Part 17 (2/2)

It's little that I care About my darling's place In books of beauty rare, Or heraldries of race: For when she steps in view, It matters not to me What her sweet type may be, Of woman, old or new.

I can't explain the art, But I know her for my own, Because her lightest tone Wakes an echo in my heart.

”UNDINE”

'Twas far away and long ago, When I was but a dreaming boy, This fairy tale of love and woe Entranced my heart with tearful joy; And while with white Undine I wept Your spirit,--ah, how strange it seems,-- Was cradled in some star, and slept, Unconscious of her coming dreams.

”RENCONTRE”

Oh, was I born too soon, my dear, or were you born too late, That I am going out the door while you come in the gate?

For you the garden blooms galore, the castle is _en fete_; You are the coming guest, my dear,--for me the horses wait.

I know the mansion well, my dear, its rooms so rich and wide; If you had only come before I might have been your guide, And hand in hand with you explore the treasures that they hide; But you have come to stay, my dear, and I prepare to ride.

Then walk with me an hour, my dear, and pluck the reddest rose Amid the white and crimson store with which your garden glows,-- A single rose,--I ask no more of what your love bestows; It is enough to give, my dear,--a flower to him who goes.

The House of Life is yours, my dear, for many and many a day, But I must ride the lonely sh.o.r.e, the Road to Far Away: So bring the stirrup-cup and pour a br.i.m.m.i.n.g draught, I pray, And when you take the road, my dear, I'll meet you on the way.

LOVE IN A LOOK

Let me but feel thy look's embrace, Transparent, pure, and warm, And I'll not ask to touch thy face, Or fold thee in mine arm.

For in thine eyes a girl doth rise, Arrayed in candid bliss, And draws me to her with a charm More close than any kiss.

A loving-cup of golden wine, Songs of a silver brook, And fragrant breaths of eglantine, Are mingled in thy look.

More fair they are than any star, Thy topaz eyes divine-- And deep within their trysting-nook Thy spirit blends with mine.

MY APRIL LADY

When down the stair at morning The sunbeams round her float, Sweet rivulets of laughter Are rippling in her throat; The gladness of her greeting Is gold without alloy; And in the morning sunlight I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight The quiet book-room lies, We read the sad old ballads, While from her hidden eyes The tears are falling, falling, That give her heart relief; And in the evening twilight, I think her name is Grief.

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