change in you.

  These loud mutations others fear
    Find me high-fortressed 'gainst dismay,
  They trouble not the tranquil sphere
    That hallows with immortal ray
    The world where love and lovers stray
  In glittering gardens soft with dew—
    O let them break and burn and slay,
  So that there be no change in you.

  Let rapine its republics rear,
    And murder its red sceptre sway,
  Their blood-stained riot comes not near
    The quiet haven where we pray,
    And work and love and laugh and play;
  Unchanged, our skies are ever blue,
    Nothing can change, for all they say,—
  So that there be no change in you.

ENVOI

  Princess, let wild men brag and bray,
    The pure, the beautiful, the true.
  Change not, and changeless we as they—
    So that there be no change in you.

LOVE'S ARITHMETIC

  You often ask me, love, how much I love you,
    Bidding my fancy find
    An answer to your mind;
  I say: "Past count, as there are stars above you."
    You shake your head and say,
    "Many and bright are they,
  But that is not enough."

        Again I try:
  "If all the leaves on all the trees
    Were counted over,
  And all the waves on all the seas,
    More times your lover,
  Yea! more than twice ten thousand times am I."
    "'Tis not enough," again you make reply.

  "How many blades of grass," one day I said,
    "Are there from here to China? how many bees
    Have gathered honey through the centuries?
  Tell me how many roses have bloomed red
    Since the first rose till this rose in your hair?
    How many butterflies are born each year?
    How many raindrops are there in a shower?
    How many kisses, darling, in an hour?"
  Thereat you smiled, and shook your golden head;
  "Ah! not enough!" you said.
  Then said I: "Dear, it is not in my power
    To tell how much, how many ways, my love;
  Unnumbered are its ways even as all these,
    Nor any depth so deep, nor height above,
  May match therewith of any stars or seas."
  "I would hear more," you smiled . . .

        "Then, love," I said,
  "This will I do: unbind me all this gold
    Too heavy for your head,
    And, one by one, I'll count each shining thread,
  And when the tale of all its wealth is told . . ."
    "As much as that!" you said—
  "Then the full sum of all my love I'll speak,
    To the last unit tell the thing you ask . . ."
    Thereat the gold, in gleaming torrents shed,
  Fell loose adown each cheek,
    Hiding you from me; I began my task.

"'Twill last our lives," you said.

BEAUTY'S WARDROBE

  My love said she had nought to wear;
    Her garments all were old,
  And soon her body must go bare
    Against the winter's cold.

  I took her out into the dawn,
    And from the mountain's crest
  Unwound long wreaths of misty lawn,
    And wound them round her breast.

  Then passed we to the maple grove,
    Like a great hall of gold,
  The yellow and the red we wove
    In rustling flounce and fold.

  "Now, love," said I, "go, do it on!
    And I would have you note
  No lovely lady dead and gone
    Had such a petticoat."

  Then span I out of milkweeds fine
    Fair stockings soft and long,
  And other things of quaint design
    That unto maids belong.

  And beads of amber and of pearl
    About her neck I strung,
  And in the bronze of her thick hair
    The purple grape I hung. . . .

  Then led her to a glassy spring,
    And bade her look and see
  If any girl in all the world
    Had such fine clothes as she.

THE VALLEY

  I will walk down to the valley
    And lay my head in her breast,
  Where are two white doves,
  The Queen of Love's,
    In a silken nest;
  And, all the afternoon,
  They croon and croon
  The one word "Rest!"
  And a little stream
    That runs thereby
  Sings "Dream!"
    Over and over
  It sings—
    "O lover,
  Dream!"

BALLADE OF THE BEES OF TREBIZOND

  There blooms a flower in Trebizond
    Stored with such honey for the bee,
  (So saith the antique book I conned)
    Of such alluring fragrancy,
    Not sweeter smells the Eden-tree;
  Thither the maddened feasters fly,
    Yet—so alas! is it with me—
  To taste that honey is to die.

  Belovèd, I, as foolish fond,
    Feast still my eyes and heart on thee,
  Asking no blessedness beyond
    Thy face from morn till night to see,
    Ensorcelled past all remedy;
  Even as those foolish bees am I,
    Though well I know my destiny—
  To taste that honey is to die.

  O'er such a doom shall I despond?
    I would not from thy snare go free,
  Release me not from thy sweet bond,
    I live but in thy mystery;
    Though all my senses from me flee,
  I still would glut my glazing eye,
    Thou nectar of mortality—
  To taste that honey is to die.

ENVOI

  Princess, before I cease to be,
    Bend o'er my lips so burning dry
  Thy honeycombs of ivory—
    To taste that honey is to die.

BROKEN TRYST

  Waiting in the woodland, watching for my sweet,
  Thinking every leaf that stirs the coming of her feet,
  Thinking every whisper the rustle of her gown,
  How my heart goes up and up, and then goes down and down.

  First it is a squirrel, then it is a dove,
    Then a red fox feather-soft and footed like a dream;
  All the woodland fools me, promising my love;
    I think I hear her talking—'tis but the running stream.

  Vowelled talking water, mimicking her voice—
    O how she promised she'd surely come to-day!
  There she comes! she comes at last! O heart of mine rejoice—
    Nothing but a flight of birds winging on their way.

  Lonely grows the afternoon, empty grows the world;
  Day's bright banners in the west one by one are furled,
  Sadly sinks the lingering sun that like a lover rose,
  One by one each woodland thing loses heart and goes.

  Back along the woodland, all the day is dead,
  All the green has turned to gray, and all the gold to lead;
  O 'tis bitter cruel, sweet, to treat a lover so:
  If only I were half a man . . . I'd let the baggage