hour by hour,
  Magic on magic, leaf by leaf,
  The unfolding of our love's white flower.

LA DERNIERE ROBE DE SOI.

  OH, silken gown, all pink and pretty,
  Bought, quite a bargain, in the City,
  Your ill-trained soul full false has played me—
  No Paris gown would have betrayed me.

  You knew, my pretty silken treasure,
  I must not wed for love or pleasure,
  But for a settlement and title;
  Yet you encouraged his recital!

  He said—oh, faithless gown, you listened
  While on your sheen two tear drops glistened—
  He said . . . let love to music set it,
  I'll never speak it—nor forget it!

  "No, no!" I cried, I tried to save you—
  False gown, you showed the tears I gave you!
  You looked discreet when first I found you.
  How could you let his arm go round you?

  You darling dress—I'll smooth your creases,
  I'll wear you till you drop to pieces;
  But poor men's wives wear cotton only—
  Dear gown—I hope you won't feel lonely!

THE LEAST POSSIBLE.

  DEAR goddess of the shining shrine
  Where all my votive tapers burn,
  Where every gold-embroidered thought
  And all my flowers of life are brought
  —With many, alas! that are not mine—
  What will you give me in return?

  The bow in Bond Street—in the Park
  The smile all worship on your lips,
  The courteous word at dinner—dance—
  But never a blush—a conscious glance;
  At most, at Henley, in the dark,
  Your fleet mistaken finger-tips?

  Ah, just for once, once only, be
  An altar-server—stoop and set me
  Upon the altar richly wrought
  Of your most secret flower-sweet thought:
  One nightlight's flicker burn for me
  Before you sleep and quite forget me.

EN TOUT CAS.

  WHEN I am glad I need your eyes
  To be the stars of Paradise;
  Your lips to be the seal of all
  The joy life grants, and dreams recall;
  Your hand, to lie my hands between
  What time we walk the garden green.

  But most in grief I need your face
  To lean to mine in the desert place;
  Your lips to mock the evil years,
  To sweeten me my cup of tears,
  Your eyes to shine, in cloud's despite,
  Your hands to hold mine through the night.

APPEAL.

  Daphnis dearest, wherefore weave me
  Webs of lies lest truth should grieve me?
  I could pardon much, believe me:
  Dower me, Daphnis, or bereave me,
  Kill me, kill me, love me, leave me—
  Damn me, dear, but don't deceive me!

ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.

  THE South is a dream of flowers
  With a jewel for sky and sea,
  Rose-crowns for the dancing hours,
  Gold fruits upon every tree;
  But cold from the North
  The wind blows forth
  That blows my love to me.

  The stars in the South are gold
  Like lamps between sky and sea;
  The flowers that the forests hold
  Like stars between tree and tree;
  But little and white
  Is the pale moon's light
  That lights my love to me.

  In the South the orange grove
  Makes dusk by the dusky sea,
  White palaces wrought for love
  Gleam white between tree and tree,
  But under bare boughs
  Is the little house
  Warm-lit for my love and me.

CHAGRIN D'AMOUR.

  IF Love and I were all alone
  I might forget to grieve,
  And for his pleasure and my own
  Might happier garlands weave;
  But you sit there, and watch us wear
  The mourning wreaths you wove:
  And while such mocking eyes you bear
  I am not friends with Love.

  Withdraw those cruel eyes, and let
  Me search the garden through
  That I may weave, ere Love be set,
  The wreath of Love for you;
  Till you, whom Love so well adorns,
  Its hidden thorns discover,
  And know at last what crown of thorns
  It was you gave your lover.

BRIDAL EVE.

  GOOD-NIGHT, my Heart, my Heart, good-night—
  Oh, good and dear and fair,
  With lips of life and eyes of light
  And roses in your hair.

  To-morrow brings the other crown,
  The orange blossoms, Sweet,
  And then the rose will be cast down
  With lilies at your feet.

  But in your soul a garden stands
  Where fair the white rose blows—
  God, teach my foolish clumsy hands
  The way to tend my rose.

  That in the white-rose garden still
  The lily may bloom fair
  God help my heart and soul and will
  To keep the lily there.

LOVE AND LIFE.

  LOVE only sings when Love is young,
  When Love is young and still at play,
  How shall we count the sweet songs sung
  When Love and Joy kept holiday?
  But now Love has to earn his bread
  By lifelong stress and toil of tears,
  He finds his nest of song-birds dead
  That sang so sweet in other years.

  For Love's a man now, strong and brave,
  To fight for you, for you to live,
  And Love, that once such bright songs gave,
  Has better things than songs to give;
  He gives you now a lifelong faith,
  A hand to help in joy or pain,
  And he will sing no more, till Death
  Shall come to make him young again!

FROM THE ITALIAN.

  AS a little child whom his mother has chidden,
  Wrecked in the dark in a storm of weeping,
  Sleeps with his tear-stained eyes closed hidden
  And, with fists clenched, sobs still in his sleeping,

  So in my breast sleeps Love, O white lady,
  What does he care though the rest are playing,
  With rattles and drums in the woodlands shady,
  Happy children, whom Joy takes maying!

  Ah, do not wake him, lest you should hear him
  Scolding the others, breaking their rattles,
  Smashing their drums, when their play comes near him—
  Love who, for me, is a god of battles!

IV.

"OUT OF THE FULNESS OF THE HEART THE MOUTH SPEAKETH."

  In answer to those who have said that English Poets
  give no personal love to their country.

  ENGLAND, my country, austere in the clamorous council of nations,
  Set in the seat of the mighty, wielding the sword of the strong,
  Have we but sung of your glory, firm in eternal foundations?
  Are not your woods and your meadows the core of our heart and our song?
  O dear fields of my country, grass growing green, glowing golden,
  Green in the patience of winter, gold in