Falls slain with ecstacies of fears;

He blames her, though she has no fault,
Except the folly to be his;

He worships her, the more to exalt
The profanation of a kiss ;

Health's his disease; he's never well

But when his paleness shames her rose ; His faith's a rock-built citadel,

Its sign a flag that each way blows; His o'erfed fancy frets and fumes;

And Love, in him, is fierce, like Hate, And ruffles his ambrosial plumes Against the bars of time and fate.

An idle poet, here and there,

Looks round him; but, for all the rest,

The world, unfathomably fair,

Is duller than a witling's jest.

Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look ;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,

They read with joy, then shut the book.

And some give thanks, and some blaspheme,
And most forget; but, either way,
That and the Child's unheeded dream
Is all the light of all their day.

THE TOYS

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes,
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd,

His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet

From his late sobbing wet.

And I, with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with

careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said :

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood,

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay,

Thou 'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness.”

DEPARTURE

It was not like your great and gracious ways!
Do you, that have nought other to lament,
Never, my Love, repent

Of how, that July afternoon,

You went,

With sudden, unintelligible phrase,
And frighten'd eye,

Upon your journey of so many days,
Without a single kiss, or a good-bye?

I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon;
And so we sate, within the low sun's rays,

You whispering to me, for your voice was weak,
Your harrowing praise.

Well, it was well,

To hear you such things speak,

And I could tell

What made your eyes a growing gloom of love,
As a warm South-wind sombres a March grove.
And it was like your great and gracious ways
To turn your talk on daily things, my Dear,
Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash

To let the laughter flash,

Whilst I drew near,

Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely

hear.

But all at once to leave me at the last,

More at the wonder than the loss aghast,

With huddled, unintelligible phrase,

And frighten'd eye,

And go your journey of all days

With not one kiss, or a good-bye,

And the only loveless look the look with which you

pass'd;

'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways.

THE AZALEA

There, where the sun shines first

Against our room,

She train'd the gold Azalea, whose perfume

She, Spring-like, from her breathing grace dispersed.
Last night the delicate crests of saffron bloom,
For that their dainty likeness watch'd and nurst,
Were just at point to burst.

At dawn I dream'd, O God, that she was dead,
And groan'd aloud upon my wretched bed,
And waked, ah, God, and did not waken her,
But lay, with eyes still closed,

Perfectly bless'd in the delicious sphere

By which I knew so well that she was near,
My heart to speechless thankfulness composed.
Till 'gan to stir

A dizzy somewhat in my troubled head

It was the azalea's breath, and she was dead!

The warm night had the lingering buds disclosed,