I

K NEE-DEEP among the buttercups, the sun
Gilding the scutcheons and the gilded mail,
Gilding the crowned helm and leopard crest,
Dear, see they pant and strike at your desire.

And one goes down among the emerald grass,
And one stands over him his dagger poised,
His visor raised, his blood-shot eyes a-travel
Over the steel that lies between his feet,
Crushing the buttercups . . . and so the point goes in
Between the gorget and the habergeon . . .
And blood floods out upon the buttercups,
Gules, or and vert beneath an azure sky.

Ah, let my hand lie warm in thine, the hand that held the pen;
It shall not miss its once-loved task, nor long to work again.
And let me hide my weary eyes against thy sheltering breast;
Let others wear the bays I craved; I know that love is best!

Art's paths were over-sharp for me, and cold its mountain air;
For I am but a woman, dear, and Love's land is so fair!
So half-way up Fame's steep incline I pause and yield my place.
What! dare you ask if I regret? Bend close and read my face!

T ERROR'S and wrath's brave champion, Doctor Ban,
Scorning us holders to the loving plan,
Asks if we " take God for a gentleman?"

The scandal of the question match who can!
God's not, we own, to be defined by man;
But why must he resemble Doctor Ban?

I ANTHE took me by both ears and said
You are so rash, I own I am afraid.
Prop, or keep hidden in your breast, my name,
But be your love as lasting as your fame.

Censured by her who stands above
The Sapphic Muse in song and love,
" For minding what such people do,"
I turn in confidence to you.
Now, Forster, did you never stop
At orange-peel or turnip-top,
To kick them from your path, and then
Complacently walk on agen?

Smiles soon abate; the boisterous throes
Of anger long burst forth;
Inconstantly the south-wind blows,
But steadily the north.

Thy star, O Venus! often changes
Its radiant seat above,
The chilling pole-star never ranges —
'Tis thus with Hate and Love.

Sweet evenings come and go, love,
They came and went of yore:
This evening of our life, love,
Shall go and come no more.

When we have passed away, love,
All things will keep their name;
But yet no life on earth, love,
With ours will be the same.

The daisies will be there, love,
The stars in heaven will shine:
I shall not feel thy wish, love,
Nor thou my hand in thine.

A better time will come, love,
And better souls be born:
I would not be the best, love,
To leave thee now forlorn.

Six hundred years ago, in Dante's time,
Before his cheek was furrowed by deep rhyme —
When Europe, fed afresh from Eastern story,
Was like a garden tangled with the glory
Of flowers hand-planted and of flowers air-sown,
Climbing and trailing, budding and full-blown,
Where purple bells are tossed amid pink stars,
And springing blades, green troops in innocent wars,
Crowd every shady spot of teeming earth,
Making invisible motion visible birth —
Six hundred years ago, Palermo town
Kept holiday. A deed of great renown,

On love, on grief, on every human thing,
Time sprinkles Lethe's water with his wing.

I

In vain, dear Youth, you say you love,
And yet my Marks of Passion blame;
Since Jealousie alone can prove,
The surest Witness of my Flame:
And she who without that, a Love can vow,
Believe me, Shepherd , does not merit you.

II

Then give me leave to doubt, that Fire
I kindle, may another warm:
A Face that cannot move Desire,