Why, Jenny, waking here alone
May help you to remember one,

Though all the memory's long outworn
Of many a double-pillowed morn.

I think I see you when you wake,
And rub your eyes for me, and shake
My gold, in rising, from your hair,
A Danaë for a moment there.

Jenny, my love rang true! for still Love at first sight is vague, until That tinkling makes him audible.

And must I mock you to the last,

Ashamed of my own shame, aghast

Because some thoughts not born amiss
Rose at a poor fair face like this?

Well, of such thoughts so much I know:

In my life, as in hers, they show,
By a far gleam which I may near,
A dark path I can strive to clear.

Only one kiss. Good-bye, my dear.

THE PORTRAIT.

THIS is her picture as she was:
It seems a thing to wonder on,
As though mine image in the glass
Should tarry when myself am gone.

I gaze until she seems to stir,

Until mine eyes almost aver

That now, even now,

the sweet lips part

To breathe the words of the sweet heart :

And yet the earth is over her.

Alas! even such the thin-drawn ray

That makes the prison-depths more rude,—

The drip of water night and day

Giving a tongue to solitude.

Yet only this, of love's whole prize,

Remains; save what in mournful guise

Takes counsel with my soul alone, Save what is secret and unknown, Below the earth, above the skies.

in painting her I shrined her face
'Mid mystic trees, where light falls in
Hardly at all; a covert place

Where you might think to find a din
Of doubtful talk, and a live flame
Wandering, and many a shape whose name
Not itself knoweth, and old dew,

And your own footsteps meeting you, And all things going as they came.

A deep dim wood; and there she stands
As in that wood that day: for so
Was the still movement of her hands

And such the pure line's gracious flow.
And passing fair the type must seem,
Unknown the presence and the dream.
'Tis she though of herself, alas!
Less than her shadow on the grass
Or than her image in the stream.

That day we met there, I and she

One with the other all alone;

And we were blithe; yet memory

Saddens those hours, as when the moon
Looks upon daylight. And with her
I stooped to drink the spring-water,
Athirst where other waters sprang;
And where the echo is, she sang, -
My soul another echo there.

But when that hour my soul won strength
For words whose silence wastes and kills,
Dull raindrops smote us, and at length

Thundered the heat within the hills.
That eve I spoke those words again
Beside the pelted window-pane;

And there she hearkened what I said, With under-glances that surveyed The empty pastures blind with rain.

Next day the memories of these things,

Like leaves through which a bird has flown,

Still vibrated with Love's warm wings;

Till I must make them all my own

And paint this picture. So, 'twixt ease
Of talk and sweet long silences,

She stood among the plants in bloom

At windows of a summer room,
To feign the shadow of the trees.

And as I wrought, while all above
And all around was fragrant air,
In the sick burthen of my love

It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there Beat like a heart among the leaves.

O heart that never beats nor heaves,
In that one darkness lying still,

What now to thee my love's great will
Or the fine web the sunshine weaves?

For now doth daylight disavow

Those days, nought left to see or hear. Only in solemn whispers now

At night-time these things reach mine ear,

When the leaf-shadows at a breath

Shrink in the road, and all the heath,

Forest and water, far and wide,

In limpid starlight glorified,

Lie like the mystery of death.