Nor will my eyelids close in sleeping.
I have gathered all my life's-blood up-
Haro!

She hath drunk and thrown aside the cup.

Shall she not give me back my days?
Haro!

I made them perfect for her praise.
There was no flower in all the brake
I found not fairer for her sake;
There was no sweet thought I did not
fashion

For aid and servant to my passion.
Labor and learning worthless were,
Haro!

Save that I made them gifts for her.

Shall she not give me back my nights?
Haro!

Give me sweet sleep for brief delights?
Lo, in the night's wan mid I lie,
And ghosts of hours that are dead go by,-
Hours of a love that died unshriven;
Of a love in change for my manhood given.
She caressed and slew my soul's white
truth,

Ilaro!

Poet, shall this be all thy word?
Blow on us with a bolder breeze,
Until we rise, as having heard

The sob, the song of far-off seas.

Blow in thy shell until thou draw,

From inner whorls where still they sleep, The notes unguessed of love and awe, And all thy song grow full and deep.

Feeble may be the scanty phrase,—

Thy dream a dream tongue never spake,Yet shall thy note, through doubtful days, Swell stronger for Endeavor's sake.

As Jacob, wrestling through the night,
Felt all his muscles strengthen fast
With wakening strength, and met the light
Blessed and strong, though overcast.

THE CHAPERON

I TAKE my chaperon to the play-
She thinks she's taking me.
And the gilded youth who owns the box,
A proud young man is he;
But how would his young heart be hurt
If he could only know

That not for his sweet sake I go
Nor yet to see the trifling show;
But to see my chaperon flirt.

Her eyes beneath her snowy hair

They sparkle young as miue; There's scarce a wrinkle in her hand So delicate and fine.

And when my chaperon is seen,

They come from everywhere The dear old boys with silvery hair, With old-time grace and old-time air, To greet their old-time queen.