varnished holly's glistening,

The stretch of infinite country;
So, saving you, does everything.

CLAIR DE LUNE

How like a well-kept garden is your soul,
With bergomask and solemn minuet!
Playing upon the lute! The dancers seem
But sad, beneath their strange habiliments.
While, in the minor key, their songs extol
The victor Love, and life's sweet blandishments,
Their looks belie the burden of their lays,
The songs that mingle with the still moon-beams.
So strange, so beautiful, the pallid rays;
Making the birds among the branches dream,
And sob with ecstasy the slender jets,

The fountains tall that leap upon the lawns
Amid the garden gods, the marble fauns.

MON DIEU M'A DIT:  . . .

God has spoken: Love me,
        son, thou must; Oh see
My broken side; my heart,
        its rays refulgent shine;
My feet, insulted, stabbed,
        that Mary bathes with brine
Of bitter tears my sad arms,
        helpless, son, for thee;

With thy sins heavy; and my hands;
        thou seest the rod;
Thou seest the nails, the sponge,
        the gall; and all my pain
Must teach thee love, amidst a world
        where flesh doth reign,
My flesh alone, my blood,
        my voice, the voice of God,

Say, have I not loved thee,
        loved thee to death,
O brother in my Father,
        in the Spirit son?
Say, as the word is written,
        is my work not done?
Thy deepest woe have I not sobbed
        with struggling breath?
Has not thy sweat of anguished nights
        from all my pores in pain
Of blood dripped, piteous friend,
        who seekest me in vain?

GREEN

Leaves and branches, flowers and fruits are here;
And here my heart, which throbs alone for thee.
Ah! do not wound my heart with those two dear
White hands, but take the poor gift tenderly.

I come, all covered with the dews of night
The morning breeze has pearled upon my face.
Let my fatigue, at thy feet, in thy sight,
Dream through the moments of its sweet solace.

With thy late kisses ringing, let my head
Roll in blest indolence on thy young breast;
To lull the tempest thy caresses bred,
And soothe my senses with a little rest.

FLEURS.  IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF STEPHANE MALLARMÉ

The tawny iris—oh! the slim-necked swan;
And, sign of exiled souls, the bay divine;
Ruddy as seraph's heel its fleckless sheen,
Blushing the brightness of a trampled dawn.

The hyacinth; the myrtle's sweet alarm;
Like to a woman's flesh, the cruel rose,
Blossom'd Herodiade of the garden close,
Fed with ferocious dew of blooddrops warm.

Thou mad'st the lilies' pallor, nigh to swoon.
Which, rolling billows of deep sighs upon,
Through the blue incense of horizons wan,
Creeps dreamily towards the weeping moon.

Praise in the censers, praise upon the gong,
Madone! from the garden of our woes:
On eves celestial throb the echo long!
Ecstatic visions! radiance of haloes!

Mother creatrice! in thy strong, just womb,
Challices nodding the not distant strife;
Great honey'd blossoms, a balsamic tomb
For weary poets blanched with starless life.

CHARLEVILLE.  IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF ARTHUR RIMBAUD

TO FRANK HARRIS

The square, with gravel paths and shabby lawns.
Correct, the trees and flowers repress their yawns.
The tradesman brings his favourite conceit,
To air it, while he stifles with the heat.

In the