owers our blood dyed red;
Our lips together, and
The dagger in my hand.

11

_She, musingly:_

How it was I cannot tell,
For I know not where nor why;
But perhaps we loved too well
In some world that does not lie
East or west of where we dwell,
And beneath no mortal sky.

Was it in the golden ages
Or the iron?--I had heard,--
In the prophecy of sages,--
Haply, how had come a bird,
Underneath whose wing were pages
Of an unknown lover's word.

I forget. You may remember
How the earthquake shook our ships;
How our city, one huge ember,
Blazed within the thick eclipse.
When you found me--deep December
Sealed my icy eyes and lips.

I forget. No one may say
That such things can not be true:--
Here a flower dies to-day,
And to-morrow blooms anew....
Death is silent.--Tell me, pray,
Why men doubt what God can do?

12

_He, with conviction._

As to that, nothing to tell,
You being all my belief;
Doubt may not enter or dwell
Here where your image is chief;
Here where your name is a spell,
Potent in joy and in grief.

Is it the glamor of spring
Working in us so we seem
Aye to have loved? that we cling
Even to some fancy or dream,
Rainbowing everything
Here in our souls with its gleam?

See! how the synod is met
There of the heavens to preach us--
Freed from the earth's oubliette,
See how the blossoms beseech us--
Were it not well to forget
Winter and night as they teach us?

Dew and a bud and a star,
These,--like a beautiful thought,
Over man's wisdom how far!--
God for some purpose has wrought;
And though they're that which they are,
What are the thoughts they have brought?

Stars and the moon; and they roll
Over our way that is white.
Here shall we end the long stroll?
Here shall I kiss you good-night?
Or, for a while, soul to soul,
Linger and dream of delight?

13

_They enter the garden again.... She, somewhat pensively._

Myths tell of walls and cities that arose
To melody. But I would build with tone,
Had I that harp, a world for us alone,
A world of love, and joy, and deep repose.

A land of lavender light, of blue-bell skies;
Pale peaks that rise against the gold of eve;
And on one height, the splendors never leave,
Our castled home o'er which the wild swan flies.

There, pitil