SONG FROM "JAMES LEE.” I OH, good gigantic smile o' the brown old earth, This autumn morning! How he sets his bones To bask i' the sun, and thrusts out knees and feet For the ripple to run over in its mirth : Listening the while, where on the heap of stones The white breast of the sea-lark twitters sweet. II That is the doctrine, simple, ancient, true; Such is life's trial, as old earth smiles and knows. If you loved only what were worth your love, Love were clear gain, and wholly well for you. Make the low nature better by your throes! Give earth yourself, go up for gain above! A WOMAN'S LAST WORD I LET'S contend no more, Love, Strive nor weep: All be as before, Love, -Only sleep! II What so wild as words are? I and thou In debate, as birds are, Hawk on bough! IX That shall be to-morrow Not to-night : I must bury sorrow Out of sight: X —Must a little weep, Love, (Foolish me!) And so fall asleep, Love, Loved by thee. MEETING AT NIGHT. I THE grey sea and the long black land; II Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; PARTING AT MORNING. ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, WOMEN AND ROSES. I DREAM of a red-rose tree. II Round and round, like a dance of snow Living and loving and loved to-day. Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens, Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence, They circle their rose on my rose tree. III Dear rose, thy term is reached, Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached : Bees pass it unimpeached. IV Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you, Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast! Drink but once and die !—In vain, the same fashion, They circle their rose on my rose tree. V Dear rose, thy joy 's undimmed : Thy cup's heart nectar-brimmed. VI Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth Quench like him at a plunge my yearning, Fold me fast where the cincture slips, Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure, Girdle me for once! But no-the old measure, They circle their rose on my rose tree. VII Dear rose without a thorn, Tny bud's the babe unborn : First streak of a new morn. VIII Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear! What is far conquers what is near. Roses will bloom nor want beholders, Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders, |