A little while a little love May yet be ours who have not said The word it makes our eyes afraid To know that each is thinking of. Not yet the end: be our lips dumb In smiles a little season yet: I'll tell thee, when the end is come, How we may best forget. THE SONG OF THE BOWER. SAY, is it day, is it dusk in thy bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Nay, but my heart when it flies to thy bower, What were my prize, could I enter thy bower, 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,- 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 ? PENUMBRA. I DID not look upon her eyes, Because they should not gaze rebuke, I did not take her by the hand, From touch of hand all friends might take,) 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 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 And wind are one with memory. |