king sweet the moon!

Aroused from fragrant covers,
The vows of vanished lovers
Take voice in whisperings that rise and pass;
Where the crisped leaves are lying
A tremulous, low sighing
Breathes like a startled spirit o'er the grass.

Ah, Love! in some far garden,
In Arcady or Arden,
We two were lovers! Hush--remember not
The years in which I've missed you--
'Twas yesterday I kissed you
Beneath this haunted moon! Have you forgot?

Rose Dolores

THE moan of Rose Dolores, she made her plaint to me,
"My hair is lifted by the wind that sweeps in from the sea;
I taste its salt upon my lips--O jailer, set me free!"

"Content thee, Rose Dolores; content thee, child of care!
There's satin shoon upon thy feet and emeralds in thy hair,
And one there is who hungers for thy step upon the stair."

The moan of Rose Dolores, "O jailer, set me free!
These satin shoon and green-lit gems are terrible to me;
I hear a murmur on the wind, the murmur of the sea!"

"Bethink thee, Rose Dolores, bethink thee, ere too late!
Thou wert a fisher's child, alack, born to a fisher's fate;
Would'st lay thy beauty 'neath the yoke--would'st be a fisher's mate?"

The moan of Rose Dolores "Kind jailer, let me go!
There's one who is a fisher--ah! my heart beats cold and slow
Lest he should doubt I love him--I! who love not heaven so!"

"Alas, sweet Rose Dolores, why beat against the bars?
Thy fisher lover drifteth where the sea is full of stars;
Why weep for one who weeps no more?--since grief thy beauty mars!"

The moan of Rose Dolores (she prayed me patiently)
"O jailer, now I know who called from out the calling sea,
I know whose kiss was in the wind--O jailer, set me free!"

A Pilgrim

ACROSS the trodden continent of years
To shrines of long ago,
My heart, a hooded pilgrim, turns with tears--
For could I know
That in the temple of thy constancy
There still may burn a taper lit for me,
'Twould be a star in starless heaven, to show
That Heaven could be.

Bent with the weight of all that I desired
And all that I forswore,
My heart roams, mendicant, forlorn and tired,
From door to door,
Begging of every stern-faced memory
An alms of pity--just to come to thee,
No more thy knight, thy champion no more--
Only thy devotee!

Spring will Come

SPRING will come to help me: she'll be back again,
Back with the soft sun, the sun I knew before.
She will wear her green gown, the e