Sometimes my idle heart would fly,
  Mothlike, to reach some shining sin,
It seems so sweet to burn and die
  That wondrous light within: 
But ere it burns its foolish wings,
‘Heart, stay at home, be wise!’ Love’s wisdom sings.

HOME ...

‘We’re going home!’ I heard two lovers say,
  They kissed their friends and bade them bright good-byes;
  I hid the deadly hunger in my eyes,
And, lest I might have killed them, turned away. 
Ah, love! we too once gambolled home as they,
  Home from the town with such fair merchandise,—­
  Wine and great grapes—­the happy lover buys: 
A little cosy feast to crown the day.

Yes! we had once a heaven we called a home
  Its empty rooms still haunt me like thine eyes,
When the last sunset softly faded there;
Each day I tread each empty haunted room,
    And now and then a little baby cries,
  Or laughs a lovely laughter worse to bear.

LOVE’S LANDMARKS

The woods we used to walk, my love,
  Are woods no more,
But’ villas’ now with sounding names—­
  All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March,
  The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
  Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell
  Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
  To me—­to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume,
  A greedy moth,
God’s mantle of the living green,
  I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world,
  And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
  And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these
  I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
  And foul as fair.

IF, AFTER ALL ...!

This life I squander, hating the long days
That will not bring me either Rest or Thee,
This health I hack and ravage as with knives,
These nerves I fain would shatter, and this heart
I fain would break—­this heart that, traitor-like,
Beats on with foolish and elastic beat: 
If, after all, this life I waste and kill
Should still be thine, may still be lived for thee! 
And this the dreadful trial of my love,
This silence and this blank that makes me mad,
That I be man to-day of all the days
My one poor hope of meeting thee again—­
If Death be Love, and God’s great purpose kind!

Oh, love, if some day on the heavenly stair
A wild ecstatic moment we should stand,
And I, all hungry for your eyes and hair,
Should meet instead your great accusing gaze,
And hear, instead of welcome into heaven: 
’Ah! hadst thou but been true! but manfully
Borne the high pangs that all high souls must bear,
Nor fled to low nepenthes for your pain! 
Hadst said—­“Is she not here? more reason then
To live as though still guarded by her eyes,
Cleaner my thought, and purer be my deed;
True will I be, though God Himself be false!"’