of nuns
    Who sent her blue eyes on a plate of gold
    To him who wooed her daily for her love—
  'Mine eyes!' 'Mine eyes!' 'Here,—go in peace, they are!'
    But ever love came through the midnight grove,
  Young Love, with wild eyes watching from afar,
And called and called and called until the morning star.

  Ah, poor Francesca, 'tis not such as thou
    That up the stony steeps of heaven climb;
  Take thou thy heaven with thy Paolo now—
    Sweet saint of sin, saint of a deathless rhyme,
    Song shall defend thee at the bar of Time,
  Dante shall set thy fair young glowing face
    On the dark background of his theme sublime,
  And Thou and He in your superb disgrace
Still on that golden wind of passion shall embrace.

* * * * *

  So love this twain, but whither have they passed?
    Ah me, that dark must always follow day,
  That Love's last kiss is surely kissed at last,
    Howe'er so wildly the poor lips may pray:
    Merciful God, is there no other way?
  And pen, O must thou of the ending write,
    The hour Lanciotto found them where they lay,
  Folded together, weary with delight,
Within the sumptuous petals of the rose of night.

  Yea, for Lanciotto found them: many an hour
    Ere their dear joy had run its doomèd date,
  Had they, in silken nook and blossomed bower,
    All unsuspect the blessed apple ate,
    Who now must grind its core predestinate.
  Kiss, kiss, poor losing lovers, nor deny
    One little tremor of its bliss, for Fate
  Cometh upon you, and the dark is nigh
Where all, unkissed, unkissing, learn at length to lie.

  Bent on some journey of the state's concern
    They deemed him, and indeed he rode thereon
  But questioned Paolo—'What if he return!'
    'Nay, love, indeed he is securely gone
    As thou art surely here, beloved one,
  He went ere sundown, and our moon is here—
    A fear, love, in this heart that yet knew none!'
  How could he fright that little velvet ear
With last night's dream and all its ghostly fear!

  So did he yield him to her eager breast,
    And half forgot, but could not quite forget,
  No sweetest kiss could put that fear to rest,
    And all its haggard vision chilled him yet;
    Their warder moon in nameless trouble set,
  There seemed a traitor echo in the place,
    A moaning wind that moaned for lovers met,
  And once above her head's deep sunk embrace
He saw—Death at the window with his yellow face.

  Had that same dream caught old Lanciotto's reins,
    Bent in a weary huddle on his steed,
  In darkling haste along the blindfold lanes,
    Making a clattering halt in all that speed:—
    'Fool! fool!' he cried, 'O dotard fool, indeed,
  So ho! they wanton while the old man rides,'
    And on the night flashed pictures of the deed.
  'Come!'—and he dug his charger's panting sides,
And all the homeward dark tore by in roaring tides.

  As some great lord of acres when a thief
    Steals from his park some flower he never sees,
  Calls it a lily fair beyond belief,
    Prisons the wretch, and fines before he frees;
    Such jealous madness did Lanciotto seize:
  All in an instant is Francesca dear,
    He claims the wife he never cared to please,
  All in an instant seems his castle near,—
And those poor lovers sleep, forgot at last their fear.

  His horse left steaming at his journey's end,
    Up through his palace stairs with springing tread
  He strode; the silence met him like a friend,
    Fain to dissuade him from that deed of dread,
    Making a breeze about his burning head,
  Laying large hands of comfort on his soul;
    Within the ashes of his cheek burned red
  A long-shut rose of youth, as to the goal
Of death he sped, as once to love's own tryst he stole.

  He caught a sound as of a rose's breath,
    He caught another breath of deeper lung,
  Rose-leaves and oak-leaves on the wind of death;
    He drew aside the arras where they clung
    In the dim light, so lovely and so young—
  They lay in sin as in a cradle there,
    Twin babes that in one bosom nestling hung:
  Even Lanciotto paused, ah, will he spare?
Who could not quite forgive a wrong that is so fair!

  The grave old clock ticked somewhere in the gloom,
    A dozen waiting seconds rose and fell
  Ere his pale dagger flickered in the room,
    Then quenched its corpse-light in their bosoms' swell—
    'Thus, dears, I mate you evermore in hell.'
  Their blood ran warm about them and they sighed
    For the mad smiter did his work too well,
  Just drew together softly and so died,
Fell very still and strange, and moved not side by side.

  Yea, moved not, though two hours he watched the twain
    And heard their blood drip drip upon the floor,
  Twice with stern voice he spake to them again,
    And then, a little tenderly, once more,—
    'Thus, dears, in hell I mate you evermore.'
  And when the curious fingers of the day
    Unravelled all the dark, and morning wore,
  And the young light played round them where they lay,
The souls were many leagues upon the hellward way.

YOUNG LOVE

N.B.—This sequence of poems has appeared in former editions under the title of 'Love Platonic.'

I

1
Surely at last, O Lady, the sweet moon
   That bringeth in the happy singing weather
Groweth to pearly queendom, and full soon
   Shall Love and Song go hand in hand together;
For all the pain that all too long hath waited
   In deep dumb darkness shall have speech at last,
And the bright babe Death gave the Love he mated
   Shall leap to light and kiss the weeping past.

For all the silver morning is a-glimmer
   With gleaming spears of great Apollo's host,
And the night fadeth like a spent out swimmer
   Hurled from the headlands of some shining coast.
O, happy soul, thy mouth at last is singing,
   Drunken with wine of morning's azure deep,
Sing on, my soul, the world beneath thee swinging,
   A bough of song above a sea of sleep.

2
Who is the lady I sing?
   Ah, how can I tell thee her praise
For whom all my life's but the string
   Of a rosary painful of days;

Which I count with a curious smile
   As a miser who hoardeth his gain,
Though, a madhearted spendthrift the while,
   I but gather to waste again.

Yea, I pluck from the tree of the years,
   As a country maid greedy of flowers,
Each day brimming over with tears,
   And I scatter like petals its hours;

And I trample them under my feet
   In a frenzy of cloven-hoofed swine,
And the breath of their dying is sweet,
   And the blood of their hearts is as wine.