wind,
I thrill at the touch of your painted lips--for--"_I am your Rosalind!_"

Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art,
That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart;
Could you know that my soul speaks to you--aye soul and spirit and mind!
When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"

To you 'tis a vain dissembling--a part of the work of the day,
And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of
the play.
Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed.
To prove your skill as a lover--yet--"_I am your Rosalind!_"

I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her art
Must needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still
her part--

Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind!
Cry to your soul in another's words--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"

To E. P. B.

Imperial as that famed Elizabeth
Before whose feet a knight his cloak cast down--
A sovereign--altho' thine only crown
Love's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.

Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath,
Across thy path no regal robe I fling--
Only a living, loving heart I bring
To lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.

Through the Dark

Last night they laid me in my winding sheet,
Set burning tapers at my feet and head,
Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet,
And told each other softly, "She is dead."

Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and stark
I lay where waned the tawny tapers dim,
Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful dark
I lived in thoughts of _him_.

The morning came. One who had loved me bent
Above my face with tears and bated breath;
Laid on my heart the roses _he_ had sent--
And I--was glad of death!

Preluding

Frail fronds of ferns uncurling,
Blue iris flags unfurling,
Pale showers of blossoms swirling
Like clouds of wind-blown snow;
With fragile wildings playing,
Like two blithe children maying,
Across the glad meads straying,
Together, dear, we go.

The silver clouds far-drifting,
Vague lights and shadows shifting,
The sungleams gold-dust sifting
Down thro' the latticed leaves;
Gray brooks the meadows lacing,
Young flow'rs the uplands gracing,
Her faery 'broidery tracing
The skillful spider weaves.

From long, long day-dreams shaken,
The vivid violets waken;
His Southern haunts fors