SONNEL.

I WAS Pygmalion's handiwork; I grew
Into that beauty he had bidden be;
He saw, and gaz'd, and lov'd exceedingly,
Yea, lov'd me into life. He little knew
I, who was his and he and myself too,
Had other life in store for him and me,
Art's life of splendid immortality,
A meed for ever paying, for ever due !
Why did he win for me this mortal breath
Why did the ivory sheen of face and limb
Flush into tender ruddiness for him?
O fateful praying love that quickeneth!
Alas for the perisht pride, the fame-gold dim,
The gift, my life, that to his name was death.

OUTLEFT.

WHAT shall we do for her, our sister?

What can we do for her, you and I ;

For, oh the sunshine hath somehow miss'd her, For, oh! the dewfall hath left her dry!

Never we felt it and yet we know it,

Anguish and wrong that her life doth prove;

You, because you were born a poet,
I, because I was born your love.

Shall we not care for her greatly, seeing
How it was given to her to hold,

Down in the depths of her inmost being,
Love that could never be shown or told?

Well does she know that loving is living,

Does not her heart with the thought half break?

Sorely she longs for the joy of giving,

None will stoop down unto her and take.

Many would rise and call her blessed,
If she were one whose face could tell
That which her tongue leaves unexpressed,
That which her spirit knows so well.

Ay, if we could, such face we had won her,
Strong with her life's true emphasis;

Pale for the stress of love's infinite honour,
And warm rose-red for its infinite bliss.

Oh, but our sister, our little sister,

What must we do for her, you and I? Seeing love's lips have never kiss'd her, Seeing love's feet have past her by.

Oh, we will tell her we love her truly;
Ask her to love and to care for us-
Will it seem strange to her, wonderfully,
Will she not think that we mock her thus ?

After the years of dull repression,

Folding her up in their darkness deep,

Blown on by spring-winds that rouse and freshen, Will she not think that she walks in sleep?

Opening her eyes, she will see around her,
Glory and beauty passing bright;

Then she will know that Love has found her,
Love that is surely one with light.

And it shall be that, a little while hence,
This little sister we care for thus,
Loosing her heavy veil of silence,

Lifting her voice, will sing to us.

Sing to us, weep to us, laugh to us, render

Love what is love's through all calms and stirs ; Cling to our breast as a baby tender,

And as a mother clasps us to hers.

A LETTER.

JOHN GRAHAM to the one who was his own Sends greeting kind and half a broken ring, And many her letters, and this last of his.

You know me, Alice Ker, and what I am,
So little, you may be surpris'd, I think,
To read the words that I have writ above,
As well as griev'd: I think you will be griev'd
A good deal; for you had made up your mind
To play the ministering angel here,
And comfort me and help me faithfully:
And, knowing I was blinded where I lay
Asleep for weariness, on time's great shore,
You would have suffer'd me to take you up
Within mine arms, and rested on me blind,
And, seeing for me, guided me across

The waste, and set me where the rising sun
Should smite mine eyeballs into sight again.

This was your good intent, dear Alice KerAh, I am bitter-well, I will not be