mes--
All name and door.

The pond, where, early on in March,
The yellow cup
Of water-lilies made us glad,
Is now filled up.

But ah! what if they fill or fell
Each pond, each tree,
What matters it to-day, my love,
To me--to thee?

The jerry-builder may consume,
A greedy moth,
God's mantle of the living green,
I feel no wrath;

Eat up the beauty of the world,
And gorge his fill
On mead and winding country lane,
And grassy hill.

I only laugh, for now of these
I have no care,
Now that to me the fair is foul,
And foul as fair.

IF, AFTER ALL ...!

This life I squander, hating the long days
That will not bring me either Rest or Thee,
This health I hack and ravage as with knives,
These nerves I fain would shatter, and this heart
I fain would break--this heart that, traitor-like,
Beats on with foolish and elastic beat:
If, after all, this life I waste and kill
Should still be thine, may still be lived for thee!
And this the dreadful trial of my love,
This silence and this blank that makes me mad,
That I be man to-day of all the days
My one poor hope of meeting thee again--
If Death be Love, and God's great purpose kind!

Oh, love, if some day on the heavenly stair
A wild ecstatic moment we should stand,
And I, all hungry for your eyes and hair,
Should meet instead your great accusing gaze,
And hear, instead of welcome into heaven:
'Ah! hadst thou but been true! but manfully
Borne the high pangs that all high souls must bear,
Nor fled to low nepenthes for your pain!
Hadst said--"Is she not here? more reason then
To live as though still guarded by her eyes,
Cleaner my thought, and purer be my deed;
True will I be, though God Himself be false!"'

Oh, hadst thou thus been man, to-day had we
Walked on together undivided now--
But now a thousand flaming years must pass,
And all the trial be gone o'er again.

SPIRIT OF SADNESS

She loved the Autumn, I the Spring,
Sad all the songs she loved to sing;
And in her face was strangely set
Some great inherited regret.

Some look in all things made her sigh,
Yea! sad to her the morning sky:
'So sad! so sad its beauty seems'--
I hear her say it still in dreams.

But when the day grew grey and old,
And rising stars shone strange and cold,
Then only in her face I saw
A mystic glee, a joyous awe.

Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres
Is there an end of mortal tears?
Or is there still in those great eyes
That look of lo