I should be at rest,
A ghostly Something rising in the glow
Of Love's own fire, an uninvited guest,
Taunts me with just one memory of the past!

TRIUMPH.

The sky, grown dull through many waiting days,
Flashed into crimson with the sunrise charm,
So all my love, aroused to vague alarm,
Flushed into fire and burned with eager blaze.
I saw thee not as suppliant, with still gaze
Of pleading, but as victor,--and thine arm
Gathered me fast into embraces warm,
And I was taught the light of Love's dear ways.

This day of triumph is no longer thine,
Oh conqueror, in calm exclusive power.--
As evermore, through storm, and shade, and shine,
Your woe my pain, your joy my ecstasy,
We breathe together,--so this blessed hour
Of self-surrender makes my jubilee!

RONDEAU.--I WILL FORGET.

I will forget those days of mingled bliss
And dear delicious pain,--will cast from me
All dreams of what I know can never be,
Even the remembrance of that parting kiss.
I knew that some day it would come to this
In spite of all our sworn fidelity,
That I must banish even memory,
And, sorrowing, learn to say, nor say amiss
I will forget.

I register this vow, and am content
That it be so. Ah me!--yet, if the door
Shut on our heaven might be asunder rent
Even now, and I could see the way we went,
I might retract my vow, and say no more
I will forget.

RONDEAU.--WHEN SUMMER COMES.

When summer comes, and when o'er hill and lea
The sun's strong wooing glow hath patiently
Shed o'er the earth long days his golden dower,
And then, by force of his own loving power,
Drawn the hard frost, and left it passive, free
To give forth all its sweets untiringly,
Shall not the day rise fair for thee and me,
And all life seem but as an opening flower
When summer comes?

The days move slowly, young hearts yearn to be
Together always, cannot brook to see
Their love-days pass, and void each sunny hour,
Yet may we smile, e'en when fate's storm-clouds lower,
Waiting fulfilment of our hearts' decree
When summer comes.

RONDEAU.--IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

It might have been so different a year
To what _has_ been; the summer's guileless play
Not all a jest, comes back to me to-day
In added sweetness, and provokes a tear.
Strange pictures rise, pass on, and disappear.
Drawn from your tender