On Stella's brow as lately envious Time
His crooked lines with iron pencil traced,
That brow, erewhile like ivory tablets smooth,
With Love's high trophies hung, and victories graced,
Digging him little caves in every cell,
And every dimple, once where Love was wont to dwell;

He spied the God: and wondered still to spy,
Who higher held his torch in Time's despite;
Nor seemed to care for aught that he could do.
Then sternly thus he sought him thence to affright:
The sovereign boy entrenched in a smile,

Love not me for comely grace,
For my pleasing eye or face,
Nor for any outward part:
No, nor for a constant heart!
For these may fail or turn to ill:
So thou and I shall sever.
Keep therefore a true woman's eye,
And love me still, but know not why!
So hast thou the same reason still
To doat upon me ever.

‘W HEN I was in thy chamber,
Alone, my love, with thee,
Night cast its shadow round us,
And none was there to see;
The very breeze was lying
Asleep within the tree;
Then who could tell, or who reveal,
This cruel tale of me?’

‘The lady moon was peeping,
And watch'd us through the tree;
A little star shot downwards,
And told it to the sea;
A sailor caught the whisper,
Who bore no love to me,
And sang, before a maiden's door,
This wicked tale of thee.’

‘W HEN I was in thy chamber,
Alone, my love, with thee,

With the kine on the mead
On a fine morn of May,
And the lass of the fold
Near them singing her lay,
The rays of the sun
Through the clouds did disclose
Day bright with glad light
And skies lit like the rose.

But 'twas no gathering herd
In the mead of the glen
That my spirit had stirred,
And me passing then,
But the handsomest lassie,
Looks and charm the most sweet,
On the hillock beside them,
Gentle, patient and neat.

My thoughts swam in wonder,
In a swither I staid,
I stood carved like a statue,

Fair , my own darling, are the flowers of Spring . . .
Rathe primrose, violet, and eglantine,
Anemone and golden celandine:
Not less delicious all the birds that sing
Carols of joy upon the amorous wing,
Earine, in these sweet hours of thine.
Spring's youngest sister art thou, Lady mine,

Child who hast love for every living thing
Of earth and air. A moment now I linger—
Linger, and think of thee, and give thee this
Love-gift of rhymes made when my spirit was free.
If thou wilt touch it with a white forefinger—

And if, O Brethren of the Bleeding Heart,
Dreamers amid the Storm where Love gropes blind,
I have cried aloud for Joy to tear apart
The cloud of Fate that broods o'er Humankind;

If 'mid the darkness I have call'd, ‘Rejoice!
God's in His Heaven—the skies are blue and fair!’
If for a moment's space my faltering voice
Hath echoed here the infant's cry and prayer;

'Tis that the pang of pity grew too great,
Too absolute the quick sharp sense of pain,
And in my soul's despair, left desolate,
I sought to be a little child again!

What did you want to welcome,
blooming?
Had you understood
the darkness?

Had it ended in joy?
I merely passed through you.
Did you know
that I tried to return endlessly?

Love was too large for me.
Did you make certain
of flesh,
which I believed in and passed by?

Did you not explore?
Were you not uncertain?
Was joy that total?
Could you believe in me that much?

I was in your joy.
In you love was total.
But the darkness had not ended.
I was staring.

I could not make certain.
Where were you?
I went far.

To yonder Friend heart-soothing Thanks with complaint I mell;
If love's finesse thou wottest, List to the tale I tell.

All that I wrought of service Thank-and-reward-less passed;
God, be none else allotted Lord so implacable!

To topers athirst none giveth A drop of water to drink;
'T would seem that the lovers of merit Have bidden the realm farewell!

O heart, of the snare of her tresses Beware; for therein to be seen
Are heads, for no fault dissevered, Of lovers uncountable.

Thine eye with its glances drinketh Our blood and thou sufferest it.

I am my Love's laboratory,
For truly he shall find
The proof of his high quality
Within my heart and mind.
Look down, my Love, my Dear,
At the sure change wrought here!

If there be error,
In gentle intimacy
Of love to counsel,
The heart of loyal friendship
Grows ever nearer, dearer.