The lily swung its noiseless bell, And o'er the porch the trembling vine Seemed bursting with its veins of. How sweetly, softly, twilight fell! Came to this world of ours! O Babie, dainty Babie Bell, How fair she grew from day to day! What woman-nature filled her eyes, What poetry within them lay: Those deep and tender twilight eyes, So full of meaning, pure and bright As if she yet stood in the light Of those oped gates of Paradise. And so we loved her more and more; Ah, never in our hearts before Was love so lovely born. The land beyond the morn. We said, Dear Christ! Our hearts bent down Like violets after rain. And now the orchards, which were white And red with blossoms when she came, Were rich in autumn's mellow prime: The clustered apples burnt like flame, The soft-cheeked peaches blushed and fell, The ivory chestnut burst its shell, The grapes hung purpling in the grange: And time wrought just as rich a change In little Babie Bell. It came upon us by degrees: And all our hopes were changed to fears, And all our thoughts ran into tears The messenger from unseen lands And what did dainty Babie Bell? She only crossed her little hands, She only looked more meek and fair! We parted back her silken hair: DESTINY. But... I wonder what day of the week, THREE roses, wan as moonlight and I wonder what month of the year. weighed down I WONDER What day of the week- - What a hideous fancy to come As I wait, at the foot of the stair, While Lilian gives the last touch To her robe, or the rose in her hair. UNSUNG. As sweet as the breath that goes In slumber, a hundred times I strive, but I strive in vain, RENCONTRE. TOILING across the Mer de Glace What miles of land and sea! My foe, undreamed of, at my side For those who love, the world is wide, THE FADED VIOLET. WHAT thought is folded in thy leaves! What tender thought, what speechless pain! I hold thy faded lips to mine, I hold thy faded lips to mine, Of something wilted like thy leaves; Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim; Yet, for the love of those white hands, That found thee by a river's brim That found thee when thy dewy mouth Was purpled as with stains of wine- That thou shouldst live when I am dead, When hate is dead, for me, and wrong, For this, I use my subtlest art, AFTER THE RAIN. THE rain has ceased, and in my room The thin swift pinion cleaving Fairer it looked than when upon the through the gray. Till we awake ill fate can do no ill The resting heart shall not take up again The heavy load that yet must make it bleed; For this brief space the loud world's voice is still, No faintest echo of it brings us pain. How will it be when we shall sleep indeed? stem, And must, indeed, have been much happier. MAPLE LEAVES. October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers. TO ANY POET. Out of the thousand verses you have writ, If Time spare none, you will not care at all; Fixed to her necklace, like another If Time spare one, you will not know of it: gem, A rose she wore- the flower June Nor shame nor fame can scale a made for her; churchyard wall. |