Nay, this is all we did with our hour-- We tore it to pieces, that precious flower; Like any daisy, with listless mirth, We shed its petals upon the earth; And, children-like, when it all was done, We cried unto G.o.d for another one.

XIII

MET ONCE MORE

O Lady, I have looked on thee once more, Thou too hast looked on me, as thou hadst said, And though the joy was pain, the pain was bliss, Bliss that more happy lovers well may miss: Captives feast richly on a little bread, So are we very rich who are so poor.

XIV

A JUNE LILY

[_The poet dramatises his Lady's loneliness_]

Alone! once more alone! how like a tomb My little parlour sounds which only now Yearned like some holy chancel with his voice.

So still! so empty! Surely one might fear The walls should meet in ruinous collapse That held no more his music. Yet they stand Firm in a foolish firmness, meaningless As frescoed sepulchre some Pharaoh built But never came to sleep in; built, indeed, For--that grey moth to flit in like a ghost!

Alone! another feast-day come and gone, Watched through the weeks as in my garden there I watch a seedling grow from blade to bud Impatient for its blossom. So this day Has bloomed at last, and we have plucked its flower And shared its sweetness, and once more the time Is as that stalk from which but now I plucked Its last June-lily as a parting sign.

Yea, but he seemed to love it! yet if he But craved it in deceit of tenderness To make my heart glow brighter with a lie!

Will it indeed be cherished as he said, Or will he keep it near his book a while, And when grown rank forget it in his gla.s.s, And leave it for the maid who dusts his room To clear away and cast upon the heap?

Or, may be, will he bury it away In some old drawer with other mummy-flowers?

Nay, but I wrong thee, dear one, thinking so.

My boy, my love, my poet! Nay, I know Thy lonely room, tomb-like to thee as mine, Tomb-like as tomb of some returning ghost Seems only bright about my lily-flower.

And, mayhap, while I wrong thee thus in thought Thou bendest o'er it, feigning for some ease Of parted ache conceits of poet-wit On petal and on stamen--let me try!

If lilies be alike thine is as this, I wonder if thy reading tallies too.

Six petals with a dewdrop in their heart, Six pure brave years, an ivory cup of tears; Six pearly-pillared stamens golden-crowned Growing from out the dewdrop, and a seventh Soaring alone trilobed and mystic green; Six pearl-bright years aflower with gold of joy, Sprung from the heart of those brave tear-fed years: But what that seventh single stamen is My little wit must leave for thee to tell.

But neither poet nor a sibyl thou!

What brave conceit had he, my poet, built; No jugglery of numbers that mean nought, That can mean nought for ever, unto us.

XV

REGRET

One asked of regret, And I made reply: To have held the bird, And let it fly; To have seen the star For a moment nigh, And lost it Through a slothful eye; To have plucked the flower And cast it by; To have one only hope-- To die.

XVI

LOVE AFAR

Love, art thou lonely to-day?

Lost love that I never see, Love that, come noon or come night, Comes never to me; Love that I used to meet In the hidden past, in the land Of forbidden sweet.

Love! do you never miss The old light in the days?

Does a hand Come and touch thee at whiles Like the wand of old smiles, Like the breath of old bliss?

Or hast thou forgot, And is all as if not?

What was it we swore?

'Evermore!

I and Thou,'

Ah, but Fate held the pen And wrote N Just before: So that now, See, it stands, Our seals and our hands, 'I and Thou, Nevermore!'

We said 'It is best!'

And then, dear, I went And returned not again.

Forgive that I stir, Like a breath in thy hair, The old pain, 'Twas unmeant.

I will strive, I will wrest Iron peace--it _is_ best.

But, O for thy hand Just to hold for a s.p.a.ce, For a moment to stand In the light of thy face; Translate Then to Now, To hear 'Is it Thou?'

And reply 'It is I!'

Then, then I could rest, Ah, then I could wait Long and late.

XVII

Canst thou be true across so many miles, So many days that keep us still apart?

Ah, canst thou live upon remembered smiles, And ask no warmer comfort for thy heart?

I call thy name right up into the sky, Dear name, O surely she shall hear and hark!

Nay, though I toss it singing up so high, It drops again, like yon returning lark.

O be a dove, dear name, and find her breast, There croon and croodle all the lonely day; Go tell her that I love her still the best, So many days, so many miles, away.

_POSTSCRIPT_

_So sang young Love in high and holy dream Of a white Love that hath no earthly taint, So rapt within his vision he did seem Less like a boyish singer than a saint.

Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high, It is a bird that hath no feet for earth: Strange wings, strange eyes, go seek another sky And find thy fellows of an equal birth.

For many a body-sweet material thing, What canst thou give us half so dear as these?

We would not soar amid the stars to sing, Warm and content amid the nested trees.

Young Seraph, go and lake thy song to heaven, We would not grow unhappy with our lot, Leave us the simple love the earth hath given-- Sing where thou wilt, so that we hear thee not_.

COR CORDIUM

TO MY WIFE, MILDRED

_Dear wife, there is no word in all my songs But unto thee belongs: Though I indeed before our true day came Mistook thy star in many a wandering flame, Singing to thee in many a fair disguise, Calling to thee in many another's name, Before I knew thine everlasting eyes.