SAY, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower,

Thou whom I long for, who longest for me?
Oh! be it light, be it night, 'tis Love's hour,
Love's that is fettered as Love's that is free.

Free Love has leaped to that innermost chamber,
Oh! the last time, and the hundred before :
Fettered Love, motionless, can but remember,
Yet something that sighs from him passes the door.

Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower,
What does it find there that knows it again?
There it must droop like a shower-beaten flower,
Red at the rent core and dark with the rain.
Ah! yet what shelter is still shed above it,—

What waters still image its leaves torn apart?
Thy soul is the shade that clings round it to love it,
And tears are its mirror deep down in thy heart.

What were my prize, could I enter thy bower,
This day, to-morrow, at eve or at morn?

Large lovely arms and a neck like a tower,

Bosom then heaving that now lies forlorn. Kindled with love-breath, (the sun's kiss is colder!) Thy sweetness all near me, so distant to-day;

My hand round thy neck and thy hand on my shoulder, My mouth to thy mouth as the world melts away.

What is it keeps me afar from thy bower,——
My spirit, my body, so fain to be there ?
Waters engulfing or fires that devour?-

Earth heaped against me or death in the air?
Nay, but in day-dreams, for terror, for pity,

The trees wave their heads with an omen to tell; Nay, but in night-dreams, throughout the dark city, The hours, clashed together, lose count in the bell.

Shall I not one day remember thy bower,

One day when all days are one day to me?—— Thinking, I stirred not, and yet had the power,'Yearning, 'Ah God, if again it might be!'

Peace, peace! such a small lamp illumes, on this highway, So dimly so few steps in front of my feet,—

Yet shows me that her way is parted from my way. .

Out of sight, beyond light, at what goal may we meet?

SONG VII.

PENUMBRA.

I DID not look upon her eyes,
(Though scarcely seen, with no surprise,
'Mid many eyes a single look,)

Because they should not gaze rebuke,

At night, from stars in sky and brook.

I did not take her by the hand,
(Though little was to understand

From touch of hand all friends might take,)
Because it should not prove a flake

Burnt in my palm to boil and ache.

I did not listen to her voice,

(Though none had noted, where at choice.

All might rejoice in listening,)

Because no such a thing should cling

In the wood's moan at evening.

I did not cross her shadow once,

(Though from the hollow west the sun's
Last shadow runs along so far,)
Because in June it should not bar
My ways, at noon when fevers are.

They told me she was sad that day,
(Though wherefore tell what love's soothsay,
Sooner than they, did register?)

And my heart leapt and wept to her,
And yet I did not speak nor stir.

So shall the tongues of the sea's foam
(Though many voices therewith come
From drowned hope's home to cry to me,)
Bewail one hour the more, when sea

And wind are one with memory.

SONG VIII.

THE WOODSPURGE.

THE wind flapped loose, the wind was still, Shaken out dead from tree and hill:

I had walked on at the wind's will,

I sat now, for the wind was still.

Between my knees my forehead was,—
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,

My naked ears heard the day pass.

My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;

Among those few, out of the sun,

The woodspurge flowered, three cups in one.

From perfect grief there need not be

Wisdom or even memory:

One thing then learnt remains to me,

The woodspurge has a cup of three.