O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet, Whose wakening should have been in Paradise, Where souls brimful of love abide and meet; Where thirsting longing eyes Watch the slow door That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live My very life again though cold in death: Come back to me in dreams, that I may give Pulse for pulse, breath for breath: Speak low, lean low, As long ago, my love, how long ago!

WINTER: MY SECRET.

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I: Perhaps some day, who knows?

But not to-day; it froze, and blows, and snows, And you're too curious: fie!

You want to hear it? well: Only, my secret's mine, and I won't tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there's none: Suppose there is no secret after all, But only just my fun.

To-day's a nipping day, a biting day; In which one wants a shawl, A veil, a cloak, and other wraps: I cannot ope to every one who taps, And let the draughts come whistling through my hall; Come bounding and surrounding me, Come buffeting, astounding me, Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.

I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows His nose to Russian snows To be pecked at by every wind that blows?

You would not peck? I thank you for good-will, Believe, but leave that truth untested still.

Spring's an expansive time: yet I don't trust March with its peck of dust, Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers, Nor even May, whose flowers One frost may wither through the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day, When drowsy birds sing less and less, And golden fruit is ripening to excess, If there's not too much sun nor too much cloud, And the warm wind is neither still nor loud, Perhaps my secret I may say, Or you may guess.

ANOTHER SPRING.

If I might see another Spring I'd not plant summer flowers and wait: I'd have my crocuses at once, My leafless pink mezereons, My chill-veined snowdrops, choicer yet My white or azure violet, Leaf-nested primrose; anything To blow at once not late.

If I might see another Spring I'd listen to the daylight birds That build their nests and pair and sing, Nor wait for mateless nightingale; I'd listen to the l.u.s.ty herds, The ewes with lambs as white as snow, I'd find out music in the hail And all the winds that blow.

If I might see another Spring-- O stinging comment on my past That all my past results in "if"-- If I might see another Spring I'd laugh to-day, to-day is brief; I would not wait for anything: I'd use to-day that cannot last, Be glad to-day and sing.

A PEAL OF BELLS.

Strike the bells wantonly, Tinkle tinkle well; Bring me wine, bring me flowers, Ring the silver bell.

All my lamps burn scented oil, Hung on laden orange-trees, Whose shadowed foliage is the foil To golden lamps and oranges.

Heap my golden plates with fruit, Golden fruit, fresh-plucked and ripe; Strike the bells and breathe the pipe; Shut out showers from summer hours; Silence that complaining lute; Shut out thinking, shut out pain, From hours that cannot come again.

Strike the bells solemnly, Ding dong deep: My friend is pa.s.sing to his bed, Fast asleep; There's plaited linen round his head, While foremost go his feet,-- His feet that cannot carry him.

My feast's a show, my lights are dim; Be still, your music is not sweet,-- There is no music more for him: His lights are out, his feast is done; His bowl that sparkled to the brim Is drained, is broken, cannot hold; My blood is chill, his blood is cold; His death is full, and mine begun.

FATA MORGANA.

A blue-eyed phantom far before Is laughing, leaping toward the sun; Like lead I chase it evermore, I pant and run.

It breaks the sunlight bound on bound; Goes singing as it leaps along To sheep-bells with a dreamy sound A dreamy song.

I laugh, it is so brisk and gay; It is so far before, I weep: I hope I shall lie down some day, Lie down and sleep.

"NO, THANK YOU, JOHN."

I never said I loved you, John: Why will you tease me, day by day, And wax a weariness to think upon With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John; No fault of mine made me your toast: Why will you haunt me with a face as wan As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take Pity upon you, if you'd ask: And pray don't remain single for my sake Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart?--Perhaps I have not; But then you're mad to take offence That I don't give you what I have not got: Use your own common sense.

Let bygones be bygones: Don't call me false, who owed not to be true: I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more, Song-birds of pa.s.sage, days of youth: Catch at to-day, forget the days before: I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends; No more, no less: and friendship's good: Only don't keep in view ulterior ends, And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above Quibbles and shuffling off and on: Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,-- No, thank you, John.

MAY.

I cannot tell you how it was; But this I know: it came to pa.s.s Upon a bright and breezy day When May was young; ah, pleasant May!

As yet the poppies were not born Between the blades of tender corn; The last eggs had not hatched as yet, Nor any bird foregone its mate.

I cannot tell you what it was; But this I know: it did but pa.s.s.

It pa.s.sed away with sunny May, With all sweet things it pa.s.sed away, And left me old, and cold, and gray.

A PAUSE OF THOUGHT.

I looked for that which is not, nor can be, And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth But years must pa.s.s before a hope of youth Is resigned utterly.

I watched and waited with a steadfast will: And though the object seemed to flee away That I so longed for, ever day by day I watched and waited still.

Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more; My expectation wearies and shall cease; I will resign it now and be at peace: Yet never gave it o'er.

Sometimes I said: It is an empty name I long for; to a name why should I give The peace of all the days I have to live?-- Yet gave it all the same.