dazzling shape on the dim, far cape,
    A beckoning shape as it comes and goes.

    A moment of bloom, and then it dies
    On the windy cliff 'twixt the sea and skies.
  The fog laughs low to see it go,
    And the white waves watch it with cruel eyes.

    Then suddenly out of the mist-cloud dun,
    As touched and wooed by unseen sun,
  Again into sight bursts the rose of light
    And opens its petals one by one.

    Ah, the storm may be wild and the sea be strong,
    And man is weak and the darkness long,
  But while blossoms the flower on the light-house tower
    There still is place for a smile and a song.

AMONG THE LILIES.

    She stood among the lilies
      In sunset's brightest ray,
    Among the tall June lilies,
      As stately fair as they;
  And I, a boyish lover then,
  Looked once, and, lingering, looked again,
     And life began that day.

    She sat among the lilies,
      My sweet, all lily-pale;
    The summer lilies listened,
      I whispered low my tale.
  O golden anthers, breathing balm,
  O hush of peace, O twilight calm,
      Did you or I prevail?

    She lies among the lily-snows,
      Beneath the wintry sky;
    All round her and about her
      The buried lilies lie.
  They will awake at touch of Spring,
  And she, my fair and flower-like thing,
      In spring-time—by and by.

NOVEMBER.

      Dry leaves upon the wall,
  Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
  A single frosted cluster on the grape
      Still hangs—and that is all.

      It hangs forgotten quite,—
  Forgotten in the purple vintage-day,
  Left for the sharp and cruel frosts to slay,
      The daggers of the night.

      It knew the thrill of spring;
  It had its blossom-time, its perfumed noons;
  Its pale-green spheres were rounded to soft runes
      Of summer's whispering.

      Through balmy morns of May;
  Through fragrances of June and bright July,
  And August, hot and still, it hung on high
      And purpled day by day.

      Of fair and mantling shapes,
  No braver, fairer cluster on the tree;
  And what then is this thing has come to thee
      Among the other grapes,

      Thou lonely tenant of the leafless vine,
  Granted the right to grow thy mates beside,
  To ripen thy sweet juices, but denied
      Thy place among the wine?

      Ah! we are dull and blind.
  The riddle is too hard for us to guess
  The why of joy or of unhappiness,
      Chosen or left behind.

      But everywhere a host
  Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:
  Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
      Left out to meet the frost.

EMBALMED.

  This is the street and the dwelling,
    Let me count the houses o'er;
  Yes,—one, two, three from the corner,
    And the house that I love makes four.

  That is the very window
    Where I used to see her head
  Bent over book or needle,
    With ivy garlanded.

  And the very loop of the curtain,
    And the very curve of the vine,
  Were full of the grace and the meaning
    Which was hers by some right divine.

  I began to be glad at the corner,
    And all the way to the door
  My heart outran my footsteps,
    And frolicked and danced before,

  In haste for the words of welcome,
    The voice, the repose and grace,
  And the smile, like a benediction,
    Of that beautiful, vanished face.

  Now I pass the door, and I pause not,
    And I look the other way;
  But ever, a waft of fragrance,
    Too subtle to name or stay,

  Comes the thought of the gracious presence
    Which made that past time sweet,
  And still to those who remember,
    Embalms the house and the street,

  Like the breath from some vase, now empty
    Of a flowery shape unseen,
  Which follows the path of its lover,
    To tell where a rose has been.

GINEVRA DEGLI AMIERI.

A STORY OF OLD FLORENCE.

  So it is come! The doctor's glossy smile
  Deceives me not. I saw him shake his head,
  Whispering, and heard poor Giulia sob without,
  As, slowly creaking, he went down the stair.
  Were they afraid that I should be afraid?
  I, who had died once and been laid in tomb?
  They need not.

                  Little one, look not so pale.
  I am not raving. Ah! you never heard
  The story. Climb up there upon the bed:
  Sit close, and listen. After this one day
  I shall not tell you stories any more.

  How old are you, my rose? What! almost twelve?
  Almost a woman? Scarcely more than that
  Was your fair mother when she bore her bud;
  And scarcely more was I when, long years since,
  I left my father's house, a bride in May.
  You know the house, beside St. Andrea's church,
  Gloomy and rich, which stands, and seems to frown
  On the Mercato, humming at its base;
  And hold on high, out of the common reach,
  The lilies and carved shields above its door;
  And, higher yet, to catch and woo the sun,
  A little loggia set against the sky?
  That was my play-place ever as a child;
  And with me used to play a kinsman's son,
  Antonio Rondinelli. Ah, dear days!
  Two happy things we were, with none to chide
  Or hint that life was anything but play.

  Sudden the play-time ended. All at once
  "You must be wed," they told me. "What is wed?"
  I asked; but with the word I bent my brow,
  Let them put on the garland, smiled to see
  The glancing jewels tied about my neck;
  And so, half-pleased, half-puzzled, was led forth
  By my grave husband, older than my sire.

  O the long years that followed! It would seem
  That the sun never shone in all those years,
  Or only with a sudden, troubled glint
  Flashed on Antonio's curls, as he went by
  Doffing his cap, with eyes of wistful love
  Raised to my face,—my conscious, woful face.
  Were we so much to blame? Our lives had twined
  Together, none forbidding, for so long.
  They let our childish fingers drop the seed,
  Unhindered, which should ripen to tall grain;
  They let the firm, small roots tangle and grow,
  Then rent them, careless that it hurt the plant.
  I loved Antonio, and he loved me.

  Life was all shadow, but it was not sin!