I have come back, oh! first love, love to thee,
Behind thy trellised vine thy lute's soft tone
Speaks to my soul, — my fingers seek thine own, —
Oh! golden hearted, love-kissed Poesy.

I have come back, thy lowly one to be, —
Lend thou thine ear to hear my fretful moan;
I asked for bread, the hard world gave a stone, —
Cold was the pulse of life by land and sea.

I have come back, — breathe on my taper, love, —
The spark died not, it only smouldered low;
I could not keep the white flame free from doubt,

A GENRE PICTURE .

I.

" O Love is like the roses,
And every rose shall fall,
For sure as summer closes
They perish one and all.
Then love, while leaves are on the tree,
And birds sing in the bowers:
When winter comes, too late 'twill be
To pluck the happy flowers."

It is a maiden singing,
An ancient girl, in sooth;
The dizzy room is ringing
With her shrill song of youth;

Strange to a sensing motherhood,
Loved as a toy — not understood,
Child of a dusky father, bold;
Frail little captive, exiled, cold.

Oft when the brooding planets sleep,
You through their drowsy empires creep,
Flinging your arms through their empty space,
Seeking the breast of an unknown face.

Roses after rain,
Pleasure after pain,
Happiness will soothe the sigh,
Smiles await the tear-dimmed eye —
Bloom will follow blight,
Daylight trails the night,
Life is sweeter
Love is deeper
In the heart's twilight!

I MIGHT , of course, send violets by the score, dear,
(And stretch quite to the breaking point, my credit)
In verses, tell the story o'er and o'er, dear—
But “really” poets have much better said it.
I might send candy, books or songs, I know,
But all of these seem stupid commonplaces,
I 'd rather be a kid again and show
My love in gorgeous hearts and paper laces!
“If you love me as I love you—”
Is best of all, when it is true!

You might disguise your hand and shyly send me
A dainty volume, filled with sentiment,

The petals of the faded rose
Commingle silently,
One with the atoms of the dust,
One with the chaliced sea.

The essence of my fleeting youth
Caught in the web of time,
Exhales within the springing flowers
Or breathes in love sublime.

Not for your tender eyes that shine,
Nor for your red lips pulsing wine,
I love you, dear: your soul divine,
In sweet captivity, holds mine!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The tender eyes have lost their glow,
The flagons of the lips run low,
The autumn trembles in the air, —
A woman passes solitaire!

It is n't the robins' coming
That makes the spring seem near,
It is n't the brown bees' humming
The soft air, sweet and clear,
It is n't the violets' blooming,
The buds on the dogwood tree,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

It is n't the roar and rattle
Of strife that does not cease;
It is n't the daily battle
That will not give me peace.
It is n't the fame or fortune
That urges me endlessly,
It 's just my love in the garden
Singing a song for me!

When I have finished the task, dear,

Winter has chased away
Blue skies and songs of May.
She, too, is old now,
White-haired, with wrinkled brow;
But those eyes, dear eyes,
Are aglow with their light,
As when the day dies
Shine stars of the night.

Never alone,
A hand holds her own
Strong hand whose clasp
Thrills with its grasp;
And her heart is aflame
As love whispers her name.

Contented she waits
Till the great Temple gates
Are flung wide,
Then forth from the night
Steps the bride,
Forth into the light.
And then shall one say,

Set your love before me as a shield!
That, whistling by, the shadowy, wounding spear
Of the world's hate may seek my heart in vain,
Where on your breast it nestles — half in fear
Of the divine sweet silence round us twain —
Set your love before me as a shield!

Set your love before me as a light!
A candle tall: so shall I, weak, prevail
O'er darkness; pass beyond all venomed things
Into the endless Dawn, gold-starred, rose-pale,
And murmurous with whirring silver wings —
Set your love before me as a light!