Fifine at the Fair.

          Any sort of woman may bestow
    Her atom on the star, or clod she counts for such,—­
    Each little making less bigger by just that much. 
    Women grow you, while men depend on you at best.

      Fifine at the Fair.

    Woman, and will you cast
    For a word, quite off at last
        Me your own, your You,—­
    Love, if you knew the light
    That your soul casts in my sight,
        How I look to you
        For the pure and true,
    And the beauteous and the right,—­
    Bear with a moment’s spite
    When a mere mote threats the white!

      A Lover’s Quarrel.

    Love, you did give all I asked, I think—­
    More than I merit, yes, by many times. 
    And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
    But had you—­oh, with the same perfect brow,
    And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
    The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare—­
    Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! 
    Some women do so.  Had the mouth there urged,
    “God and the glory! never care for gain;
    The present by the future, what is that? 
    Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 
    Rafael is waiting:  up to God, all three!”
    I might have done it for you.  So it seems;
    Perhaps not.  All is as God overrules.

Andrea Del Sarto.

All women love great men
If young or old; it is in all the tales;
Young beauties love old poets who can love—­
* * * * *
Who was a queen and loved a poet once
Humpbacked, a dwarf? ah, women can do that!

In a Balcony.

      For women

There is no good of life but love—­but love! 
What else looks good, is some shade flung from love;
Love gilds it, gives it worth.  Be warned by me. 
Never you cheat yourself one instant!  Love,
Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest!

      In a Balcony.

        Oh, the beautiful girl ...
    ...  Her flesh was the soft seraphic screen
    Of a soul that is meant ... 
      To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
    And blossom in heaven instead. 
    Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair? 
      One grace that grew to its full ...
    ...  She had her great gold hair.

    Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
      Freshness and fragrance—­floods of it, too! 
    Gold, did I say?  Nay, gold’s mere dross!

Gold Hair.

She had
A heart—­how shall I say?—­too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed:  she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
* * * * *
’Twas all one!  My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her,—­all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush at least ...
...  Who’d stoop to blame
This sort of trifling?