g the lawn with crystals fine,
But by the gods we won't repine
While we 're together,
We 'll chat and rhyme and kiss and dine,
Defying weather.

So stir the fire and pour the wine,
And let those sea-green eyes divine
Pour their love-madness into mine:
I don't care whether
'T is snow or sun or rain or shine
If we 're together.

_A GAME OF CHESS._

Terrace and lawn are white with frost,
Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes--
A mocking dream of summer, lost
'Mid winter's icy chains.

White-hot, indoors, the great logs gleam,
Veiled by a flickering flame of blue:
I see my love as in a dream--
Her eyes are azure, too.

She puts her hair behind her ears
(Each little ear so like a shell),
Touches her ivory Queen, and fears
She is not playing well.

For me, I think of nothing less:
I think how those pure pearls become her--
And which is sweetest, winter chess
Or garden strolls in summer.

[Illustration: Full-page Plate]

O linger, frost, upon the pane!
O faint blue flame, still softly rise!
O, dear one, thus with me remain,
That I may watch thine eyes!

[Decoration]

_MULTUM IN PARVO._

A little shadow makes the sunrise sad,
A little trouble checks the race of joy,
A little agony may drive men mad,
A little madness may the soul destroy:
Such is the world's annoy.

Ay, and the rose is but a little flower
Which the red Queen of all the garden is:
And Love, which lasteth but a little hour,
A moment's rapture and a moment's kiss,
Is what no man would miss.

_VIOLETS AT HOME._

I.

O happy buds of violet!
I give thee to my sweet, and she
Puts them where something sweeter yet
Must always be.

II.

White violets find whiter rest:
For fairest flowers how fair a fate!
For me remain, O fragrant breast!
Inviolate.

_MY THRUSH._

All through the sultry hours of June,
From morning blithe to golden noon,
And till the star of evening climbs
The gray-blue East, a world too soon,
There sings a Thrush amid the limes.

God's poet, hid in foliage green,
Sings endless songs, himself unseen;
Right seldom come his silent times.
Linger, ye summer hours serene!
Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes.

. . . . . . .

May I not