When you were here, ah foolish then!
I scarcely knew I loved you, dear.
I know it now, I know it when
You are no longer here.

When you were here, I sometimes tired,
Ah me! that you so loved me, dear.
Now, in these weary days desired,
You are no longer here.

When you were here, did either know
That each so loved the other, dear?
But that was long and long ago:
You are no longer here.

It was the love of life, when I was young,
Which led me out in summer to explore
The daybreak world A bird's first notes were sung
For childhood standing at the garden door.
That loneliness it was which made me wise
When I looked out and saw
Dark trees against the strangely brightening skies
And learnt the love of earth that is my law.

The love of life is my religion still.
Steadfast through rigorous nights, companioned only
By what I am and what I strive to be,—
I seek no mystery now beyond the hill
And wait no change but to become more lonely,

Thou sayest that I am heartless and a coward,
That I with blandishments thy passion drew
Until thy will was weakened and o'erpowered,
Then back to thee that love again I threw.

Thou doest me wrong when thou dost call me coward.
To kill a passion one must needs be brave:
To tear a love out, strong and hope enflowered,
And cast it warm and pulsing in the grave.

I plucked my love while in its virgin beauty
And memorised it, for I was afraid
That it might warm to lust or chill to duty;
Or change to hate, or suffer blight or fade.

Methought I saw the lovers Time has known—
Not Helen with the earth-flame in her eyes,
Neither Francesca with her stifled moan,
Nor any like to these, but otherwise.

Quiet, unluted lovers all obscure,
Sweet as with garden fragrance and still dew,
Whose passions were both prosperous and pure,
Whose lives were all their loveliest dreams made true.

They crouched not low bewailing mournful chance,
But seemed strong souls beneath the day's white star,
Revealed a moment in my breathless trance,
Erect and fair as the immortals are.

Far more priceless than the diamonds rare from Golconda's rich mine;
Far more precious than the laurel wreaths that victor's brows entwine,
Is the garland that fond memory weaves, and twines about the heart—
For care nor time, nor war nor crime, can make its tints depart.

A mother's love! most sacred boon to mortals ever given;
'Tis not of earth; a mother's love was surely born in heaven!
See with what gentle, tender care her darling child she shields
From harms of life, from every strife this sphere terrestrial yields!

Coy , sweet maid, I love so well,
Fair Estelle.
How much I love thee tongue can't tell,
Sweet Estelle.
But I love thee—love thee true—
More than violets love the dew,
More than roses love the sun—
Do I love thee, dearest one,
Dear Estelle!

Ah! my heart love's passions swell
For Estelle!
How I love my actions tell
Thee, Estelle:
That I love thy smiling face,
And thy captivating grace—
Love thy dreamy 'witching eyes
More than planets love the skies,
Wee Estelle!

Now I smite my lyre to swell
For Estelle;

I laid my inventory at the hand
Of Death, who in his gloomy arbour sate;
And while he conned it, sweet and desolate
I heard Love singing in that quiet land.
He read the record even to the end—
The heedless, livelong injuries of Fate,
The burden of foe, the burden of love and hate;
The wounds of foe, the bitter wounds of friend:

All, all, he read, ay, even the indifference,
The vain talk, vainer silence, hope and dream.
He questioned me: “What seek'st thou then instead?”
I bowed my face in the pale evening gleam.

Loose hands and part: I am not she you sought,
——The fair one whom in all our dreams you see,
——But something more of earth and less than she,
That crowded her an instant from your thought.
Blameless we face the fate this hour has brought.
——Unwitting I took hers; I set you free
——From all that you unwitting gave to me;
Seek her and find her; I do grudge her naught.
Love, after daylight, dark; so there is left
——This season stripped of you; but yet I know,
Remembering the old, I cannot make
These new days bitter or myself bereft.

I HOLD him, verily, of mean emprise,
Whose rashness tempts a strength too great to bear;
As I have done, alas! who turned mine eyes
Upon those perilous eyes of the most fair.
Unto her eyes I bow'd;
No need her other beauties in that hour
Should aid them, cold and proud:
As when the vassals of a mighty lord,
What time he needs his power,
Are all girt round him to make strong his sword.

With such exceeding force the stroke was dealt
That by mine eyes its path might not be stay'd;
But deep into the heart it pierced, which felt

I love the church that Jesus bought,
And know that it is right;
I go there on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I love to sing the songs of God,
Such worship must be right,
This I do on Sunday morn,
But not on Sunday night.

God bless the preacher too,
And give him power and might,
But put the sinner in his place,
I won't be there Sunday night.

I love to hear the Gospel too,
It gives me pure delight;
I hear it on Sunday morning,
But not on Sunday night.

I know I need more strength
To keep me in the fight;