“Then he’ll ride among the hills
     To the wide world past the river,
        There to put away all wrong: 
        To make straight distorted wills,
     And to empty the broad quiver
        Which the wicked bear along.

        “Three times shall a young foot-page
     Swim the stream and climb the mountain
        And kneel down beside my feet—­
        ’Lo! my master sends this gage,
     Lady, for thy pity’s counting! 
        What wilt thou exchange for it?’

        “And the first time I will send
     A white rosebud for a guerdon,
        And the second time, a glove: 
        But the third time—­I may bend
     From my pride, and answer—­’Pardon—­
        If he come to take my love.’

        “Then the young foot-page will run—­
     Then my lover will ride faster,
        Till he kneeleth at my knee: 
        ’I am a duke’s eldest son! 
     Thousand serfs do call me master,—­
        But, O Love, I love but thee!

       “He will kiss me on the mouth
     Then; and lead me as a lover
       Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
       And when soul-tied by one troth,
     Unto him I will discover
       That swan’s nest among the reeds.”

       Little Ellie, with her smile
     Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
       Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe—­
       And went homeward, round a mile,
     Just to see, as she did daily,
       What more eggs were with the two.

       Pushing through the elm-tree copse
     Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
       Where the osier pathway leads—­
       Past the boughs she stoops—­and stops! 
     Lo! the wild swan had deserted—­
       And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

       Ellie went home sad and slow: 
     If she found the lover ever,
       With his red-roan steed of steeds,
       Sooth I know not! but I know
     She could never show him—­never,
       That swan’s nest among the reeds!

     THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD

     WHAT’S the best thing in the world? 
        June-rose by May-dew impearled;
        Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
     Truth, not cruel to a friend;
     Pleasure, not in haste to end;
     Beauty, not self-decked and curled
     Till its pride is over-plain;
     Light, that never makes you wink;
     Memory, that gives no pain;
     Love, when so you’re loved again. 
     What’s the best thing in the world?—­
     Something out of it, I think.

     SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE

     Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! 
       Unlike our uses and our destinies. 
       Our ministering two angels look surprise
     On one another as they strike athwart
     Their wings in passing.