Still fragrant in the garden of her breast,
    The flowers that fled with summer softly bloom,
  The birds that shook with song each empty nest
    Still, when she speaks, fill all the listening room,
  Deep-sheltered from the storm
  Within her blossoming form. 
  Flower-breathed and singing sweet
  Is she from head to feet;
    All summer in my sweetheart doth abide,
    Though winter be outside.

  So all the various wonder of the world,
    The wizard moon and stars, the haunted sea,
  In her small being mystically furled,
    She brings as in a golden cup to me;
  Within no other book
  My eyes for wisdom look,
  That have her eyes for lore;
  And when the flaming door
    Opens into the dark, what shall I fear
    Adventuring with my dear?

  To the golden wife

  With laughter always on the darkest day,
  She danced before the very face of dread,
  Starry companion of my mortal way,
  Pre-destined merrily to be my mate,
  With eyes as calm, she met the eyes of Fate: 
  “For this it was that you and I were wed—­
  What else?” she smiled and said.

Fair-weather wives are any man’s to find, The pretty sisters of the butterfly, Gay when the sun is out, and skies are kind; The daughters of the rainbow all may win—­ Pity their lovers when the sun goes in! Her smiles are brightest ’neath the stormiest sky—­ Thrice blest and all unworthy I!

  Buried treasure

  When the musicians hide away their faces,
    And all the petals of the rose are shed,
  And snow is drifting through the happy places,
    And the last cricket’s heart is cold and dead;
      O Joy, where shall we find thee? 
        O Love, where shall we seek? 
      For summer is behind thee,
        And cold is winter’s cheek.

  Where shall I find me violets in December? 
    O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day! 
  Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember
    Where it lies hidden safe and warm away? 
      When woods once more are ringing
        With sweet birds on the bough,
      And brooks once more are singing,
        Will it be there—­thinkst thou?

  When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing,
    We found a place of moonlight and of tears,
  And there, with yellow leaves for it to lie in,
    Left it to dream, watched over by the spheres. 
      It lies like buried treasure
        Beneath the winter’s cold,
      The love beyond all measure,
        In heaps of living gold.

  When April’s here, with all her sweet adorning,
    And all the joys steal back December hid,
  Shall we not laughing run, some happy morning,
    And of our treasure lift the leafy lid? 
      Again to find it dreaming,
        Just as we left it still,
      Our treasure far out-gleaming
        Crocus and daffodil.