wing,

Who wakes the world with witcheries of the dark

Renewed in rapture in the reddening air.
A thing of splendor do I deem him then,
A feathered frenzy with an angel's throat,
A something sweet that somewhere seems
to float

'Twixt earth and sky, to be a sign to men.
He fills me with such wonder and despair!
I long to kiss thy locks, so golden bright,
As he doth kiss the tresses of the sun.
Oh! bid me sing to thee, my chosen one,
And do thou teach me, Love, to sing

aright!

The wanton wind has kissed her face,
His lips have left a rose,
He found her cheek so sweet a place
For kisses, I suppose,

He thought he'd leave a sign, that so
Others might know.

The path grows narrower as we ride,
The green boughs close above,
And overhead, and either side,
The wild birds sing of Love:
But ah, she is not listening
To what they sing!

Till I take up the wild-birds' song,
And word by word unfold
Its meaning as we ride along,
And when my tale is told,
I turn my eyes to hers again,
And then, and then, -

Take me now to thy breast,

Earth, sweet mother of men.

Hide me and let me sleep;
Give me a lonely tomb

So close and so dark and so deep
I shall hear no trumpet of doom.

There let me lie forgot

When the dead at its blast are gone; Give me to hear it not,

But only to slumber on.

This is the fate I crave,

For I look to the end and see If there be not rest in the grave There will never be rest for me.

THE AGE

I

A PALE and soul-sick woman with wan

eyes

Fixed on their own reflection in the glass, Uncertain lips half-oped to say "Alas, Naked I stand between two mysteries, Finding my wisdom naught who am most wise."

Behind, the shapes and fiery shadows pass Of fervent life; no joy in them she has, But gazing on herself she moans and sighs. And yet of knowledge she doth hold the key,

And Power and Pleasure are her handmaidens,

And all past years have given of their best To make her rich and great and strong and free,

Who stands in slack and listless impotence, Marvelling sadly at her own unrest.

II

Her children cluster round about her

knees;

The hoarded wealth and wisdom of the Dead

Of all past time they have inherited, And still within their hands it doth increase;

Yet in their eyes is mirrored her dis-peace, Her weariness within their hearts is shed; Her dreary sorrow weighs each drooping head,

And each soul sickens with her fell disease.