Nor one most sacred hand be prest Upon my hair.

I came as one whose thoughts half linger,
Half run before;

The youngest to the oldest singer
That England bore.

I found him whom I shall not find Till all grief end,

In holiest age our mightiest mind, Father and friend.

But thou, if anything endure,

If hope there be,

O spirit that man's life left pure, Man's death set free,

Not with disdain of days that were Look earthward now;

Let dreams revive the reverend hair, The imperial brow;

Come back in sleep, for in the life
Where thou art not

We find none like thee. Time and strife
And the world's lot

Move thee no more; but love at least
And reverent heart

May move thee, royal and releast,
Soul, as thou art.

And thou, his Florence, to thy trust Receive and keep,

Keep safe his dedicated dust,

His sacred sleep.

So shall thy lovers, come from far, Mix with thy name

As morning-star with evening-star His faultless fame.

LOVE AT SEA

IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER

WE are in love's land to-day;
Where shall we go?

Love, shall we start or stay,
Or sail or row?

There's many a wind and way,
And never a May but May;
We are in love's hand to-day ;
Where shall we go?

Rosamond.

Are you tir'd? But I seem shameful to you, shameworthy, Contemnable of good women, being so bad, So bad as I am. Yea, would God, would God,

I had kept my face from this contempt of yours.

Insolent custom would not anger me
So as you do; more clean are you than I,
Sweeter for gathering of the grace of God
To perfume some accomplish'd work in
heaven?

I do not use to scorn, stay pure of hate,
Seeing how myself am scorn'd unworthily;
But anger here so takes me in the throat
I would speak now for fear it strangle me.
Here, let me feel your hair and hands and

face;

I see not flesh is holier than flesh,

Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers,

Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night.

Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her,

Fold our hands round her knees, and cling?

O that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her,

Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring!

For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her,

And the southwest-wind and the westwind sing.

The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes

From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oat is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut

root.

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night,
Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid,
Follows with dancing and fills with delight
The Mænad and the Bassarid;
And soft as lips that laugh and hide
The laughing leaves of the trees divide,
And screen from seeing and leave in sight
The god pursuing, the maiden hid."

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair

Over her eyebrows, hiding her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs;

The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves,

But the berried ivy catches and cleaves
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare
The wolf that follows, the fawn that
flies.

FROM THE CHORUS, "WE HAVE SEEN THEE, O LOVE!"

WE have seen thee, O Love, thou art fair; thou art goodly, O Love;

Thy wings make light in the air as the wings of a dove.

Thy feet are as winds that divide the stream of the sea;

Earth is thy covering to hide thee, the garment of thee.

Thou art swift and subtle and blind as a

flame of fire;

Before thee the laughter, behind thee the tears of desire;

And twain go forth beside thee, a man with a maid;

Her eyes are the eyes of a bride whom delight makes afraid;

As the breath in the buds that stir is her

bridal breath:

But Fate is the name of her; and his name is Death.

sard's rhymes,

His gift, I wear in there for love of him
See, here between our feet.

Chast.
Ay, my old lord's -
The sweet chief poet, my dear friend long
since ?

Give me the book. Lo you, this verse of his:

With coming lilies in late April came
Her body, fashion'd whiter for their shame;
And roses, touch'd with blood since Adon
bled,

From her fair color fill'd their lips with red :
A goodly praise: I could not praise you so.
I read that while your marriage-feast went

on.

Leave me this book, I pray you: I would read

The hymn of death here over ere I die ;

Will ache for help and comfort, yea, for love,

And find less love than mine-for I do think

You never will be lov'd thus in your life. Queen. It may be man will never love

me more;

For I am sure I shall not love man twice. Chast. I know not: men must love you in life's spite,

For you will always kill them; man by man Your lips will bite them dead; yea, though you would,

You shall not spare one; all will die of

you;

I cannot tell what love shall do with these, But I for all my love shall have no might To help you more, mine arms and hands

no power

To fasten on you more. This cleaves my heart,

That they shall never touch your body

more.

But for your grief — you will not have to

grieve;

For being in such poor eyes so beautiful
It must needs be as God is more than I
So much more love he hath of you than

mine;

Yea, God shall not be bitter with my love, Seeing she is so sweet.

Queen. Ah, my sweet fool, Think you when God will ruin me for sin My face of color shall prevail so much With him, so soften the tooth'd iron's edge To save my throat a scar? Nay, I am sure I shall die somehow sadly.

Chast. This is pure grief; The shadow of your pity for my death, Mere foolishness of pity: all sweet moods Throw out such little shadows of them

selves,

Leave such light fears behind. You, die like me?

Stretch your throat out that I may kiss all round

Where mine shall be cut through: suppose my mouth