But O, her face! if you could see her face!

The sanctity of death, the rarity

Of nature, its most sublimated grace,

So cold and yet alluring! One would die To dream such dreams, and be within the sweep Of her thin robe, and see things with her sight, And be the shadow of her shadowiness;

To probe her secret, drink her cup so deep, Take her weird hand and slip into the night Oblivious of the day and its hot press.

PUERILIA.

I.

HOPE stretched out a snowy finger
Pointing light was on his face.
But he passed, he could not linger,
And into his place

Crept cold Terror, still denying

Comfort, answer to my sighing,

While my heart lay bleeding, dying

For your grace.

Child! worn out with too much weeping

For the joy that may not be,

In my spirit waking, sleeping,

Ever full of thee

Echoes low a wordless wailing,
As, when all the West is paling,
Moans the South wind rising, failing,
O'er the sea.

II.

Have pity! Bend your head and hear my prayer :
Indeed the night of grief is very chill,

The hills of hope far off, and cold despair
Makes slow my wandering feet, and mars my will.

Have pity! Take my head upon your breast
And seal my eyes with kisses; let your cheek
Touch mine; I care not greatly for the rest;

That were love's crown: no other do I seek.

III.

IN THE WOOD.

It was your voice that broke

The silence of the wood, and all The folded flowers, with faces turned To where the ruddy sunset burned, Heard and awoke

O Agnes, my sweet Agnes, at your call.

Then, as you sat, the light

Loving you, kissed you through the trees, And, like a star, your forehead shone

With glory, fair to gaze upon,

Until the night

Fell with a soft sigh and a murmuring breeze.

But one who watched you heard

A mingled music, a grand symphony

Of lyre and harp unseen, that filled

That shady place, and throbbed and thrilled

In one strong cry

Above the clouds or wing of soaring bird,

The everlasting choir

Of nature chanting, and the voice

Of happy girlhood, bidding all

Beneath that solemn evenfall

Rejoice, rejoice

With timbrel and with cymbal and with lyre;

Nor was that music lorn

Of sorrow's undertone, to prove

Its perfect sweetness, and to sanctify

With the soft offering of a smothered sigh

The spirit of love,

Which haunts the evening and sweet dreams of dawn.

But you arose and stood

Pensive awhile, then went your way;

And I, who feared to tell my heart,

Wept only, watching you depart

All through the wood

Towards the golden gates of setting day.