Poet, the pass-key magical was thine,
    To Beauty’s Fairy World, in classic calm
  Or rich romantic colour.  Bagdat’s shrine
    By sheeny Tigris, Syrian pool and palm,
  Avilion’s bowery hollows, Ida’s peak,
    The lily-laden Lotos land, the fields
  Of amaranth!  What may vagrant Fancy seek
        More than thy rich song yields,
  Of Orient odour, Faery wizardry,
  Or soft Arcadian simplicity?

  From all, far Faery Land, Romance’s realm,
    Green English homestead, cloud-crown’d Attic hill,
  The Poet passes—­whither?  Not the helm
    Of wounded ARTHUR, lit by light that fills
  Avilion’s fair horizons, gleamed more bright
    Than does that leonine laurelled visage now,
  Fronting with steadfast look that mystic Light. 
        Grave eye, and gracious brow
  Turn from the evening bell, the earthly shore,
  To face the Light that floods him evermore.

  Farewell!  How fitlier should a poet pass
    Than thou from that dim chamber and the gleam
  Of poor earth’s purest radiance?  Love, alas! 
    Of that strange scene must long in sorrow dream. 
  But we—­we hear thy manful music still! 
    A royal requiem for a kingly soul! 
  No sadness of farewell!  Away regret,
        When greatness nears its goal! 
  We follow thee, in thought, through light, afar
  Divinely piloted beyond the bar!

* * * * *

TO MY SWEETHEART.

    ["Those roses you bought and gave to me are marvels.  They are
    still alive.”—­Her Letter.]

[Illustration]

  A Hothouse where some roses blew,
    And, whilst the outer world was white,
  The gentle roses softly grew
    To fragrant visions of delight.

  Some wretched florist owned them all,
    And plucked them from their native bowers,
  Then gaily showed them on his stall
    To swell the ranks of “Fresh-Cut Flowers.”

  Some went beside a bed of pain
    Where influenza claimed its due;
  They drooped and never smiled again,
    The epidemic had them too.

  A gay young gallant bought some buds,
    And jauntily went out to dine
  With other reckless sporting bloods,
    Who talked of women, drank of wine;

  But whilst they talked, and smoked, and drank,
    And told tales not too sanctified. 
  Abashed the timid blossoms shrank,
    Changed colour, faded, and then died.

  Yet roses, too, I gave to you,
    I saw you place them near your heart,
  You wore them all the evening through,
    You wore them when we came to part.

  But now you write to me, my dear,
    And marvel that they are not dead,
  Their beauty does not disappear,
    Their fragrant perfume has not fled.

    The reason’s plain.  Somehow aright
  The flowers know if we ignore them. 
    The roses live for sheer delight
  At knowing, Sweetheart, that you wore them.