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That spot-the hues Elysian
Of sky and plain-

I treasure in my vision,
Florence Vane.

Thou wast lovelier than the roses

In their prime;

Thy voice excelled the closes

Of sweetest rhyme;

Thy heart was as a river

Without a main.

Would I had loved thee never,
Florence Vane!

But, fairest, coldest wonder!

Thy glorious clay

Lieth the green sod under

Alas, the day!

And it boots not to remember
Thy disdain,

To quicken love's pale ember,

Florence Vane.

The lilies of the valley

By young graves weep;

The daisies love to dally

Where maidens sleep.

May their bloom, in beauty vying,

Never wane

Where thine earthly part is lying,

Florence Vane!

Philip Pendleton Cooke [1816-1850]

"IF SPIRITS WALK"

IF spirits walk, love, when the night climbs slow
The slant footpath where we were wont to go,
Be sure that I shall take the selfsame way
To the hill-crest, and shoreward, down the gray,
Sheer, graveled slope, where vetches straggling grow.

Requiescat

Look for me not when gusts of winter blow,
When at thy pane beat hands of sleet and snow;
I would not come thy dear eyes to affray,
If spirits walk.

1119

But when, in June, the pines are whispering low,
And when their breath plays with thy bright hair so
As some one's fingers once were used to play-

That hour when birds leave song, and children pray,
Keep the old tryst, sweetheart, and thou shalt know
If spirits walk.

Sophie Jewelt [1861-1909]

REQUIESCAT

TREAD lightly, she is near,

Under the snow;

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair
Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair
Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew
She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast;

I vex my heart alone,

She is at rest.

Peace, peace; she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet;

All my life's buried here—

Heap earth upon it.

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

LYRIC

Ah, dans ces mornes séjours

Les jamais sont les toujours.-PAUL VERLAINE

You would have understood me, had you waited; I could have loved you, dear! as well as he: Had we not been impatient, dear! and fated Always to disagree.

What is the use of speech? Silence were fitter:
Lest we should still be wishing things unsaid.
Though all the words we ever spake were bitter,
Shall I reproach you dead?

Nay, let this earth, your portion, likewise cover
All the old anger, setting us apart:
Always, in all, in truth was I your lover;
Always, I held your heart.

I have met other women who were tender,
As you were cold, dear! with a grace as rare.
Think you I turned to them, or made surrender,
I who had found you fair?

Had we been patient, dear! ah, had you waited,
I had fought death for you, better than he:
But from the very first, dear! we were fated
Always to disagree.

Late, late, I come to you, now death discloses
Love that in life was not to be our part:
On your low-lying mound between the roses,
Sadly I cast my heart.

I would not waken you: nay! this is fitter;
Death and the darkness give you unto me;
Here we who loved so, were so cold and bitter,
Hardly can disagree.

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900]

Good-Night

1121

ROMANCE

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
A gray tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand

The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues and leagues of yellow sand,
The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,'
Stole forth among the branches gray;
About the coming of the light,

They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green

Still girdles round that castle gray;
I know not if the boughs between
The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
My heart is colder than the clay!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

GOOD-NIGHT

GOOD-NIGHT, dear friend! I say good-night to thee

Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white,

Bridging all space between us, it may be.

Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night.

For, lying low upon my couch, and still,
The fever flush evanished from my face,
I heard them whisper softly," "Tis His will;
Angels will give her happier resting-place!"

And so from sight of tears that fell like rain,
And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low,

I turned my white face to the window-pane,

To say good-night to thee before I go.

Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end,

The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die;

If I could feel through all the quiet waves

Of my deep hair thy tender breath a-thrill,
I could go downward to the place of graves
With eyes a-shine and pale lips smiling still;
Or it may be that, if through all the strife

And pain of parting I should hear thy call,
I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life,
And know no mystery of death at all.

It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night!
And when you see the violets again,

And hear, through boughs with swollen buds a-white,
The gentle falling of the April rain,

Remember her whose young life held thy name
With all things holy, in its outward flight,
And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men
To hear again her low good-night! good-night!
Hester A. Benedict [18

REQUIESCAT

BURY me deep when I am dead,

Far from the woods where sweet birds sing;

Lap me in sullen stone and lead,

Lest my poor dust should feel the Spring.

Never a flower be near me set,

Nor starry cup nor slender stem,
Anemone nor violet,

Lest my poor dust remember them.

And you wherever you may fare-
Dearer than birds, or flowers, or dew→→
Never, ah me, pass never there,

Lest my poor dust should dream of you.
Rosamund Marriott Watson [1863-1911]

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