my lady, smiles,
I feel as one who, lost in darksome wilds,
Sees suddenly the sun in middle sky
Shining upon him like a great glad eye.
   When my sweet lady smiles.

When she, my lady laughs,
I feel as one who some elixir quaffs;
Some nameless nectar, made of wines of suns,
And through my veins a subtle iveresse runs.
   When my sweet lady laughs.

And when my lady talks,
I am as one who by a brooklet walks,
Some sweet-tongued brooklet, which the whole long day,
Holds converse with the birds along the way.
   When my loved lady talks.

And when my lady sings,
Oh then I hear the beat of silver wings;
All that is earthly from beneath me slips,
And in the liquid cadence of her lips
I float, so near the Infinite, I seem
Lost in the glory of a white starred dream.
   When my sweet lady sings.

SPECTRES

How terrible these nights are when alone
   With our scarred hearts, we sit in solitude,
And some old sorrow, to the world unknown,
   Does suddenly with silent steps intrude.

After the guests departed, and the light
   Burned dimly in my room, there came to me,
As noiselessly as shadows of the night,
   The spectre of a woe that used to be.

Out of the gruesome darkness and the gloom
   I saw it peering; and, in still despair,
I watched it gliding swift across the room,
   Until it came and stood beside my chair.

Why, need I tell thee what its shape or name?
   Thou hast thy secret hidden from the light:
And be it sin or sorrow, woe or shame,
   Thou dost not like to meet it in the night.

And yet it comes.  As certainly as death,
   And far more cruel since death ends all pain,
On lonesome nights we feel its icy breath,
   And turn and face the thing we fancied slain.

With shrinking hearts, we view the ghastly shape;
   We look into its eyes with fear and dread,
And know that we can never more escape
   Until the grave doth fold us with the dead.

On the swift maelstrom of the eddying world
   We hurl our woes, and think they are no more.
But round and round by dizzy billows whirled,
   They reach out sinewy arms and swim to shore.

ONLY A LINE

Only a line in the paper,
   That somebody read aloud,
At a table of languid boarders,
   To the dull indifferent crowd.

Markets and deaths—and a marriage:
   And the reader read them all.
How could he know a hope died then,
   And was wrapped in a funeral pall.

Only a line in the paper,
   Read in a casual way,
But the glow went out of one young life,
   And left it cold and grey.

Colder than bleak December,
   Greyer than walls of rock,
But the reader paused, and the room grew full
   Of laughter and idle talk.

If one slipped off to her chamber,
   Why, who could dream or know,
That one brief line in the paper
   Had sent her away with her woe?

Away into lonely sorrow,
   To bitter and blinding tears;
Only a line in the paper,
   But it meant such desolate years.

PARTING

Lean down, and kiss me, O my love, my own;
   The day is near when thy fond heart will miss me;
And o’er my low green bed, with bitter moan,
   Thou wilt lean down, but cannot clasp or kiss me.

How strange it is, that I, so loving thee,
   And knowing we must part, perchance to-morrow,
Do comfort find, thinking how great will be
   Thy lonely desolation, and thy sorrow.

And stranger—sadder, O mine own other part,
   That I should grudge thee some surcease of weeping;
Why do I not rejoice, that in thy heart,
   Sweet love will bloom again when I am sleeping?

Nay, make no promise.  I would place no bar
   Upon thy future, even wouldst thou let me.
Thou hast, thou dost, well love me, like a man:
   And, like a man, in time thou wilt forget me.

Why should I care, so near the Infinite—
   Why should I care, that thou wilt cease to miss me?
O God! these earthly ties are knit so tight—
   Quick, quick, lean lower, O my love, and kiss me!

ESTRANGED

So well I knew your habits and your ways,
That like a picture painted on the skies,
At the sweet closing of the summer days,
   You stand before my eyes.

I see you on the old verandah there,
While slow the shadows of the twilight fall,
I see the very carving on the chair
   You tilt against the wall.

The West grows dim.  The faithful evening star
Comes out and sheds its tender patient beam.
I almost catch the scent of your cigar,
   As you sit there and dream.

But dream of what?  I know your outward life—
Your ways, your habits; know they have not changed.
But has one thought of me survived the strife
   Since we two were estranged?

I know not of the workings of your heart;
And yet I sometimes make myself believe
That I perchance do hold some little part
   Of reveries at eve.

I think you could not wholly put away
The memories of a past that held so much.
As birds fly homeward at the close of day,
   A word, a kiss, a touch,

Must sometimes come and nestle in your breast
And murmur to you of the long ago.
Oh do they stir you with a vague unrest?
   What would I give to know!

BEFORE AND AFTER

Before I lost my love, he said to me:
   ‘Sweetheart, I like deep azure tints on you.’
But I, perverse as any girl will be
   Who has too many lovers, wore not blue.

He said, ‘I love to see my lady’s hair
   Coiled low like Clytie’s—with no wanton curl.’
But I, like any silly, wilful girl,
   Said, ‘Donald likes it high,’ and wore it there.

He said, ‘I wish, love, when you sing to me,
   You would sing sweet, sad things—they suit your voice.’
I tossed my head, and sung light strains of glee—
   Saying, ‘This song, or that, is Harold’s choice.’

But now I wear no colour—none but blue.
   Low in my neck I coil my silken hair.
He does not know it, but I strive to do
   Whatever in his eyes would make me fair.

I sing no songs but those he loved the best.
   (Ah! well, no wonder: for the mournful strain
Is but the echo of the voice of pain,
   That sings so mournfully within my breast.)

I would not wear a ribbon or a curl
   For Donald, if he died from my neglect—
Oh me! how many a vain and wilful girl
   Learns true love’s worth, but—when her life is wrecked.

AN EMPTY CRIB

Beside a crib that holds a baby’s stocking,
A tattered picture book, a broken toy,
A sleeping mother dreams that she is rocking
   Her fair-haired cherub boy.

Upon the cradle’s side her light touch keeping,
She gently rocks it, crooning low a song;
And smiles to think her little one is sleeping,
   So peacefully and long.

Step light, breathe low, break not her rapturous dreaming,
Wake not the sleeper from her trance of joy,
For never more save in sweet slumber-seeming
   Will she watch o’er her boy.

God pity her when from her dream Elysian
She wakes to see the empty crib, and weep;
Knowing her joy was but a sleeper’s vision,
   Tread lightly—let her sleep.

THE ARRIVAL

‘What do I hear at the window?
   Did some one call me?’  Nay,
It was only the wind, my darling,
   Grieving the night away.
Only the wind and the casement
   Talking as two friends may.

‘But