Though called by many different names,
Each one professed the noblest aims;
Should all be right, ’twas logical
That I should give my vote to all!

And then, of parties old and new
Which one, if only one, were true?

The divination passed my skill,—­
My maiden vote is maiden still.

THE ANIMALCULE ON MAN

An animalcule in my blood
  Rose up against me as I dreamed,
He was so tiny as he stood,
  You had not heard him, though he screamed.

He cried ‘There is no Man!’
  And thumped the table with his fist,
Then died—­his day was scarce a span,—­
  That microscopic atheist.

Yet all the while his little soul
  Within what he denied did live,—­
Poor part, how could he know the whole? 
  And yet he was so positive!

And all the while he thus blasphemed
  My (solar) system went its round,
My heart beat on, my head still dreamed,—­
  But my poor atheist was drowned.

COME, MY CELIA

Come, my Celia, let us prove,
While we may, how wise is love—­
Love grown old and grey with years,
Love whose blood is thinned with tears.

Philosophic lover I,
Broke my heart, its love run dry,
And I warble passion’s words
But to hear them sing like birds.

When the lightning struck my side,
Love shrieked and for ever died,
Leaving nought of him behind
But these playthings of the mind.

Now the real play is over
I can only act a lover,
Now the mimic play begins
With its puppet joys and sins.

When the heart no longer feels,
And the blood with caution steals,
Then, ah! then—­my heart, forgive!—­
Then we dare begin to live.

Dipped in Stygian waves of pain,
We can never feel again;
Time may hurl his deadliest darts,
Love may practise all his arts;

Like some Balder, lo! we stand
Safe ’mid hurtling spear and brand,
Only Death—­ah! sweet Death, throw!—­
Holds the fatal mistletoe.

Let the young unconquered soul
Love the unit as the whole,
Let the young uncheated eye
Love the face fore-doomed to die: 

But, my Celia, not for us
Pleasures half so hazardous;
Let us set our hearts on play,
’Tis, alas! the only way—­

Make of life the jest it is,
Laugh and fool and (maybe!) kiss,
Never for a moment, dear,
Love so well to risk a fear.

Is not this, my Celia, say,
The only wise—­and weary—­way?

TIME’S MONOTONE

    Autumn and Winter,
    Summer and Spring—­
Hath Time no other song to sing? 
Weary we grow of the changeless tune—­
    June—­December,
    December—­June!

Time, like a bird, hath but one song,
  One way to build, like a bird hath he;
Thus hath he built so long, so long,
  Thus hath he sung—­Ah me!