I took her out into the dawn,
    And from the mountain’s crest
  Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn,
    And wound them round her breast.

  Then passed we to the maple grove,
    Like a great hall of gold,
  The yellow and the red we wove
    In rustling flounce and fold.

  “Now, love,” said I, “go, do it on! 
    And I would have you note
  No lovely lady dead and gone
    Had such a petticoat.”

  Then span I out of milkweeds fine
    Fair stockings soft and long,
  And other things of quaint design
    That unto maids belong.

  And beads of amber and of pearl
    About her neck I strung,
  And in the bronze of her thick hair
    The purple grape I hung. . . .

  Then led her to a glassy spring,
    And bade her look and see
  If any girl in all the world
    Had such fine clothes as she.

  The valley

  I will walk down to the valley
    And lay my head in her breast,
  Where are two white doves,
  The Queen of Love’s,
    In a silken nest;
  And, all the afternoon,
  They croon and croon
  The one word “Rest!”
  And a little stream
    That runs thereby
  Sings “Dream!”
    Over and over
  It sings—­
    “O lover,
  Dream!”

  Ballade of the bees of trebizond

  There blooms a flower in Trebizond
    Stored with such honey for the bee,
  (So saith the antique book I conned)
    Of such alluring fragrancy,
    Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;
  Thither the maddened feasters fly,
    Yet—­so alas! is it with me—­
  To taste that honey is to die.

  Beloved, I, as foolish fond,
    Feast still my eyes and heart on thee,
  Asking no blessedness beyond
    Thy face from morn till night to see,
    Ensorcelled past all remedy;
  Even as those foolish bees am I,
    Though well I know my destiny—­
  To taste that honey is to die.

  O’er such a doom shall I despond? 
    I would not from thy snare go free,
  Release me not from thy sweet bond,
    I live but in thy mystery;
    Though all my senses from me flee,
  I still would glut my glazing eye,
    Thou nectar of mortality—­
  To taste that honey is to die.

  Envoi

  Princess, before I cease to be,
    Bend o’er my lips so burning dry
  Thy honeycombs of ivory—­
    To taste that honey is to die.

  Broken tryst

  Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,
  Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet,
  Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown,
  How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down.

  First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
    Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;
  All the woodland fools me, promising my love;
    I think I hear her talking—­’tis but the running stream.