I loved to lie through sunny afternoons With half-shut eyes (familiar then with things

Long unfamiliar, knowing Fairyland
And all the unhidden mysteries of the
Earth)

Using my kinship in those earlier days
With Nature and the humbler people, dear
To her green life, in every shade and sun.
The leaves had myriad voices, and their joy
One with the birds' that sang among them
seemed;

And, oftentimes, I lay in breezy shade
Till, creeping with the loving stealth he takes
In healthy temperaments, the blessed Sleep
(Thrice blessed and thrice blessing now,

because

Or lovers in the distant dusk
Of summer gardens, sweet as musk,
Pouring the blissful burden out,
The breaking joy, the dying doubt;
Or revellers, all flown with wine,
And in a madness half divine,
Beating the broken tune about;

Or else the rude and rolling notes
That leave some strolling sailors' throats,
Hoarse with the salt sprays, it
may be,
Of many a mile of rushing sea;
Or some high-minded dreamer strays
Late through the solitary ways,
Nor heeds the listening night, nor me.

Or how or whence those tones be heard,
Hearing, the slumbering soul is stirred,
As when a swiftly passing light
Startles the shadows into flight;

COULDST thou, Great Fairy, give to me
The instant's wish, that I might see
Of all the earth's that one dear sight
Known only in a dream's delight,
I would, beneath some island steep,
In some remote and sun-bright deep,
See high in heaven above me now
A palm-tree wave its rhythmic bough!

And yet this old pine's haughty crown,
Shaking its clouds of silver down,
Whispers me snatches of strange tunes
And murmur of those awful runes
Which tell by subtle spell, and power
Of secret sympathies, the hour
When far in the dark North the snow
Among great bergs begins to blow.

Nay, thou sweet South of heats and

balms,

Keep all thy proud and plumy palms,

LAUS VENERIS

A PICTURE BY BURNE JONES PALLID with too much longing, White with passion and prayer, Goddess of love and beauty,

She sits in the picture there,—

Sits with her dark eyes seeking
Something more subtle still
Than the old delights of loving

Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often
In her long, immortal years,
That she tires of the worn-out rapture,
Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her,

Done with her ancient pride; For her head she found too heavy The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor, Bright with her glory of hair, Sad that she is not mortal,Eternally sad and fair,

Longing for joys she knows not, Athirst with a vain desire, There she sits in the picture, Daughter of foam and fire.

LAURA SLEEPING

COME hither and behold this lady's face, Who lies asleep, as if strong Death had kissed

Upon her eyes the kiss none can resist,
And held her fast in his prolonged embrace!
See the still lips, which grant no answering
grace

To Love's fond prayers, and the sweet, carven smile,

Sign of some dream-born joy which did beguile

The dreaming soul from its fair restingplace!

So will she look when Death indeed has sway O'er her dear loveliness, and holds her fast In that last sleep which knows nor night

nor day,

Which hopes no future, contemplates no past;