Dear Heart, this is my book of boyish song,
  The changing story of the wandering quest
  That found at last its ending in thy breast—­
The love it sought and sang astray so long
With wild young heart and happy eager tongue. 
  Much meant it all to me to seek and sing,
  Ah, Love, but how much more to-day to bring
This ‘rhyme that first of all he made when young.’

Take it and love it, ’tis the prophecy
  For whose poor silver thou hast given me gold;
    Yea! those old faces for an hour seemed fair
    Only because some hints of Thee they were: 
  Judge then, if I so loved weak types of old,
How good, dear Heart, the perfect gift of Thee.

IN A COPY OF MR. SWINBURNE’S
TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE

Dear Heart, what thing may symbolise for us
  A love like ours, what gift, whate’er it be,
  Hold more significance ’twixt thee and me
Than paltry words a truth miraculous;
Or the poor signs that in astronomy
  Tell giant splendours in their gleaming might: 
  Yet love would still give such, as in delight
To mock their impotence—­so this for thee.

This song for thee! our sweetest honeycomb
  Of lovesome thought and passion-hearted rhyme,
    Builded of gold and kisses and desire,
  By that wild poet who so many a time
    Our hungering lips have blessed, until a fire
Burnt speech up and the wordless hour had come.

COMFORT AT PARTING

O little Heart,
So much I see
Thy hidden smart,
So much I long
To sing some song
To comfort thee.

For, little Heart,
Indeed, indeed,
The hour to part
Makes cruel speed;
Yet, dear, think thou
How even now,
With happy haste,
With eager feet,
The hour when we
Again shall meet
Cometh across the waste.

HAPPY LETTER

Fly, little note,
And know no rest
Till warm you lie
Within that nest
Which is her breast;
Though why to thee
Such joy should be
Who carest not,
While I must wait
Here desolate,
I cannot wot. 
O what I ’d do
To come with you!

PRIMROSE AND VIOLET

Primrose and Violet—­
May they help thee to forget
All that love should not remember,
Sweet as meadows after rain
When the sun has come again,
As woods awakened from December. 
How they wash the soul from stain! 
How they set the spirit free! 
Take them, dear, and pray for me.

‘JULIET AND HER ROMEO’

(With Mr. Dicksee’s Picture)

Take ‘this of Juliet and her Romeo,’
  Dear Heart of mine, for though yon budding sky
Yearns o’er Verona, and so long ago
  That kiss was kissed; yet surely Thou and I,
Surely it is, whom morning tears apart,
  As ruthless men tear tendrilled ivy down: 
  Is not Verona warm within thy gown,
And Mantua all the world save where thou art?