ore than a mystery.--
Yes, I will go to her; yes, I will speak.

7

_After the last meeting; the day following._

I seem to see her still; to see
That dim blue room. Her perfume comes
From lavender folds draped dreamily--
One blossom of brocaded blooms--
Some stuff of orient looms.

I seem to hear her speak; and back
Where lies the sun on books and piles
Of porcelain and bric-a-brac,
A tall clock ticks above the tiles,
Where Love's framed profile smiles.

I hear her say, "Ah, had I known!--
I suffer too for what has been--
For what must be."--A wild ache shone
In her sad eyes that seemed to lean
On something far, unseen.

And as in sleep my own self seems
Outside my suffering self.--I flush
'Twixt facts and undetermined dreams,
And wait as silent as that hush
Of lilac light and plush.

Smiling, but suffering, I feel,
Beneath that face, so sweet and sad,
In those pale temples, thoughts like steel
Pierce burningly.--I had gone mad
Had I once deemed her glad.--

Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn
To look beyond the present far
For some faint future hope, I turn--
Above her garden, day's fierce star,
Vermilion at the window bar,

Sank sullenly--like love's own sun--
An omen of our future life.--
And then the memory of one
Rich day she'd said she'd be my wife
Set heart and brain at strife.

Again amid the heavy hues,
Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold
Of flowers there, I stood 'mid dews
With her; deep in her garden old,
While sunset fires uprolled.

And now.... It can not be! and yet
To feel 'tis so!--In heart and brain
To know 'tis so!--while warm and wet
I seem to smell those scents again,
Verbena-scents and rain.

I turn, in hope she'll bid me stay.
Again her cameo beauty mark
Set in that smile.--She turns away.
No word of love! not even a spark
Of hope to cheer the dark!

That sepia sketch--conceive it so--
A jaunty head with mouth and eyes
Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau,
Silk-masked, unmasking--it denies
The look we half surmise,

We know is there. 'Tis thus we read
The true beneath the false; perceive
The smile that hides the ache.--Indeed!
Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!--I grieve,--
Oh God!--but laugh and leave....

8

_He walks aimlessly on._

Beyond those twisted apple-trees,
That partly hide the old brick-barn,
Its tattered arms and ta