belong,
    And all the beauty thine of bird and stream.

  Thy bosom was the moonrise, and the morn
    The roses of thy cheek,
  No lovely thing was born
    But of thy face did speak—
  How shall all these endure, of thee forlorn?
    The sad heart of the world grew glad through thee,
  Happy, men toiled and spun
    That had thy smile for fee;
  So flowers seek the sun,
    So singing rivers hasten to the sea.

  Yet, though the world, bereft, should bleakly bloom,
    And wanly make believe
  Against the general doom,
    For me the earth you leave
  Shall be for ever but a haunted room;
    Yea! though my heart beat on a little space,
  When thou art strangely gone
    To thy far hiding-place,
  Soon shall I follow on,
    Out-footing Death to over-take thy face.

THE LAST TRYST

  The cowbells wander through the woods,
    'Neath arching boughs a stream slips by,
  In all the ferny solitude
    A chipmunk and a butterfly
    Are all that is—and you and I.

  This summer day, with all its flowers,
    With all its green and gold and blue,
  Just for a little while is ours,
    Just for a little—I and you:
    Till the stars rise and bring the dew.

  One perfect day to us is given;
    Tomorrow—all the aching years;
  This is our last short day in heaven,
    The last of all our kisses nears—
    Then life too arid even for tears.

  Here, as the day ends, we two end,
    Two that were one, we said, for ever;
  We had Eternity to spend,
    And laughed for joy to know that never
    Two so divinely one could sever.

  A year ago—how rich we seemed!
    Like piles of gold our kisses lay,
  Enough to last our lives we dreamed,
    And lives to come, we used to say—
    Yet are we at the last to-day.

  The last, I say, yet scarce believe
    What all my heart is black with knowing;
  Doomed, I yet watch for some reprieve,
    But know too well that love is going,
    As sure as yonder stream is flowing.

  Look round us how the hot sun burns
    In plots of glory here and there,
  Pouring its gold among the ferns:
    So burned my lips upon your hair,
    So rained our kisses, love, last year.

  We saw not where a shadow loomed,
    That, from its first auroral hour,
  Our happy paradise fore-doomed;
    A Fate within whose icy power
    Love blooms as helpless as a flower.

  Its shadow by the dial stands,
    The golden moments shudder past,
  Soon shall he smite apart our hands,
    In vain we hold each other fast,
    And the last kiss must come at last.

  The last! then be it charged with fire,
    With sacred passion wild and white,
  With such a glory of desire,
    We two shall vanish in its light,
    And find each other in God's sight.

THE HEART ON THE SLEEVE

  I wore my heart upon my sleeve,
    Tis most unwise, they say, to do—
  But then how could I but believe
    The foolish thing was safe with you?
  Yet, had I known, 'twas safer far
    With wolves and tigers, the wild sea
  Were kinder to it than you are—
    Sweetheart, how you must laugh at me!

  Yet am I glad I did not know
    That creatures of such tender bloom,
  Beneath their sanctuary snow,
    Were such cold ministers of doom;
  For had I known, as I began
    To love you, ere we flung apart,
  I had not been so glad a man
    As holds his lady to his heart.

  And am I lonely here to-night
    With empty eyes, the cause is this,
  Your face it was that gave me sight,
    My heart ran over with your kiss.
  Still do I think that what I laid
    Before the altar of your face,
  Flower of words that shall not fade,
    Were worthy of a moment's grace;

  Some thoughtless, lightly dropped largesse,
    A touch of your immortal hand
  Laid on my brow in tenderness,
    Though you could never understand.
  And yet with hungered lips to touch
    Your feet of pearl and in your face
  To look a little was over-much—
    In heaven is no such fair a place
  As, broken-hearted, at your feet
    To lie there and to kiss them, sweet.

AT HER FEET

  My head is at your feet,
    Two Cytherean doves,
  The same, O cruel sweet,
    As were the Queen of Love's;
  They brush my dreaming brows
    With silver fluttering beat,
  Here in your golden house,
    Beneath your feet.

  No man that draweth breath
    Is in such happy case:
  My heart to itself saith—
    Though kings gaze on her face,
    I would not change my place;
  To lie here is more sweet,
  Here at her feet.

  As one in a green land
    Beneath a rose-bush lies,
  Two petals in his hand,
    With shut and dreaming eyes,
  And hears the rustling stir,
    As the young morning goes,
  Shaking abroad the myrrh
    Of each awakened rose;
  So to me lying there
  Comes the soft breath of her,—
  O cruel sweet!—
  There at her feet.

  O little careless feet
  That scornful tread
  Upon my dreaming head,
  As little as the rose
  Of him who lies there knows
  Nor of what dreams may be
  Beneath your feet;
  Know you of me,
  Ah! dreams of your fair head,
  Its golden treasure spread,
  And all your moonlit snows,
  Yea! all your beauty's rose
  That blooms to-day so fair
  And smells so sweet—
  Shoulders of ivory,
  And breasts of myrrh—
  Under my feet.

RELIQUIAE

  This is all that is left—this letter and this rose!
  And do you, poor dreaming things, for a moment suppose
  That your little fire shall burn for ever and ever on,
  And this great fire be, all but these ashes, gone?

  Flower! of course she is—but is she the only flower?
  She must vanish like all the rest at the funeral hour,
  And you that love her with brag of your all-conquering thew,
  What, in the eyes of the gods, tall though you be, are you?

  You and she are no more—yea! a little less than we;
  And what is left of our loving is little enough to see;
  Sweet the relics thereof—a rose, a letter, a glove—
  That in the end is all that remains of the mightiest love.

  Six-foot two! what of that? for Death is taller than he;
  And, every moment, Death gathers flowers as fair as she;
  And nothing you two can do,