single stamen is
My little wit must leave for thee to tell.

But neither poet nor a sibyl thou!
What brave conceit had he, my poet, built;
No jugglery of numbers that mean nought,
That can mean nought for ever, unto us.

XV

REGRET

One asked of regret,
  And I made reply:
To have held the bird,
  And let it fly;
To have seen the star
  For a moment nigh,
And lost it
  Through a slothful eye;
To have plucked the flower
  And cast it by;
To have one only hope—
  To die.

XVI

LOVE AFAR

Love, art thou lonely to-day?
  Lost love that I never see,
Love that, come noon or come night,
  Comes never to me;
Love that I used to meet
  In the hidden past, in the land
Of forbidden sweet.

Love! do you never miss
The old light in the days?
Does a hand
Come and touch thee at whiles
Like the wand of old smiles,
Like the breath of old bliss?
Or hast thou forgot,
And is all as if not?

What was it we swore?
    'Evermore!
    I and Thou,'
Ah, but Fate held the pen
    And wrote N
    Just before:
    So that now,
See, it stands,
Our seals and our hands,
    'I and Thou,
    Nevermore!'

We said 'It is best!'
And then, dear, I went
And returned not again.
Forgive that I stir,
Like a breath in thy hair,
The old pain,
'Twas unmeant.
I will strive, I will wrest
Iron peace—it is best.

But, O for thy hand
  Just to hold for a space,
For a moment to stand
  In the light of thy face;
Translate Then to Now,
To hear 'Is it Thou?'
    And reply
    'It is I!'
Then, then I could rest,
Ah, then I could wait
    Long and late.

XVII

Canst thou be true across so many miles,
  So many days that keep us still apart?
Ah, canst thou live upon remembered smiles,
  And ask no warmer comfort for thy heart?

I call thy name right up into the sky,
  Dear name, O surely she shall hear and hark!
Nay, though I toss it singing up so high,
  It drops again, like yon returning lark.

O be a dove, dear name, and find her breast,
  There croon and croodle all the lonely day;
Go tell her that I love her still the best,
  So many days, so many miles, away.

POSTSCRIPT

_So sang young Love in high and holy dream
  Of a white Love that hath no earthly taint,
So rapt within his vision he did seem
  Less like a boyish singer than a saint.

Ah, Boy, it is a dream for life too high,
  It is a bird that hath no feet for earth:
Strange wings, strange eyes, go seek another sky
  And find thy fellows of an equal birth.

For many a body-sweet material thing,
  What canst thou give us half so dear as these?
We would not soar amid the stars to sing,
  Warm and content amid the nested trees.

Young Seraph, go and lake thy song to heaven,
  We would not grow unhappy with our lot,
Leave us the simple love the earth hath given—
  Sing where thou wilt, so that we hear thee not_.

COR CORDIUM

TO MY WIFE, MILDRED

_Dear wife, there is no word in all my songs
But unto thee belongs:
Though I indeed before our true day came
Mistook thy star in many a wandering flame,
Singing to thee in many a fair disguise,
Calling to thee in many another's name,
Before I knew thine everlasting eyes.

Faces that fled me like a hunted fawn
I followed singing, deeming it was Thou,
Seeking this face that on our pillow now
Glimmers behind thy golden hair like dawn,
And, like a setting moon, within my breast
Sinks down each night to rest.

Moon follows moon before the great moon flowers,
Moon of the wild wild honey that is ours;
Long must the tree strive up in leaf and root,
Before it bear the golden-hearted fruit:
And shall great Love at once perfected spring,
Nor grow by steps like any other thing?_

COR CORDIUM

_The lawless love that would not be denied,
The love that waited, and in waiting died,
The love that met and mated, satisfied.

Ah, love, 'twas good to climb forbidden walls,
Who would not follow where his Juliet calls?
'Twas good to try and love the angel's way,
With starry souls untainted of the clay;
But, best the love where earth and heaven meet,
The god made flesh and dwelling in us, sweet._

(October 22, 1891.)

THE DESTINED MAID: A PRAYER

(Chant Royal)

O MIGHTY Queen, our Lady of the fire,
  The light, the music, and the honey, all
Blent in one Power, one passionate Desire
  Man calleth Love—'Sweet love,' the blessed
    call—:
I come a sad-eyed suppliant to thy knee,
If thou hast pity, pity grant to me;
  If thou hast bounty, here a heart I bring
  For all that bounty 'thirst and hungering.
O Lady, save thy grace, there is no way
  For me, I know, but lonely sorrowing—
Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray!

I lay in darkness, face down in the mire,
  And prayed that darkness might become my
    pall;
The rabble rout roared round me like some quire
  Of filthy animals primordial;
My heart seemed like a toad eternally
Prisoned in stone, ugly and sad as he;
  Sweet sunlight seemed a dream, a mythic thing,
  And life some beldam's dotard gossiping.
Then, Lady, I bethought me of thy sway,
  And hoped again, rose up this prayer to wing—
Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray!

Lady, I bear no high resounding lyre
  To hymn thy glory, and thy foes appal
With thunderous splendour of my rhythmic ire;
  A little lute I lightly touch and small
My skill thereon: yet, Lady, if it be
I ever woke ear-winning melody,
  'Twas for thy praise I sought the throbbing string,
  Thy praise alone—for all my worshipping
Is at thy shrine, thou knowest, day by day,
  Then shall it be in vain my plaint to sing?—
Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray!

Yea! why of all men should this sorrow dire
  Unto thy servant bitterly befall?
For, Lady, thou dost know I ne'er did tire
  Of thy sweet sacraments and ritual;
In morning meadows I have knelt to thee,
In noontide woodlands hearkened hushedly
  Thy heart's warm beat in sacred slumbering,
And in the spaces of the night heard ring
Thy voice in answer to the spheral lay:
Now 'neath thy throne my suppliant life I fling—
Send me a maiden meet for love, I pray!

I ask no maid for all men to admire,
  Mere body's beauty hath in me no thrall,
And noble birth, and sumptuous attire,
  Are gauds I crave