I turned away, and by my side stood Joy
All glorified—­ah, so ashamed was I
Who dared to dream that Joy, my Joy, could die!

The Lost Name

The voice of my true love is low
  And exquisitely kind,
Warm as a flower, cold as snow—­
  I think it is the Wind.

My true love’s face is white as mist
  That moons have lingered on,
Yet rosy as a cloud, sun-kissed—­
  I think it is the Dawn.

The breath of my true love is sweet
  As gardens at day’s close
When dew and dark together meet—­
  I think it is a Rose.

My true love’s heart is wild and shy
  And folded from my sight,
A world, a star, a whispering sigh—­
  I think it is the Night.

My true love’s name is lost to me,
  The prey of dusty years,
But in the falling Rain I see
  And know her by her tears!

The Happy Traveller

Who is the monarch of the Road? 
  I, the happy rover! 
Lord of the way which lies before
  Up to the hill and over—­
Owner of all beneath the blue,
On till the end, and after, too!

I am the monarch of the Road! 
  Mine are the keys of morning,
I know where evening keeps her store
  Of stars for night’s adorning,
I know the wind’s wild will, and why
The lone thrush hurries down the sky!

I am the monarch of the Road! 
  My court I hold with singing,
Each bird a gay ambassador,
  Each flower a censer, swinging;
And every little roadside thing
A wonder to confound a king.

I am the monarch of the Road! 
  I ask no leave for living;
I take no less, I seek no more
  Than nature’s fullest giving—­
And ever, westward with the day,
I travel to the far away!

The Dead Bride

Within my circled arm she lay and faintly smiled the long night through,
And oh, but she was fair to view, fair to view!

Upon the whiteness of her robe the dew distilled, and on her veil
And on her cheek of carved pearl that gleamed so pale.

(How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are,
One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star!)

I kissed her heavy, folded hair.  I kissed her heavy lids full oft;
Beneath the shining of the stars her eyes shone soft.

“Love, Love!” I said, “the day was long”—­“Oh, long indeed,” she sighing said. 
“I grow so jealous of the sun, since I am dead.”

(How sweet the air is in the night, how sweet, sweet, sweet the flowers seem—­
But oh, the emptiness of dawn that breaks the dream!)

The Crocus Bed

Yellow as the noonday sun,
Purple as a day that’s done,
White as mist that lingers pale
On the edge of morning’s veil,
Delicate as love’s first kiss—­
Crocuses are just like this.