'Tis well you take me so in your embrace;
But lay me back again into my place,

For I am worn, perhaps with bliss extreme.

The Wind.-Nay, you must wake, love, from this childish

dream.

The Rose. 'Tis thou, love, seemest changed; thy laugh is loud, And 'neath thy stormy kiss my head is bowed.

O love, O Wind, a space wilt thou not spare?

The Wind.-Not while thy petals are so soft and fair,

The Rose. My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot see,

O love, O Wind, wilt thou not pity me?

EVENING.

The Beech.-O Wind, a word with thee before thou pass,
What did'st thou to the Rose upon the grass

Broken she lies and pale, who loved thee so?

The Wind.-Roses must live and love, and winds must blow.

THE TWO BURDENS.

Over the deep sea Love came flying;
Over the salt sea Love flew sighing-

Alas, O Love, for thy journeying wings!
Through turbid light and sound of thunder,
When one wave lifts and one falls under,

Love flew as a bird flies straight for warm springs.

Love reached the Northland, and found his own;
With budding roses, and roses blown,

And wonderful lilies, he wove their wreath;
His voice was sweet as a tune that wells,
Gathers and thunders, and throbs and swells,
And fails and lapses in rapturous death.

His hands divided the tangled boughs.

They sat and loved in a moist green house,

With bird-songs and sunbeams faltering through One note of wind to each least light leaf:

O Love, those days they were sweet but brief—
Sweet as the rose is, and fleet as the dew.

Over the deep sea Death came flying;

Over the salt sea Death flew sighing.

Love heard from afar the rush of his wings, Felt the blast of them over the sea,

And turned his face where the shadows be,

And wept for a sound of disastrous things.

Death reach'd the Northland and claimed his own; With pale sweet flowers by wet winds blown

He wove for the forehead of one a wreath. His voice was sad as the wind that sighs

Through cypress-trees under rainy skies,

When the dead leaves drift on the paths beneath.

His hands divided the tangled boughs.

One Love he bore to a dark, deep house

Where never a bridegroom may clasp his bride—

A place of silence, of dust, and sleep.

What vigil there shall the loved one keep,
Or what cry of longing the lips divide?

AT PARTING.

I put my flower of song into thy hand,
And turn my eyes away—

It is a flower from a most desolate land,
Barren of sun and day,

Even this life of mine.

As two who meet upon a foreign strand, 'Twas mine with thee to stay

I put this flower of song into thy hand,

And turn my eyes away,

And look where no lights shine.

By phantom wings this desolate air seems fanned, Where sky and sea show gray

I put my flower of song into thy hand,

And turn my eyes away,

But to no other shrine.

My hopes are like a little Christian band,
The heathen came to slay—

I put this flower of song into thy hand,
And turn my eyes away-

Keep thou the song in sign.

Some day, it may be, thou by me shalt stand,

When no word my lips say,

And, holding then this song-flower in thy hand,

Shalt turn thine eyes away,

And drop pure tears divine.

We part at Fate's inexorable command,

We part to meet no day

I put my flower of song into thy hand,

And turn my eyes away,

These eyes that burn and pine.

Thy way leads summerwards, thy paths are spanned By boughs where Spring winds play

I put my flower of song into thy hand,

And turn my eyes away,

To Life's dark boundary line.

Fair are thy groves, thy fields lie bright and bland,

Where evil has no sway—

I put my flower of song into thy hand,

And turn my eyes away,

To meet Fate's eyes, malign.

Sometimes, when twilight holds and fills the land, And glad souls are less gay,

Take thou this song-flower in thy tender hand,

Nor turn thine eyes away,

There, in the day's decline.

My life lies dark before me—all unplanned—
Loud winds assail the day-

I leave my song-flower folded in thy hand,
And turn my eyes away,

And turn my life from thine.

THY GARDEN.

I.

Pure moonlight in thy garden, sweet, to-night;
Pure moonlight in thy garden, and the breath
Of fragrant roses! O my heart's delight,

Wed thou with Love, but I will wed with Death.

Peace in thy garden, and the passionate song

Of some last nightingale that sings in June! Thy dreams with promises of love are strong, And all thy life is set to one sweet tune.

Love wandering round thy garden, O my sweet! Love walking through thy garden in the night; Far-off I feel his wings, I hear his feet,

I see

the eyes that set the world alight.

My sad heart in thy garden strays alone,
My heart among all hearts companionless;
Between the roses and the lilies thrown,
It finds thy garden but a wilderness.

Great quiet in thy garden, now the song
Of that last nightingale has died away!
Here jangling city-chimes the silence wrong,
But in thy garden perfect rest has sway.

Dawn in thy garden, with the faintest sound
Uncertain, tremulous, awaking birds!
Dawn in thy garden, and from meadows round,
The sudden lowing of expectant herds.

Light in thy garden, faint, and sweet, and pure;
Dim noise of birds from every bush and tree;
Rumors of song the stars may not endure;

A rain that falls and ceases suddenly!

Morn in thy garden, bright, and keen, and strong!
Love calls thee from thy garden to awake;
Morn in thy garden, with the articulate song
Of birds that sing for love and warm light's sake.

II.

Wind in thy garden to-night, my love,
Wind in thy garden, and rain;
A sound of storm in the shaken grove,
And cries as of spirits in pain!

If there's wind in thy garden outside,
And troublous darkness, dear,
What carest thou, an elected bride,

And the bridal hour so near?