LOVE'S QUEST

(FOR A MURAL PAINTING)

WHENAS the watches of the night had

grown

To that deep loneliness where dreams begin,

I saw how Love, with visage worn and thin,— With wings close-bound, went through a town

alone.

Death-pale he showed, and inly seemed to moan. With sore desire some dolorous place to win ; Sharp brambles passed had streaked his dazzling

skin,

His bright feet eke were gashed with many a stone. And, as he went, I, sad for piteousness,

Might see how men from door and gate would

move

To stay his steps; or womankind would press,
With wistful eyes, to balconies above,

And bid him enter in. But Love not less,

Mournful, kept on his way. Ah! hapless Love.

✔ THE SICK MAN AND THE BIRDS

SPRI

ÆGROTUS.

PRING,-art thou come, O Spring!
I am too sick for words;

How hast thou heart to sing,
O Spring, with all thy birds?

MERULA.

I sing for joy to see again
The merry leaves along the lane,

The little bud grown ripe;

And look, my love upon the bough!
Hark, how she calleth to me now,—
"Pipe! pipe!"

ÆGROTUS.

Ah! weary is the sun :

Love is an idle thing;

But, Bird, thou restless one,
What ails thee, wandering?

HIRUNDO.

By shore and sea I come and go
To seek I know not what; and lo!
On no man's eaves I sit,

But voices bid me rise once more,
To flit again by sea and shore,

Flit! flit!

A secret Spirit gifteth me
With song, and wing that lifteth me,—--
A Spirit for whose sake,
Striving amain to reach the sky,
Still to the old dark earth I cry,-
"Wake! wake!

ÆGROTUS.

My hope hath lost its wing.

Thou, that to Night dost call, How hast thou heart to sing Thy tears made musical?

PHILOMELA.

Alas for me! a dry desire
Is all my song,—a waste of fire
That will not fade nor fail;

To me, dim shapes of ancient crime Moan through the windy ways of time, "Wail! wail!"

ÆGROTUS.

This is the sick man's song,—
Mournful, in sooth, and fit;
Unrest that cries "How long!".
And the Night answers it.

✔ A FLOWER SONG OF ANGIOLA

DOWN where the garden grows,

Gay as a banner,

Spake to her mate the Rose

After this manner :—
"We are the first of flowers,
Plain-land or hilly,

All reds and whites are ours,
Are they not, Lily?"

Then to the flowers I spake,

"Watch ye my Lady

Gone to the leafy brake,

Silent and shady;

When I am near to her,

Lily, she knows;

How I am dear to her,

Look to it, Rose."

Straightway the Blue-bell stooped,

Paler for pride,

Down where the Violet drooped,

Shy, at her side :—