the more that it seemed weak and blind.

Dead is the glycin and the hawthorne flower;
But now are the days when heather-bloom is seen,
Remember these, and let the rustling wind
Bring you the fragrance of the starved Campine.




IV


Draw your chair to mine
And stretch your hands to the hearth',
That I may see between your fingers
Shine
The ancient flame;
And look upon the fire
Quietly, with your eyes
That have no fear of any light,
So that for me they be the same,
Yet franker when the blaze leaps higher
Making them as from deep within you, bright.

Ah, how fair still is our life and fain!
When the clock strikes out its notes of gold
And I approach you and as a flower hold;
And a fever slow and pure,
Which we will not to restrain,
Leads the kiss, marvellous and sure,
From hand to brow, from brow to lips again.

How well I love you, O my clear beloved,
Your swooning body, caressing and caressed,
In whose depth of joy I almost drown.
All is more dear to me, your lips, your arms close-pressed,
And your kind bosom whereon my tired head
After the rapture you bestow, sinks down
Quietly, near your heart to find its rest.

I love you still more after love's sharp pain
When your goodness still more sure and motherly
Brings repose to passion's ardency,
And, when desire has cried aloud its will,
I hear approach familiar joy again,
With steps that almost silence are, it is so still.




V


Be kind and comforting to us, oh light!
And bathe our foreheads now, oh wintry ray!
When we two issue forth this afternoon
To breathe together the last warmth of day.

We loved you formerly with such a pride,
With such a love as our two souls could lend,
That a supreme and sweet and friendly flame
Is due us now that we await the end.

You are that which no man may forget,
From dawn that smites his arm unconquered
To evening when you sleep within his eyes
Your strength abolished and your splendour dead.

Always for us you were the seen desire
Spreading through all, luminous and free,
That with impassioned ardour deep and high
Seemed from our heart to seek infinity.




VI


Alas the time of crimson phlox is past
And of proud roses brightening the gate.
What matter? Still I love with all my heart
Our garden, tho' deflow'red and desolate.

More dear than are the joyous summer noons,
My garden is that now forlornly grieves;
Oh the last perfumes languidly exhaled
By a late flower in the lingering leaves!

This evening I wandered in the paths
Over the plants my fervent touch to pass,
And falling on my knees I pressed my lips
To the wet earth among the trembling grass.

And now that it is dying and the night
Has misted all the garden with its breath,
My being that so dwells in all this ruin
Shall learn to die in sharing thus its death.




VII


The evening falls, the moon is gold....

Before the day is spent
Go out and wander in the garden walks
And pluck with gentle hands
The few remaining flowers that on their stalks
Are not yet sadly bent toward the mould.

What matter if their foliage be wan?
We still