II

Low, low down in the violets I press
My lips and whisper to her.  Does she hear,
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear,
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness

Of the clenched eyes, and the soul’s vast distress? 
Has she forgotten thus the old caress
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer
Delight?  Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep
In memory of days that used to be,—­
Has she forgotten these?  And in her sleep,
Has she forgotten me—­forgotten me?

III

To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes,
I mean to weld our faces—­through the dense
Incalculable darkness make pretense
That she has risen from her reveries
To mate her dreams with mine in marriages
Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease
Of every longing nerve of indolence,—­
Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun
My senses with her kisses—­drawl the glee
Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly,
Across mine own, forgetful if is done
The old love’s awful dawn-time when said we,
“To-day is ours!"...  Ah, Heaven! can it be
She has forgotten me—­forgotten me!

[Illustration:  (HAS SHE FORGOTTEN?)]

[Illustration:  (BLOOMS OF MAY—­TITLE)]

BLOOMS OF MAY

But yesterday!... 
O blooms of May,
And summer roses—­Where-away? 
O stars above,
And lips of love
And all the honeyed sweets thereof!

[Illustration:  (O LAD AND LASS)]

O lad and lass
And orchard-pass,
And briered lane, and daisied grass! 
O gleam and gloom,
And woodland bloom,
And breezy breaths of all perfume!—­

No more for me
Or mine shall be
Thy raptures—­save in memory,—­
No more—­no more—­
Till through the Door
Of Glory gleam the days of yore.

[Illustration:  (O GLEAM AND GLOOM AND WOODLAND BLOOM)]

THE SERMON OF THE ROSE

Wilful we are in our infirmity
Of childish questioning and discontent. 
Whate’er befalls us is divinely meant—­
Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! 
Make us to meet what is or is to be
With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent
To serve us in some way full excellent,
Though we discern it all belatedly. 
The rose buds, and the rose blooms and the rose
Bows in the dews, and in its fulness, lo,
Is in the lover’s hand,—­then on the breast
Of her he loves,—­and there dies.—­And who knows
Which fate of all a rose may undergo
Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest?