With Chloe , wanton Cupid , play'd,
At cards, and won all, from the Maid,
Her jealous doubts, her anxious fears,
Her sudden sighs, her angry tears.

She slaked,—the Urchin, won, beside,
Her cruel scorn, her haughty pride;
But worst, indeed, he waged his dart,
Turn'd trumps, and won her virgin heart!

I HOLD you to my lips and heart, fair flowers,
Dear, first-begotten children of the sun—
Whose summer lives in winter were begun;
Sweet aliens from the warm June's pleasant bowers,
Mocked at by cruel winds in desolate hours
Through which the sands of winter slowly run:
I touch your tender petals, one by one,
And miss no beauty born of summer showers.

I have a friend who to Life's winter days
Will bring the warmth and splendor of the June;
From him ye come, yet need not speak his praise,
Since on my heart is written well that rune,

Heavily hangs the rye
Bent to the trampled ground;
While brave men fighting die
Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white birch-tree
A Cossack bold is slain—
They lift him tenderly
Into the ruined grain.

Some one has borne him there,
Some one has put in place
A scarlet cloth, with prayer,
Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come.
Dove-like she looks—all grey—
Stares at the soldier dumb
And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid
—Ah, how unlike she is!—
With grief and passion swayed

So far, so far have I come,
Blown by the Wind of Fate:
Whither? The Voice is dumb.—
The Silence dismays me, I wait.

The Sunshine mocks me at morn,
The Stars deride me at night;
Shag strength in my soul be born
To triumph over their slight?

Shall I live when their fires are out?
Shall I reach where they cannot go?
Ah, Fate, resolve me the doubt,—
Blow on, strong Wind! I will know.

“Unbraid her dusky hair
And place a garland there.”

The Duchess Marusenka
To the city Horodenka
Trips with her small white feet.

She cuts barwenok there
To wreathe her dusky hair.

Her mother comes, pursuing,
“My child, what art thou doing?”

“Dear mother, can it be
Thou hast no need for me?

“Thou wilt not let me stay
But strive to force away.

“To give away thy daughter
To him who now has sought her?

“Still very young am I,
Not very wise. Then why …”

“I force and give away
What I would not have stay.

The wild, beleaguering March wind storms my door,
And in his wake surges an army vast,—
Old Hopes, old Dreams, old Love, too dear to last,
And all that made life glad in days of yore,
Turned now to ghosts, and from their alien shore
Come back for this one night to bring my Past,
And vex me with its spell about me cast,
Though It and I be parted evermore.

Beleaguering host! I bid ye now avaunt!
I will not listen, though ye call for aye
As pitiless as blasts from this March sky
I found ye once. What right have ye to haunt

Love is but folly,—since the wisest love,
Itself disclaiming, would invent a use
For its free motion.—Penitents recluse,
That scarce allow the natural heart to move,
With amorous ditties woo the mystic dove,
Or fondly bid their heavenly spouse unloose
Their sacred zones.—The politic excuse
Of worldlings would to worldly ends improve
The gentle madness.—Courtiers glibly preach
How Love and Woman best rehearse the play
That statesmen act.—The grave fine-spoken leech
Counts how the beatings of the pulse betray
The sweet disease.—And all the poets teach

Far out at sea I hear the wind complain,—
With the old plaint that vexed my childish ear,
And seemed the cry of spirits drawing near
To sob their incommunicable pain.
Whence did they come, and whither go again?
My very heart stood still with sudden fear
When the forlorn approach I used to hear
Of all the shuddering, melancholy train.

And lo, in this night's vigil far at sea,
The same long cry!—Are they unpardoned yet?
Does the old pain still goad them till they come,
Unsheltered souls, to sob once more to me
Of some dead wrong they never can forget

O THOU long-silent, solitary house,
Where Love once came and went with joyous cries,
Or lingered long, sighing as Summer sighs
When Autumn's breath begins her fear to rouse
With fierce caress that shall make bare her boughs
Her tender boughs, and all her beauty's prize
Deliver, faded, to the winds that rise
And rend her crown from her dishonored brows!—

O solitary house! thine open door
Again shall welcome sweet Love's wingèd tread
His eyes shall light thee, as they lit of yore
In days when Love and Joy were newly wed;

In the black jungle of the sky now wakes
The Lightning's writhing brood of fiery snakes,
And lion Thunder from his lair of cloud
Startles the dusky world with challenge loud.