One who could dare as well as sing and sigh.
Ah! then were hearts to love, but they are long gone by.

  Ye lily-wives so happy in the nest,
    Whose joy within the gates of duty springs,
  Blame not Love's poor, who, if they would be blest,
    Must steal what comes to you with marriage rings:
    Ye pity the poor lark whose scarce-tried wings
  Faint in the net, while still the morning air
    With brown free throats of all his brethren sings,
  And can it be ye will not pity her,
Whose youth is as a lark all lost to singing there?

  In opportunity of dear-bought joy
    Rich were this twain, for old Lanciotto, he
  Who was her lord, was brother of her boy,
    And in one home together dwelt the three,
    With brothers two beside; and he and she
  Sat at one board together, in one fane
    Their voices rose upon one hymn, ah me!
  Beneath one roof each night their limbs had lain,
As now in death they share the one eternal pain.

  As much as common men can love a flower
    Unto Lanciotto was Francesca dear,
  'Tis not on such Love wields his jealous power;
    And therefore Paolo moved him not to fear,
    Though he so green with youth and he so sere.
  Nor yet indeed was wrong, the hidden thing
    Grew at each heart, unknown of each, a year,—
  Two eggs still silent in the nest through spring,
May draws so near to June, and not yet time to sing!

  Yet oft, indeed, through days that gave no sign
    Had but Francesca turned about and read
  Paolo's bright eyes that only dared to shine
    On the dear gold that glorified her head;
    Ere all the light had from their circles fled
  And the grey Honour darkened all his face:
    They had not come to June and nothing said,
  Day followed day with such an even pace,
Nor night succeeded night and left no starry trace.

  Or, surely, had the flower Paolo pressed
    In some sweet volume when he put it by.
  Told how his mistress drew it to her breast
    And called upon his name when none was nigh;
    Had but the scarf he kissed with piteous cry
  But breathed again its secret unto her,
    Or had but one of every little sigh
  Each left for each been love's true messenger:
They surely had not kept that winter all the year.

  Yea! love lay hushed and waiting like a seed,
    Some laggard of the season still abed
  Though the sun calls and gentle zephyrs plead,
    And Hope that waited long must deem it dead;
    Yet lo! to-morrow sees its shining head
  Singing at dawn 'mid all the garden throng:
    Ah, had it known, it had been earlier sped—
  Was it for fear of day it slept so long,
Or were its dreams of singing sweeter than the song?

  But what poor flower can symbol all the might
    And all the magnitude, great Love, of thee?
  Ah, is there aught can image thee aright
    In earth or heaven, how great or fair it be?
    We watch the acorn grow into the tree,
  We watch the patient spark surprise the mine,
    But what are oaks to thy Ygdrasil-tree?
  What the mad mine's convulsive strength to thine,
That wrecks a world but bids heaven's soaring steeples shine?

  A god that hath no earthly metaphor,
    A blinding word that hath no earthly rhyme,
  Love! we can only call and no name more;
    As the great lonely thunder rolls sublime,
    As the great sun doth solitary climb,
  And we have but themselves to know them by,
    Just so Love stands a stranger amid Time:
  The god is there, the great voice speaks on high,
We pray, 'What art thou, Lord?' but win us no reply.

  So in the dark grew Love, but feared to flower,
    Dreamed to himself, but never spake a word,
  Burned like a prisoned fire from hour to hour,
    Sang his dear song like an unheeded bird;
    Waiting the summoning voice so long unheard,
  Waiting with weary eyes the gracious sign
    To bring his rose, and tell the dream he dared,
  The tremulous moment when the star should shine,
And each should ask of each, and each should answer
     —'Thine.'

  Winter to-day, but lo! to-morrow spring!
    They waited long, but oh at last it came,
  Came in a silver hush at evening;
    Francesca toyed with threads upon a frame,
    Hard by young Paolo read of knight and dame
  That long ago had loved and passed away:
    He had no other way to tell his flame,
  She dare not listen any other way—
But even that was bliss to lovers poor as they.

  The world grew sweet with wonder in the west
    The while he read and while she listened there,
  And many a dream from out its silken nest
    Stole like a curling incense through the air;
    Yet looked she not on him, nor did he dare:
  But when the lovers kissed in Paradise
    His voice sank and he turned his gaze on her,
  Like a young bird that flutters ere it flies,—
And lo! a shining angel called him from her eyes.

  Then from the silence sprang a kiss like flame,
    And they hung lost together; while around
  The world was changed, no more to be the same
    Meadow or sky, no little flower or sound
    Again the same, for earth grew holy ground:
  While in the silence of the mounting moon
    Infinite love throbbed in the straining bound
  Of that great kiss, the long-delaying boon,
Granted indeed at last, but ended, ah! so soon.

  As the great sobbing fulness of the sea
    Fills to the throat some void and aching cave,
  Till all its hollows tremble silently,
    Pressed with sweet weight of softly-lapping wave:
    So kissed those mighty lovers glad and brave.
  And as a sky from which the sun has gone
    Trembles all night with all the stars he gave
  A firmament of memories of the sun,—
So thrilled and thrilled each life when that great kiss was done.

  But coward shame that had no word to say
    In passion's hour, with sudden icy clang
  Slew the bright morn, and through the tarnished day
    An iron bell from light to darkness rang:
    She shut her ears because a throstle sang,
  She dare not hear the little innocent bird,
    And a white flower made her poor head to hang—
  To be so white! once she was white as curd,
But now—'Alack!' 'Alack!' She speaks no other word.

  The pearly line on yonder hills afar
    Within the dawn, when mounts the lark and sings
  By the great angel of the morning star,—
    That was his love, and all free fair fresh things
    That move and glitter while the daylight springs:
  To thus know love, and yet to spoil love thus!
    To lose the dream—O silly beating wings—
  Great dream so splendid and miraculous:
O Lord, O Lord, have mercy, have mercy upon us.

  She turned her mind upon the holy ones
    Whose love lost here was love in heaven tenfold,
  She thought of Lucy, that most blessed