That know not the divine; I ask not life For a wild round of pleasure or mad deeds;

6

I ask not love, if it be not for me.

I ask but work! I would but finish this! If all the thoughts burning within my brain

Not foolish thoughts, but thoughts for which men wait

Are to die now unuttered, if my strength Of will and purpose, of proud energy, Of eagerness to see but the divine, And then reveal it to blind, waiting men, Must perish unexpressed, what is it for ?" "Azron," the angel answered him, " thy sphinx

Asks, but it answers also; what hast thou Answered to those who ask of thine own work,

What is it for?' Didst thou not say to them,

'It matters not, so it be beautiful' ?

Thy sphinx, with restless eyes that ask, would fain

Question, What is Life for?' but the proud mouth,

The patient sweetness of the even brows,
The perfect poise of changeless attitude,
The finely modelled cheek, the unparted
lips,

Answer, It matters not! it matters not!
If only it be beautiful!' Nay, this,
Thy greater work, this glorious tomb of
thine,

Not for a living woman, but for her,
The sphinx that asks and answers, is it

ON softest pillows my dim eyes unclose; No pain, delicious weariness instead; Sweet silence broods around the quiet bed,

And round me breathes the fragrance of the rose.

The moonlight leans against the pane, and shows

The little leaves outside in watchful dread Keeping their guard; while with swift, noiseless tread

Love in its lovelier service comes and goes. A hand I love brings nectar; near me bends

A face I love; ah ! it is over! - this
Indeed is heaven. Could I only tell
Dear ones whose hearts the sorrow for me
rends

How easily one meets Death's gentle kiss, -
And then I woke to find that I was well!

THE BLAZING HEART

WHO are ye, spirits, that stand

In the outer gloom,

Each with a blazing heart in hand,
Which lighteth the dark beyond the tomb?

"Oh, we be souls that loved

Too well, too well!

Yet, for that love, though sore reproved, (Oh, sore reproved!) have we 'scaped hell.

Happy Francesca ! thine

Is the fairer lot.

Better with him in hell to pine

Than stand in cool shadows by him forgot!

MY ENEMY

I

My foe was dark, and stern, and grim, I lived my life in fear of him.

I

passed no secret, darkened nook Without a shuddering, furtive look, Lest he should take me unawares

In some one of his subtle snares.
Even in broad noon the thought of him
Turned all the blessed sunlight dim,
Stole the rich color from the rose,
The perfume from the elder-blows.

I saw him not, I heard no sound;
But traces everywhere I found
Of his fell plotting. Now, the flower
Most prized lay blasted by his power;
From the locked casket, rent apart,
The jewel dearest to my heart
Was stolen; or, from out the dark,
Some swift blow made my heart its
mark.

Sweet eyes I loved grew glazed and dim
That had but caught a glimpse of him;
And ears, were wont to hear each sigh
Of mine, were deafened utterly,
Even to my shrieks; and lips I pressed
Struck a cold horror to my breast.

This hath he done, my enemy.
From him, O God, deliver me!

II

I reached but now this place of gloom
Through yon small gateway, where is room
For only one to pass. This calm
Is healing as a Sabbath psalm.
A sound, as if the hard earth slid
Down-rattling on a coffin-lid,
Was in mine ears. Now all is still,
And I am free to fare at will-
Whither? I seem but tarrying
For one who doth a message bring.

To make us what our kind have been.
A lure more strong, a wish more faint,
Makes one a monster, one a saint;
And even love, by difference nice,
Becomes a virtue or a vice.
The briar, that o'er the garden wall
Trails its sweet blossoms till they fall
Across the dusty road, and then
Are trodden under foot of men,
Is sister to the decorous rose
Within the garden's well-kept close,
Whose pinioned branches may not roam
Out and beyond their latticed home.
There's many a life of sweet content
Whose virtue is environment.
They erred, they fell; and yet, 'tis true,
They hold the mirror up to you.

POSTHUMOUS

PUT them in print?
Make one more dint

In the ages' furrowed rock? No, no!
Let his name and his verses go.
These idle scraps, they would but wrong
His memory, whom we honored long,
And men would ask: "Is this the best-
Is this the whole his life expressed?"
Haply he had no care to tell

To all the thoughts which flung their spell
Around us when the night grew deep,
Making it seem a loss to sleep,
Exalting the low, dingy room

To some high auditorium.

And when we parted homeward, still
They followed us beyond the hill.

The heaven had brought new stars to sight,
Opening the map of later night;
And the wide silence of the snow,
And the dark whispers of the pines,
And those keen fires that glittered slow
Along the zodiac's wintry signs,

Seemed witnesses and near of kin To the high dreams we held within.

Yet what is left
To us bereft,

Save these remains,
Which now the moth

Will fret, or swifter fire consume?
These inky stains

On his table-cloth;

These prints that decked his room;
His throne, this ragged easy-chair;
This battered pipe, his councillor.
This is the sum and inventory.
No son he left to tell his story,
No gold, no lands, no fame, no book.
Yet one of us, his heirs, who took
The impress of his brain and heart,
May gain from Heaven the lucky art
His untold meanings to impart
In words that will not soon decay.
Then gratefully will such one say:
"This phrase, dear friend, perhaps, is mine:
The breath that gave it life was thine."