What right had a lounger up their lane? 
        But by creeping very close,
     With the good wall’s help,—­their eyes might strain
        And stretch themselves to O’s,

     Yet never catch her and me together,
        As she left the attic there,
     By the rim of the bottle labeled “Ether,”
        And stole from stair to stair,

     And stood by the rose-wreathed gate.  Alas,
        We loved, sir—­used to meet: 
     How sad and bad and mad it was—­
        But then, how it was sweet!

     LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

     Where the quiet-colored end of evening smiles,
               Miles and miles,
       On the solitary pastures where our sheep
               Half asleep
     Tinkle homeward through the twilight, stray or stop
               As they crop—­
     Was the site once of a city great and gay
               (So they say);
     Of our country’s very capital, its prince,
                Ages since,
     Held his court in, gathered councils, wielding far
                Peace or war.

     Now,—­the country does not even boast a tree,
                As you see;
     To distinguish slopes of verdure, certain rills
                From the hills
     Intersect and give a name to (else they run
                Into one). 
     Where the domed and daring palace shot in spires
                Up like fires
     O’er the hundred-gated circuit of a wall
                Bounding all,
     Made of marble, men might march on nor be pressed,
                Twelve abreast.

     And such plenty and perfection, see, of grass
                Never was! 
     Such a carpet as this summer-time o’erspreads
                And imbeds
     Every vestige of the city, guessed alone,
                Stock or stone—­
     Where a multitude of men breathed joy and woe
                Long ago;
     Lust of glory pricked their hearts up, dread of shame
                Struck them tame;
     And that glory and that shame alike, the gold
                Bought and sold.

Now,—­the single little turret that remains
On the plains,
By the caper overrooted, by the gourd
Overscored,
While the patching houseleek’s head of blossom winks
Through the chinks—­
Marks the basement whence a tower in ancient time
Sprang sublime,
And a burning ring, all round, the chariots traced
As they raced,
And the monarch and his minions and his dames
Viewed the games.

And I know—­while thus the quiet-colored eve
Smiles to leave
To their folding all our many-tinkling fleece
In such peace,
And the slopes and rills in undistinguished gray
Melt away—­
That a girl with eager eyes and yellow hair
Waits me there
In the turret whence the charioteers caught soul
For the goal,
When the king looked, where she looks now, breathless, dumb,
Till I come.