A FOREBODING

What were the whole void world, if thou wert dead,
Whose briefest absence can eclipse my day,
And make the hours that danced with Time away
Drag their funereal steps with muffled head? 
Through thee, meseems, the very rose is red,
From thee the violet steals its breath in May,
From thee draw life all things that grow not gray,
And by thy force the happy stars are sped. 
Thou near, the hope of thee to overflow
Fills all my earth and heaven, as when in Spring,
Ere April come, the birds and blossoms know,
And grasses brighten round her feet to cling;
Nay, and this hope delights all nature so
That the dumb turf I tread on seems to sing.

III.  FANCY

UNDER THE OCTOBER MAPLES

What mean these banners spread,
These paths with royal red
So gaily carpeted? 
Comes there a prince to-day? 
Such footing were too fine
For feet less argentine
Than Dian’s own or thine,
Queen whom my tides obey.

Surely for thee are meant
These hues so orient
That with a sultan’s tent
Each tree invites the sun;
Our Earth such homage pays,
So decks her dusty ways,
And keeps such holidays,
For one and only one.

My brain shapes form and face,
Throbs with the rhythmic grace
And cadence of her pace
To all fine instincts true;
Her footsteps, as they pass,
Than moonbeams over grass
Fall lighter,—­but, alas,
More insubstantial too!

LOVE’S CLOCK

A PASTORAL

DAPHNIS waiting

’O Dryad feet,
Be doubly fleet,
Timed to my heart’s expectant beat
While I await her! 
“At four,” vowed she;
’Tis scarcely three,
Yet by my time it seems to be
A good hour later!’

CHLOE

’Bid me not stay! 
Hear reason, pray! 
’Tis striking six!  Sure never day
Was short as this is!’

DAPHNIS

’Reason nor rhyme
Is in the chime! 
It can’t be five; I’ve scarce had time
To beg two kisses!’

BOTH

’Early or late,
When lovers wait,
And Love’s watch gains, if Time a gait
So snail-like chooses,
Why should his feet
Become more fleet
Than cowards’ are, when lovers meet
And Love’s watch loses?’

ELEANOR MAKES MACAROONS

Light of triumph in her eyes,
Eleanor her apron ties;
As she pushes back her sleeves,
High resolve her bosom heaves. 
Hasten, cook! impel the fire
To the pace of her desire;
As you hope to save your soul,
Bring a virgin casserole,
Brightest bring of silver spoons,—­
Eleanor makes macaroons!