Led by a single star,

She came from very far

To seek where shadows are

Her pleasant lot.

She left the rosy morn,

She left the fields of corn,

For twilight cold and lorn

And water springs.

Through sleep, as through a veil, She sees the sky look pale,

And hears the nightingale

That sadly sings.

Rest, rest, a perfect rest
Shed over brow and breast;
Her face is toward the west,
The purple land.

She cannot see the grain
Ripening on hill and plain ;

She cannot feel the rain
Upon her hand.

Rest, rest, for evermore
Upon a mossy shore;

Rest, rest at the heart's core

Till time shall cease:

-

Sleep that no pain shall wake;
Night that no morn shall break
Till joy shall overtake
Her perfect peace.

AFTER DEATH

SONNET

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

And could not hear him; but I heard him say: "Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm though I am cold.

FROM "TIME FLIES"

I

My love whose heart is tender said to me,

"A moon lacks light except her sun befriend her. Let us keep tryst in heaven, dear Friend," said she, My love whose heart is tender.

From such a loftiness no words could bend her; Yet still she spoke of "us," and spoke as "we," Her hope substantial while my hope grew slender.

Now keeps she tryst beyond earth's utmost sea,
Wholly at rest tho' storms should toss and rend her,
And still she keeps my heart and keeps its key,
My love whose heart is tender.

Where shall I find a white rose blowing?—
Out in the garden where all sweets be.—
But out in my garden the snow was snowing
And never a white rose opened for me.

Nought but snow and a wind were blowing And snowing.

Where shall I find a blush rose blushing ?—

On the garden wall or the garden bed.— But out in my garden the rain was rushing And never a blush rose raised its head. Nothing glowing, flushing or blushing; Rain rushing.

Where shall I find a red rose budding?—
Out in the garden where all things grow.-
But out in my garden a flood was flooding
And never a red rose began to blow.
Out in a flooding what should be budding?
All flooding!

Now is winter and now is sorrow,

No roses but only thorns to-day: Thorns will put on roses to-morrow, Winter and sorrow scudding away. No more winter and no more sorrow To-morrow.

III

If love is not worth loving, then life is not worth living, Nor aught is worth remembering but well forgot, For store is not worth storing and gifts are not worth giving,

If love is not;

And idly cold is death-cold, and life-heat idly hot, And vain is any offering and vainer our receiving, And vanity of vanities is all our lot.

Better than life's heaving heart is death's heart unheaving,

Better than the opening leaves are the leaves that rot, For there is nothing left worth achieving or retrieving, If love is not.

IV

Of all the downfalls in the world,
The flutter of an Autumn leaf

Grows grievous by suggesting grief: