or plan or purpose or dream,
  But will go the way of the wind and go the way of the stream.

LOVE'S PROUD FAREWELL

  I am too proud of loving thee, too proud
    Of the sweet months and years that now have end,
      To feign a heart indifferent to this loss,
  Too thankful-happy that the gods allowed
      Our orbits cross,
    Beloved and lovely friend;
    And though I wend
  Lonely henceforth along a road grown gray,
  I shall not be all lonely on the way,
  Companioned with the attar of thy rose,
  Though in my garden it no longer blows.

  Thou canst not give elsewhere thy gifts to me,
    Or only seem to give;
    Yea, not so fugitive
  The glory that hath hallowed me and thee,
  Not thou or I alone that marvel wrought
  Immortal is the paradise of thought,
    Nor ours to destroy,
  Born of our hearts together, where bright streams
    Ran through the woods for joy,
  That heaven of our dreams.

    There shall it shine
      Under green boughs,
  So long as May and June bring leaves and flowers,
  Couches of moss and fern and woven bowers,
    Still thine and mine,
      A golden house;
  And, perchance, e'er the winter that takes all,
    I, there alone in the deep listening wood,
  Shall hear thy lost foot-fall,
    And, scarce believing the beatitude,
  Shall know thee there,
    Wild heart to wild heart pressed,
  And wrap me in the splendour of thine hair,
    And laugh within thy breast.

THE ROSE HAS LEFT THE GARDEN

  The Rose has left the garden,
  Here she but faintly lives,
  Lives but for me,
  Within this little urn of pot-pourri
  Of all that was
  And never more can be,
  While her black berries harden
  On the wind-shaken tree.
  Yet if my song a little fragrance gives,
  'Tis not all loss,
  Something I save
  From the sweet grave
  Wherein she lies,
  Something she gave
  That never dies,
  Something that may still live
  In these my words
  That draw from her their breath,
  And fain would be her birds
  Still in her death.

II

THE GARDENS OF ADONIS

  Belovèd, I would tell a ghostly thing
    That hides beneath the simple name of Spring;
  Wild beyond hope the news—the dead return,
    The shapes that slept, their breath a frozen mist,
  Ascend from out sarcophagus and urn,
    Lips that were dust new redden to be kissed,
  Fires that were quenched re-burn.

  The gardens of Adonis bloom again,
    Proserpina may hold the lad no more,
  That in her arms the winter through hath lain;
    Up flings he from the hollow-sounding door,
  Where Love hath bruised her rosy breast in vain:
    Ah! through their tears—the happy April rain—
  They, like two stars aflame, together run,
    Then lift immortal faces in the sun.

  A faint far music steals from underground,
  And to the spirit's ear there comes the sound,
    The whisper vague, and rustle delicate,
  Of myriad atoms stirring in their trance
    That for the lifted hand of Order wait,
  Taking their stations in the cosmic dance,
    Mate linked to mystic mate.

  And perished shapes rebuild themselves anew,
  Nourished on essences of fire and dew,
    And in earth's cheek, but now so wistful wan,
  The colour floods, and from deep wells of power
    Rises the sap of resurrection;
  The dead branch buds, the dry staff breaks in flower,
    The grass comes surging on.

  These ghostly things that in November died,
  How come they thus again adream with pride?
    I saw the Red Rose lying in her tomb,
  Yet comes she lovelier back, a redder rose;
    What paints upon her cheek this vampire bloom?
  Belovéd, when to the dark thy beauty goes,
    Thee too will Spring re-lume?

  Verily, nothing dies; a brief eclipse
  Is all; and this blessed union of our lips
    Shall bind us still though we have lips no more:
  For as the Rose and as the gods are we,
    Returning ever; but the shapes we wore
  Shall have some look of immortality
    More shining than before.

  Make we our offerings at Adonis' shrine,
    For this is Love's own resurrection day,
  Bring we the honeyed cakes, the sacred wine,
    And myrtle garlands on his altars lay:
  O Thou, beloved alike of Proserpine
  And Aphrodite, to our prayers incline;
  Be thou propitious to this love of ours,
  And we, the summer long, shall bring thee flowers.