A STAR that I love,
The sea, and I,
Spake together across the night.
‘Have peace,’ said the star,
‘Have power,’ said the sea;
‘Yea!’ I answered, ‘and Fame's delight!’
The wind on his way
To Araby
Paused and listened and sighed and said,
‘I passed on the sands
A Pharaoh's tomb
All these did he have—and he is dead.’

—I KNOW a lovely lady who is dead,
A wreath of lilies bound her charming head,
Her corn-flower eyes were closed as if in sleep,
And on her lips lay silence gay and deep.

No more the garden where she used to walk
Is filled at dusk with laughter and with talk,
No more the swaying fireflies in their glowing
Lantern to left and right her slender going.

I know a lovely lady who is dead,
And fools say there is nothingness instead.

Nothing of all this loveliness? . . . poor dear,
Beauty is not a matter of a year.

Some look. to see the sweet Outlines
And beauteous Forms that Love does wear
Some look. to find out Patches. Paint.
Bracelets & Stays & Powderd Hair

O Love! my drooping Genius raise
Beyond these Organs Sight;
So high from Earth now let me soar,
That this dull World may be discern'd no more,
But lost in Streams of Light.
O mighty Love! my Genius raise;
New Tune my Lyre, refine my Lays;
Teach me thy wondrous Works to praise,
And to adore thy Might.
With lofty Thoughts, with heav'nly Fire,
Do thou my humble Muse inspire,
That she an Hymn may sing,
Unto the God of Love, unto th' Almighty King!

When Love doth lie a-dreaming
His weapons you may spy—
His arrows by him gleaming,
And eke his bow doth lie.

But when he is assailing
Some maiden's tender heart,
It is all unavailing
To think to see his dart.

His bunch of fatal lances,
And eke his mighty bow,
Display but in his glances,
Or in his smile do show.

Who'd think that eyes so pleading
Had ever, mocking, laughed?
Or his red lips, receding,
Could speed such fatal shaft?

O maids, who hope to capture
His arms of sorcery,
Seek him when noonday rapture

Draw not away thy hands, my love,
With wind alone the branches move,
And though the leaves be scant above
The Autumn shall not shame us.

Say: Let the world wax cold and drear,
What is the worst of all the year
But life, and what can hurt us, dear,
Or death, and who shall blame us?

Ah, when the summer comes again
How shall we say, we sowed in vain?
The root was joy, the stem was pain,
The ear a nameless blending.

The root is dead and gone, my love,
The stem's a rod our truth to prove;
The ear is stored for nought to move

Love, the winged lord of art,
That all sweet song inspires,
First-fruits from the gentle heart
Evermore requires.

Not in every field he sows,
Never sows he long,
But the swiftest path he goes
Blossoms into song.

Catch the flying seed who may,
Ere the god go by;
Little love has come my way—
Little song have I.

'T IS now you must your Virtue prove;
And fly (dear Friend) from what you love.

Scotland prides her in the “Bonnet Blue,”
That it brooks no stain in Love or War:
Be it, on Ottilie's head, a token true
Of my Scottish Love to kind Weimar!

A THOUSAND lilies, a thousand pinks,
I take in my arms and clasp them round
Close as the loving vine-branch links
The bough in its clinging tendrils wound.

For joy has taken abode with me,
And care no longer turns pale my face,
I love all life—and if these things be,
'Tis the gift, fair dream, of thy heaven-sent grace

I could climb the sky thy flight to follow …
But alas! my joy lives but a breath,
For the fleeting dream is a vision hollow,
Like clouds in the wind it vanisheth.