I.

L OVE can wait!
Being so patient it is strong;
If in this world it wait in vain,
It surely shall not suffer long;
For in some other state,
Some life of larger scope,
It ultimately shall attain
The full fruition of its hope.
This is love's faith; defying fate,
Time, change, neglect and laughter,
It can wait

Where dwelleth Love? oh, tell me where!
In some dim region of delight,
Beyond the dayspring's golden bars,
Above the uttermost bright stars,
Far in the azure Infinite?
Oh, no! not there.

Is it in lands the poets know,
Where lovely shapes go up and down
Through vaulted glooms and flickering gleams,
In the pale, pictured hall of dreams,
To fairy music, faintly blown?
Oh, no! not so.

Dwelt she in happy Arcady,
With the Saturnian race of men,
Ere yet with wisdom, war and gold,

B LANDINA'S nice; Blandina's fat;
Joyous, and sane and sound and sweet,
And handsome too, and all else that
In persons of her years is meet.
Behold Blandina!
She's alive, and testifies
With all the emphasis that lies
In busy hands and dancing eyes
That life's a prize —
That all the mischief that provokes
Doubt in the matter lies in folks,
And that, provided folks are fit,
Life's not a failure — not a bit.

Blandina loves a picture-book,
Blandina dearly loves a boy;
She loves her dinner, loves the cook,

T is love that makes the stars revolve;
'Tis love that makes the world go round.
This, Christmas purpose I resolve
On earth to make love more abound.
On me, dear maid, thy love bestow,
And match my full heart's overflow!

Nor gems nor gear to thee I bring;
Nor gauds nor merchandises rare.
Love's offerings I may not sing,
But love itself I have to spare

Her eyes say Yes, her lips say No.
Ah, tell me, Love, when she denies,
Shall I believe the lips or eyes?
Bid eyes no more dissemble,
Or lips too tremble
The way her heart would go!

Love may be vowed by lips, although
Cold truth, in unsurrendering eyes,
The armistice of lips denies.
But can fond eyes dissemble,
Or false lips tremble
To this soft Yes in No?

The beauty of no woman to my flesh
Is intimate spirit if she be not pale;
I love not roses that are dewy fresh
If on a cheek they tell no passionate tale;
And passion is the after-sunset breath
That withers them, wrinkling their petals white;
Also, since love is next of kin to death,
Let love foreshow the colours of that night.
There is a whiteness of thrice mortal fire,
And of this ardency immaculate,
Which is the seal of perfected desire,
The promise of desires yet passionate,
I would some ardent weariness should speak:

Her eyes are brands that keep the angry heat
Of fire that crawls and leaves an ashen path.
The dust of this devouring flame she hath
Upon her cheeks and eyelids. Fresh and sweet
In days that were, her sultry beauty now
Is pain transfigured, love's impenitence,
The memory of a maiden innocence,
As a crown set upon a weary brow.

She sits, and fain would listen, fain forget;
She smiles, but with those tragic, waiting eyes,
Those proud and piteous lips that hunger yet
For love's fulfilment. Ah, when Landry cries

If there seem'd coldness in my glance,
Oh, could thy heart not read
I did but feign indifference,
That thou the more might'st plead!
If I confessed a doubt upon
The love Ifound so true,
Oh! 'twas not that I wish'd thee gone,
But that thou more wouldst woo!

'Twas sweet to have a thousand fears,
And each by thee removed;
'Twas bliss — 'twas music to my ears —
To love and be beloved!

I TOLD you Roses ne'er would wed
Their bloom to wintry air;
But then, you press'd my lips, and said
The rose you loved bloom'd there! —
I said the wintry day was bare,
The sun far out of view;
You smiled, and vowed my golden hair
Was sunlight unto you!

I said the woods no more rejoice
With notes, more sweet than words;
But, oh, you whisper'd then, my voice
Was sweeter than the birds:
And still whatever charm I named
That lends to Spring delight,
You, for your own loved maiden, claim'd,
And lived but in her sight!

When the mother's heart is gone
From the children she hath borne,
Claims the poor — the buried-one —
Thought or prayer — by night or morn?
No: — to pleasure's path again
Swift their careless feet return;
Little is she thought of then , —
When the heart that loved is gone!

Tears, like passing dew-drops found
Half the summer-roses o'er; —
Soon as shaken to the ground