SATIETY

The heart of the rose—­how sweet
  Its fragrance to drain,
  Till the greedy brain
  Reels and grows faint
  With the garnered scent,
Reels as a dream on its silver feet.

Sweet thus to drain—­then to sleep: 
  For, beware how you stay
  Till the joy pass away,
  And the jaded brain
  Seeketh fragrance in vain,
And hates what it may not reap.

WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?

What of the darkness?  Is it very fair? 
Are there great calms and find ye silence there? 
Like soft-shut lilies all your faces glow
With some strange peace our faces never know,
With some great faith our faces never dare. 
Dwells it in Darkness?  Do you find it there?

Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? 
Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? 
Is it a Hand to still the pulse’s leap? 
Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? 
Day shows us not such comfort anywhere. 
Dwells it in Darkness?  Do you find it there?

Out of the Day’s deceiving light we call,
Day that shows man so great and God so small,
That hides the stars and magnifies the grass;
O is the Darkness too a lying glass,
Or, undistracted, do you find truth there? 
What of the Darkness?  Is it very fair?

AD CIMMERIOS

(A Prefatory Sonnet for SANTA LUCIA_, the Misses Hodgkin’s Magazine for the Blind)_

We, deeming day-light fair, and loving well
  Its forms and dyes, and all the motley play
  Of lives that win their colour from the day,
Are fain some wonder of it all to tell
To you that in that elder kingdom dwell
  Of Ancient Night, and thus we make assay
  Day to translate to Darkness, so to say,
To talk Cimmerian for a little spell.

Yet, as we write, may we not doubt lest ye
  Should smile on us, as once our fathers smiled,
    When we made vaunt of joys they knew no more;
Knowing great dreams young eyes can never see,
  Dwelling in peace unguessed of any child—­
    Will ye smile thus upon our daylight lore?

OLD LOVE-LETTERS

You ask and I send.  It is well, yea! best: 
  A lily hangs dead on its stalk, ah me! 
A dream hangs dead on a life it blest. 
  Shall it flaunt its death where sad eyes may see
  In the cold dank wind of our memory? 
Shall we watch it rot like an empty nest? 
  Love’s ghost, poor pitiful mockery—­
Bury these shreds and behold it shall rest.

And shall life fail if one dream be sped? 
  For loss of one bloom shall the lily pass? 
    Nay, bury these deep round the roots, for so
    In soil of old dreams do the new dreams grow,
  New ‘Hail’ is begot of the old ‘Alas.’ 
See, here are our letters, so sweet—­so dead.