I

Love, loyallest and lordliest born of things,
Immortal that shouldst be, though all else end,
In plighted hearts of fearless friend with friend,
Whose hand may curb or clip thy plume-plucked wings?
Not grief's nor time's: though these be lords and kings
Crowned, and their yoke bid vassal passions bend,
They may not pierce the spirit of sense, or blend
Quick poison with the soul's live watersprings

I

Queen, for whose house my fathers fought,
With hopes that rose and fell,
Red star of boyhood's fiery thought,
Farewell.

They gave their lives, and I, my queen,
Have given you of my life,
Seeing your brave star burn high between
Men's strife.

The strife that lightened round their spears
Long since fell still: so long
Hardly may hope to last in years

Not his first love, nor last, was she who bore
His name now. Yet he would not have her guess
That it was less of love than loneliness
Had brought him tardily suppliant to her door.
Penurious years had taught him to be more
Frugal than once — content with something less
Than the consummate bliss he must confess
He counted now but myth or metaphor.

Yet, lacking love, he gave good counterfeit
In tenderness, forever vigilant lest
Gesture or glance might lead her to surmise
The counterfeit. He envied her a bit

The fairy poet takes a sheet
Of moonbeam, silver white;
His ink is dew from daisies sweet,
His pen a point of light.

My love I know is fairer far
Than his, (though she is fair,)
And we should dwell where fairies are —
For I could praise her there.

I

What is love of one's land? ...
I don't know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year, for a day,
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still,
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;
It is deep and quiet as the grave,

Some tell of Thebes and some relate
Of Phrygian wars the conflicts dire;
But I, who feel no martial fire,
A captive, glory in my fate.

Of fleets victorious am I
No slave; nor yet an army's prize:
My conquerors they are the sly
Foes darting fires from my love's eyes.

Like a child engrossed in play, you sit, young mother, by the cradle, and your mock-serious face looks so childishly charming, childishly charming the face and childlike blue the eyes .
With smile-wreathed lips sleeps the child in the cradle; it is also time for the little lovely mother to retire ... Yet the little, lovely mother with her head nods: nay ...

O had we ne'er looed one anither
We had neer been curs'd togither
Never shunned and never hated
Had we never been created

Woman in her own true nature
Is a fair and lovely creature
Man a savage from the wild
But when loved a very child

Had they ne'er been put togither
They'd ne'er slighted ane anither
Rift and scar[r]ed like clouds o' thunder
Now they're lost and lone asunder

Lost in crowds and lone togither
Love says love ye one anither
Love's anither name for sorrow
Which from hate we often borrow

She could have loved — her woman-passions beat
Deeper than theirs, or else she had not known
How to have dropped her heart beneath their feet
A living stepping-stone:

The little hands — did they not clutch her heart?
The guarding arms — was she not very tired?
Was it an easy thing to walk apart,
Unresting, undesired?

She gave away her crown of woman-praise,
Her gentleness and silent girlhood grace

Among all the millions of human eyes the chosen pair in sweetness. Smooth hair, fragrant like soul — and above it the aureole of love.
A forehead, clear as a child's thought, and hands that never did caress me yet, and lips, where only truth is spoken and where every word is sweet song.
And in the two-and-twenty year old breast a heart that knew of no sin, and where the breath of the god of love daily writes anew his Tenth Commandment.
And in the blessed, deep heart a stream of pity for my sea of pain.