Dream-Song.

    Cam’st thou not nigh to me
    In that one glimpse of thee
    When thy lips, tremblingly,
        Said:  “My Beloved.” 
    ’Twas but a moment’s space,
    And in that crowded place
    I dared not scan thy face
        O! my Beloved.

    Yet there may come a time
    (Though loving be a crime
    Only allowed in rhyme
        To us, Beloved),
    When safe ’neath sheltering arm
    I may, without alarm,
    Hear thy lips, close and warm,
        Murmur:  “Beloved!”

Doubt.

    I do not know if all the fault be mine,
      Or why I may not think of thee and be
      At peace with mine own heart.  Unceasingly
    Grim doubts beset me, bygone words of thine
      Take subtle meaning, and I cannot rest
      Till all my fears and follies are confessed.

    Perhaps the wild wind’s questioning has brought
      My heart its melancholy, for, alone
      In the night stillness, I can hear him moan
    In sobbing gusts, as though he vainly sought
      Some bygone bliss.  Against the dripping pane
      In storm-blown torrents beats the driving rain.

    Nay I will tell thee all, I will not hide
      One thought from thee, and if I do thee wrong
      So much the more must I be brave and strong
    To show my fault.  And if thou then shouldst chide
      I will accept reproof most willingly
      So it but bringeth peace to thee and me.

    I dread thy past.  Phantoms of other days
      Pursue my vision.  There are other hands
      Which thou hast held, perchance some slender bands
    That draw thee still to other woodland ways
      Than those which we have known, some blissful hours
      I do not share, of love, and June, and flowers.

    I dread her most, that woman whom thou knewest
      Those years ago,—­I cannot bear to think
      That she can say:  “My lover praised the pink
    Of palm, or ear,” “The violets were bluest
      In that dear copse,” and dream of some fair day
      When thou didst while her summer hours away.

    I dread them too, those light loves and desires
      That lie in the dim shadow of the years;
      I fain would cheat myself of all my fears
    And, as a child watching warm winter fires,
      Dream not of yesterday’s black embers, nor
      To-morrow’s ashes that may strew the floor.

    I did not dream of this while thou wert near,
      But now the thought that haunts me day by day
      Is that the things I love, the tender way
    Of mastery, the kisses that are dear
      As Heaven’s best gifts, to other lips and arms
      Owe half their blessedness and all their charms.

    Tell me that I am wrong, O!  Man of men,
      Surely it is not hard to comfort me,
      Laugh at my fears with dear persistency,
    Nay, if thou must, lie to me!  There, again,
      I hear the rain, and the wind’s wailing cry
      Stirs with wild life the night’s monotony.