r dreams are good, and my life stands still
While their lives' red ashes the gossips stir;
But my fiddle knows--and I talk to her.

Nora Hopper [1871-1906]

EURYDICE

He came to call me back from death
To the bright world above.
I hear him yet with trembling breath
Low calling, "O sweet love!
Come back! The earth is just as fair;
The flowers, the open skies are there;
Come back to life and love!"

Oh! all my heart went out to him,
And the sweet air above.
With happy tears my eyes were dim;
I called him, "O sweet love!
I come, for thou art all to me.
Go forth, and I will follow thee,
Right back to life and love!

I followed through the cavern black;
I saw the blue above.
Some terror turned me to look back:
I heard him wail, "O love!
What hast thou done! What hast thou done!"
And then I saw no more the sun,
And lost were life and love.

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT

I am a woman--therefore I may not
Call to him, cry to him,
Fly to him,
Bid him delay not!

Then when he comes to me, I must sit quiet:
Still as a stone--
All silent and cold.
If my heart riot--
Crush and defy it!
Should I grow bold,
Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him--
What to atone
Is enough for my sinning!
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning--
That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover
At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure,--
Calm and demure
Then must I hold me,
In myself fold me,
Lest he discover;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me--
How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,
Thou God above me!

Richard Watson Gilder [1844-1900]

LAUS VENERIS
A Picture By Burne-Jones

Pallid with too much longing,
White with passion and prayer,
Goddess of love and beauty,
She sits in the picture there,--

Sits with her dark eyes seeking
Something more subtle still
Than the old delights of loving
Her measureless days to fill.

She has loved and been loved so often
In her long, immortal years,
That she tires of the worn-out rapture,
Sickens of hopes and fears.

No joys or sorrows move her,
Done with her ancient pride;
For her head she found too heavy
The crown she has cast aside.

Clothed in her scarlet splendor,
Bright with her glory of hair
Sad that she is not mortal,--
Eternally sad and fair,

Longin