Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice—­
    O how she promised she’d surely come to-day! 
  There she comes! she comes at last!  O heart of mine rejoice—­
    Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.

  Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
  Day’s bright banners in the west one by one are furled,
  Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose,
  One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.

  Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,
  All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead;
  O ’tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so: 
  If only I were half a man . . .  I’d let the baggage go.

  The Rival

  She failed me at the tryst: 
    All the long afternoon
  The golden day went by,
    Until the rising moon;
  But, as I waited on,
    Turning my eyes about,
  Aching for sight of her,
    Until the stars came out,—­
  Maybe ’twas but a dream—­
    There close against my face,
  “Beauty am I,” said one,
    “I come to take her place.”

  And then I understood
    Why, all the waiting through,
  The green had seemed so green,
    The blue had seemed so blue,
  The song of bird and stream
    Had been so passing sweet,
  For all the coming not
    Of her forgetful feet;
  And how my heart was tranced,
    For all its lonely ache,
  Gazing on mirrored rushes
    Sky-deep in the lake. 
  Said Beauty:  “Me you love,
    You love her for my sake.”

  The quarrel

  Thou shall not me persuade
    This love of ours
  Can in a moment fade,
    Like summer flowers;

  That a swift word or two,
    In angry haste,
  Our heaven shall undo,
    Our hearts lay waste.

  For a poor flash of pride,
    A cold word spoken,
  Love shall not be denied,
    Or long troth broken.

  Yea; wilt thou not relent? 
    Be mine the wrong,
  No more the argument,
    Dear love, prolong.

  The summer days go by,
    Cease that sweet rain,
  Those angry crystals dry,
    Be friends again.

  So short a time at best
    Is ours to play,
  Come, take me to thy breast—­
    Ah! that’s the way.

  Lovers

  Why should I ask perfection of thee, sweet,
    That have so little of mine own to bring? 
  That thou art beautiful from head to feet—­
    Is that, beloved, such a little thing,
    That I should ask more of thee, and should fling
  Thy largesse from me, in a world like this,
  O generous giver of thy perfect kiss?

  Thou gavest me thy lips, thine eyes, thine hair;
    I brought thee worship—­was it not thy due? 
  If thou art cruel—­still art thou not fair? 
    Roses thou gavest—­shalt thou not bring rue? 
    Alas! have I not brought thee sorrow too? 
  How dare I face the future and its drouth,
  Missing that golden honeycomb thy mouth?