have a heart and hand He does not seem to need.

He calls me "Child"--lays on my hair Thin fingers, cold and mild; Oh! G.o.d of Love, who answers prayer, I wish I were a child!

And no one sees and no one knows (He least would know or see) That ere Love gathers next year's rose Death will have gathered me;

And on my grave will bindweed pink And round-faced daisies grow; _He_ still will read and write and think, And never, never know!

II.

It's lonely in my study here alone Now you are gone; I loved to see your white gown 'mid the flowers, While, hours on hours, I studied--toiled to weave a crown of fame About your name.

I liked to hear your sweet, low laughter ring; To hear you sing About the house while I sat reading here, My child, my dear; To know you glad with all the life-joys fair I dared not share.

I thought there would be time enough to show My love, to throw Some day with crowns of laurel at your feet Love's roses sweet; I thought I could taste love when fame was won-- Now both are done!

Thank G.o.d, your child-heart knew not how to miss The pa.s.sionate kiss Which I dared never give, lest love should rise Mighty, unwise, And bind me, with my life-work incomplete, Beside your feet.

You never knew, you lived and were content; My one chance went; You died, my little one, and are at rest-- And I, unblest, Look at these broken fragments of my life, My child, my wife.

LOVE.

I.

_THE DESIRE OF THE MOTH FOR THE STAR._

The wide, white woods are still as death or sleep, Silent with snow and sunshine and crisp air, Save when the brief, keen, sudden breezes sweep Through frozen fern-leaves rustling everywhere.

No leaves are here, nor buds for gathering, But in her garden--risen from Summer's tomb To bear the gospel of eternal Spring-- The Christmas roses bloom.

O heart of mine, we two once dreamed of days Pure from all sordid soil and worldly stain, Like this wide stretch of white untrodden ways-- Ah that such dreams should always be in vain!

We, too, in bitterest sorrow's wintry hour, Too chill to let the redder roses blow, We, too, had our delicious hidden flower That blossomed in life's snow.

O heart, if we again might hope to be Pure as the snow or Christmas roses white!

If dreams and deeds might but be one to me, And one to thee be duty and delight!

If that may ever be, one hand we know Must beckon us along the way she goes, The hand of her--as pure as any snow, And sweet as any rose.

II.

_WORSHIP._

I pa.s.sed beneath the stately Norman portal, I trod the stones that pilgrim feet have trod, I pa.s.sed between the pillars tall and slender, That yearn to heaven as man's soul yearns to G.o.d.

The coloured glory of the pictured windows Fell on me as I kneeled before the shrine Where, round the image of the Mother-maiden, The countless flames of love-lit tapers shine.

The hymn rose on the wings of children's voices, The incense thrilled my soul to voiceless prayer With scent of dear dead days, and years forgotten-- And all the soul of all the past was there.

But in my heart as there I kneeled before her, Not to the Mother-maid the winged prayers flew-- They pa.s.sed her by and sought, instead, your presence; The incense of my soul was burned for you.

For you, for you were all the tapers lighted, For you the flowers were on the altar laid, For you the hymn rose thrilling through the chancel To the clerestory's mysteries of shade.

To you the anthems of a thousand churches Rose where the taper-pointed flames burned clear; To you--through all these leagues of deathly distance, To you--as unattainable as dear.

Dear as the dreams life never brings to blossom, Lost as the seeds hope sowed, which never grew, Pure as the love which only you could waken, Prayer, incense, tears, and love were all for you!

III.

_SPLENDIDE MENDAX._

When G.o.d some day shall call my name And scorch me with a blaze of shame, Bringing to light my inmost thought And all the evil I have wrought,

Tearing away the veils I wove To hide my foulness from my love, And leaving my transgressions bare To the whole heaven's clear, cold air--

When all the angels weep to see The branded, outcast soul of me, One saint at least will hide her face-- She will not look at my disgrace.

"At least, O G.o.d, O G.o.d Most High, He loved me truly!" she will cry, And G.o.d will pause before He send My soul to find its fitting end.

Then, lest heaven's light should leave her face To think one loved her and was base, I will speak out at judgment day-- "I never loved her!" I will say.

LOVE SONG.

Light of my life! though far away, My sun, you shine, Your radiance warms me every day Like fire or wine.

Life of my heart! in every beat This sad heart gives, It owns your sovereignty complete, By which it lives.

Heart of my soul! serene and strong, Eyes of my sight!

Together we can do no wrong, Apart, no right.

THE QUARREL.

Come down, my dear, from this high, wind-swept hill, Where the wild plovers scream against the sky; Down in the valley everything is still-- We also will be silent, you and I.