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PASSION.

As a weed beneath the ocean, As a pool beneath a tree Answers with each breath or motion An imperious mastery;

So my spirit swift with passion Finds in every look a sign, Catching in some wondrous fashion Every mood that governs thine.

In a moment it will borrow, Flashing in a gusty train, Laughter and desire and sorrow Anger and delight and pain.

A BALLADE OF WAITING.

No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought So rich as the arms of my love can be; No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly.

Dear lady of love, be kind to me In days when the waters of hope abate, And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught No glitter of wile or traitorie, More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, Or the heart of a crimson peony; Oh turn not its beauty away from me; To kiss it and cling to it early and late Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

Rich hair that a painter of old had sought For the weaving of some soft phantasy, Most fair when the streams of it run distraught On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly; Dear Lady, gather it close to me, Weaving a nest for the double freight Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

_Envoi._

So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, For love is mightiest next to fate, And none shall be happier, Love, than we, In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.

BEFORE SLEEP.

Now the creeping nets of sleep Stretch about and gather nigh, And the midnight dim and deep Like a spirit passes by, Trailing from her crystal dress Dreams and silent frostiness.

Yet a moment, ere I be Tangled in the snares of night, All the dreamy heart of me To my Lady takes its flight, To her chamber where she lies, Wrapt in midnight phantasies.

Over many a glinting street And the snow capped roofs of men, Towers that tremble with the beat Of the midnight bells, and then, Where my body may not be, Stands my spirit holily.

Wake not, Lady, wake not soon: Through the frosty windows fall Broken glimmers of the moon Dimly on the floor and wall; Wake not, Lady, never care, 'Tis my spirit kneeling there.

Let him kneel a moment now, For the minutes fly apace; Let him see the sleeping brow, And the sweetly rounded face: He shall tell me soon aright How my Lady looks to-night.

How her tresses out and in Fold in many a curly freak, Round about the snowy chin And the softly tinted cheek, Where no sorrows now can weep, And the dimples lie asleep.

How her eyelids meet and match, Gathered in two dusky seams, Each the little creamy thatch Of an azure house of dreams, Or two flowers that love the light Folded softly up at night.

How her bosom, breathing low, Stirs the wavy coverlet With a motion soft and slow: Oh, my Lady, wake not yet; There without a thought of guile Let my spirit dream a while.

Yet, my spirit, back to me, Hurry soon and have a care; Love will turn to agony, If you rashly linger there; Bending low as spirits may, Touch her lips and come away.

So, fond spirit, beauty-fed, Turning when your watch is o'er, Weave a cross above the bed And a sleep-rune on the floor, That no evil enter there, Ugly shapes and dreams beware.

Then, ye looming nets of sleep, Ye may have me all your own, For the night is wearing deep And the ice-winds whisk and moan; Come with all your drowsy stress, Dreams and silent frostiness.

A SONG.

Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me.

Oh hours that creep, With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

Come, night, anear; I'll whisper in thine ear What makes me so unhappy, full of care; Dear night, I die For love that all men buy With tears, and know not it is dark despair.

Dear night, I pray, How is it that men say That love is sweet? It is not sweet to me.

For one boy's sake A poor girl's heart must break; So sweet, so true, and yet it could not be!

Oh, I loved well, Such love as none can tell: It was so true, it could not make him know: For he was blind, All light and all unkind: Oh, had he known, would he have hurt me so?

Oh night and sleep, Ye are so soft and deep, I am so weary, come ye soon to me.

Oh hours that creep, With so much time to weep, I am so tired, can ye no swifter be?

WHAT DO POETS WANT WITH GOLD?

What do poets want with gold, Cringing slaves and cushioned ease; Are not crusts and garments old Better for their souls than these?

Gold is but the juggling rod Of a false usurping god, Graven long ago in hell With a sombre stony spell, Working in the world forever.

Hate is not so strong to sever Beating human heart from heart.

Soul from soul we shrink and part, And no longer hail each other With the ancient name of brother Give the simple poet gold, And his song will die of cold.

He must walk with men that reel On the rugged path, and feel Every sacred soul that is Beating very near to his.

Simple, human, careless, free, As God made him, he must be: For the sweetest song of bird Is the hidden tenor heard In the dusk, at even-flush, From the forest's inner hush, Of the simple hermit thrush.

What do poets want with love?

Flowers that shiver out of hand, And the fervid fruits that prove Only bitter broken sand?

Poets speak of passion best, When their dreams are undistressed, And the sweetest songs are sung, E'er the inner heart is stung.

Let them dream; 'tis better so; Ever dream, but never know.

If their spirits once have drained All that goblet crimson-stained, Finding what they dreamed divine, Only earthly sluggish wine, Sooner will the warm lips pale, And the flawless voices fail, Sooner come the drooping wing, And the afterdays that bring, No such songs as did the spring.

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