sions sees.
While the good cavalier,
remounted on his horse,
Left me a parting nod
as he retook his course,
And shouted to me
(still I hear his cries):
"Once only can the miracle
avail.--Be wise!"

SPLEEN

The roses every one were red,
And all the ivy leaves were black.

Sweet, do not even stir your head,
Or all of my despairs come back.

The sky is too blue, too delicate:
Too soft the air, too green the sea.

I fear---how long had I to wait!--
That you will tear yourself from me.

The shining box-leaves weary me,
The varnished holly's glistening,

The stretch of infinite country;
So, saving you, does everything.

CLAIR DE LUNE

How like a well-kept garden is your soul,
With bergomask and solemn minuet!
Playing upon the lute! The dancers seem
But sad, beneath their strange habiliments.
While, in the minor key, their songs extol
The victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,
Their looks belie the burden of their lays,
The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams.
So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;
Making the birds among the branches dream,
And sob with ecstasy the slender jets,

The fountains tall that leap upon the lawns
Amid the garden gods, the marble fauns.

MON DIEU M'A DIT: . . .

God has spoken: Love me,
son, thou must; Oh see
My broken side; my heart,
its rays refulgent shine;
My feet, insulted, stabbed,
that Mary bathes with brine
Of bitter tears my sad arms,
helpless, son, for thee;

With thy sins heavy; and my hands;
thou seest the rod;
Thou seest the nails, the sponge,
the gall; and all my pain
Must teach thee love, amidst a world
where flesh doth reign,
My flesh alone, my blood,
my voice, the voice of God,

Say, have I not loved thee,
loved thee to death,
O brother in my Father,
in the Spirit son?
Say, as the word is written,
is my work not done?
Thy deepest woe have I not sobbed
with struggling breath?
Has not thy sweat of anguished nights
from all my pores in pain
Of blood dripped, piteous friend,
who seekest me in vain?

GREEN

Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;
And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee.
Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dear
White hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.

I come, all covered with the dews of night
The morning breeze