overhead,
Sore needed rest for our frail girth,
For our frail hearts; a well-sought bed.

So Spring came, and spread daffodils;
Summer, and fluffy bees sang on;
The fluffy bee knows us, and fills
His house with sweet to think upon.

Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,
Our melancholy is a thing
At last our own; and none esteem
How our black lips are blackening.

And none note how our poor eyes fall,
Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . .
Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .
Alas! we are not very near.

Ainsi, elle viendrait à moi! les yeux bien fous!
Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout!

TO E. M. G.

Lean back, and press the pillow deep,
Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;
Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .
How very pale your pallor is!

You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line
Melts in your dimpled saucy cave.
Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,
Scorning to imitate a wave.

Your voice is tenebrous, as if
An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.
You are my magic orchard feoff,
Where bud and fruit are always ripe.

O apple garden! all the days
Are fain to crown the darling year,
Ephemeral bells and garland bays,
Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.

In every kiss I call you mine,
Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave
Our child will be! what velvet eyne,
What bonny hair our child will have!

CROCUSES IN GRASS

TO CHARLES HAZELWOOD SHANNON

Purple and white the crocus flowers,
    And yellow, spread upon
    The sober lawn; the hours
Are not more idle in the sun.

Perhaps one droops a prettier head,
    And one would say: Sweet Queen,
    Your lips are white and red,
And round you lies the grass most green.

And she, perhaps, for whom is fain
    The other, will not heed;
    Or, that he may complain,
Babbles, for dalliaunce, with a weed.

And he dissimulates despair,
    And anger, and suprise;
    The while white daisies stare
—And stir not—with their yellow eyes.

POEM

TO ARTHUR EDMONDS

Geranium, houseleek, laid in oblong beds
On the trim grass. The daisies' leprous stain
Is fresh. Each night the daisies burst again,
Though every day the gardener crops their heads.

A wistful child, in foul unwholesome shreds,
Recalls some legend of a daisy chain
That makes a pretty necklace. She would fain
Make one, and wear it, if she had some threads.

Sun, leprous flowers, foul child. The asphalt burns.
The garrulous sparrows perch on metal Burns.
Sing! Sing! they say, and flutter with their wings.
He does not sing, he only wonders why
He is sitting there. The sparrows sing. And I
Yield to the strait allure of simple things.

ON A PICTURE

TO PIERRE LOUŸS

Not pale, as one in sleep or holier death,
Nor illcontent the lady seems, nor loth
To lie in shadow of shrill river growth,
So steadfast are the river's arms beneath.

Pale petals follow her in very faith,
Unmixed with pleasure or regret, and both
Her maidly hands look up, in noble sloth
To take the blossoms of her scattered wreath.

No weakest ripple lives to kiss her throat.
Nor dies in meshes of untangled hair;
No movement stirs the floor of river moss.

Until some furtive glimmer gleam across
Voluptuous mouth, where even teeth are bare,
And gild the broidery of her petticoat. . . .

PARSIFAL IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH
OF PAUL VERLAINE

Conquered the flower-maidens, and