In the unquiet night,
With all her beauty bright,
She walketh my silent chamber to and fro;
Not twice of the same mind,
Sometimes unkind - unkind,
And again no cooing dove hath a voice so sweet and low.

Such madness of mirth lies
In the haunting hazel eyes,
When the melody of her laugh charms the listening night;
Its glamour as of old
My charmed senses hold,
Forget I earth and heaven in the pleasures of sense and sight.

With sudden gay caprice
Quaint sonnets doth she seize,
Wedding them unto sweetness, falling from crimson lips;
Holding the broidered flowers
Of those enchanted hours,
When she wound my will with her silk round her white finger-tips.

Then doth she silent stand,
Lifting her slender hand,
On which gleams the r...

I think I never passed so sad an hour,
    Dear friend, as that one at the church to-night.
The edifice from basement to the tower
    Was one resplendent blaze of coloured light.
Up through broad aisles the stylish crowd was thronging,
    Each richly robed like some king's bidden guest.
"Here will I bring my sorrow and my longing,"
    I said, "and here find rest."

I heard the heavenly organ's voice of thunder,
    It seemed to give me infinite relief.
I wept.    Strange eyes looked on in well-bred wonder.
    I dried my tears:    their gaze profaned my grief.
Wrapt in the costly furs, and silks, and laces,
    Beat alien hearts, that had no part with me.
I could not read, in all those proud cold faces,
    One thought of sympathy.

I watched them...

Just as I shape the purport of my thought,
Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot.
Let each ill thought that in my heart may be,
Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.

Until I weed the garden of my mind
From all that is unworthy and unkind,
Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord?
Then as I THINK, so must be my reward.

Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength,
That which we plant, we gather in at length.
Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me,
And as my thoughts, so let my future be.

"Little Blue-Ribbons!" We call her that
From the ribbons she wears in her favourite hat;
For may not a person be only five,
And yet have the neatest of taste alive?--
As a matter of fact, this one has views
Of the strictest sort as to frocks and shoes;
And we never object to a sash or bow,
When "little Blue-Ribbons" prefers it so.

"Little Blue-Ribbons" has eyes of blue,
And an arch little mouth, when the teeth peep through;
And her primitive look is wise and grave,
With a sense of the weight of the word "behave;"
Though now and again she may condescend
To a radiant smile for a private friend;
But to smile for ever is weak, you know,
And "little Blue-Ribbons" regards it so.

She's a staid little woman! And so as well
Is her ladyship's doll, "Mis...

This verse be thine, my friend, nor thou refuse
This from no venal or ungrateful Muse.
Whether thy hand strike out some free design,
Where life awakes, and dawns at every line;
Or blend in beauteous tints the colour'd mass,
And from the canvas call the mimic face:
Read these instructive leaves, in which conspire
Fresnoy's close art, and Dryden's native fire:
And, reading, wish like theirs our fate and fame,
So mix'd our studies, and so join'd our name;
Like them to shine through long succeeding age,
So just thy skill, so regular my rage.

Smit with the love of sister-arts we came,
And met congenial, mingling flame with flame;
Like friendly colours found them both unite,
And each from each contract new strength and light.
How oft in pleasing tasks we wear ...

From fall to spring, the russet acorn,
Fruit beloved of maid and boy,
Lent itself beneath the forest,
To be the children's toy.

Pluck it now! In vain,--thou canst not;
Its root has pierced yon shady mound;
Toy no longer--it has duties;
It is anchored in the ground.

Year by year the rose-lipped maiden,
Playfellow of young and old,
Was frolic sunshine, dear to all men,
More dear to one than mines of gold.

Whither went the lovely hoyden?
Disappeared in blessed wife;
Servant to a wooden cradle,
Living in a baby's life.

Still thou playest;--short vacation
Fate grants each to stand aside;
Now must thou be man and artist,--
'T is the turning of the tide.

Spray of song that springs in April, light of love that laughs through May,
Live and die and live for ever: nought of all thing far less fair
Keeps a surer life than these that seem to pass like fire away.
In the souls they live which are but all the brighter that they were;
In the hearts that kindle, thinking what delight of old was there.
Wind that shapes and lifts and shifts them bids perpetual memory play
Over dreams and in and out of deeds and thoughts which seem to wear
Light that leaps and runs and revels through the springing flames of spray.
Dawn is wild upon the waters where we drink of dawn to-day:
Wide, from wave to wave rekindling in rebound through radiant air,
Flash the fires unwoven and woven again of wind that works in play,
Working wonders more than heart may note or...

When Youth's warm heart beats high, my friend,
    And Youth's blue sky is bright,
And shines in Youth's clear eye, my friend,
    Love's early dawning light,
Let the free soul spurn care's control,
    And while the glad days shine,
We'll use their beams for Youth's gay dreams
    Of Love and Song and Wine.

Let not the bigot's frown, my friend,
    O'ercast thy brow with gloom,
For Autumn's sober brown, my friend,
    Shall follow Summer's bloom.
Let smiles and sighs and loving eyes
    In changeful beauty shine,
And shed their beams on Youth's gay dreams
    Of Love and Song and Wine.

For in the weary years, my friend,
    That stretched before us lie,
There'll be enough of tears, my friend,
    To dim the brightest eye.
So le...

I wrenched from a passing comet in its flight,
    By that great force of two mad hearts aflame,
    A soul incarnate, back to earth you came,
To glow like star-dust for a little night.
Deep shadows hide you wholly from our sight;
    The centuries leave nothing but your name,
    Tinged with the lustre of a splendid shame,
That blazed oblivion with rebellious light.

The mighty passion that became your cause,
    Still burns its lengthening path across the years;
    We feel its raptures, and we see its tears
And ponder on its retributive laws.
    Time keeps that deathless story ever new;
    Yet finds no answer, when we ask of you.

II

At Argenteuil, I saw the lonely cell
    Where Heloise dreamed through her broken rest,
    That baby ...

O Master, let me walk with thee
In lowly paths of service free;
Tell me thy secret; help me bear
The strain of toil, the fret of care;
Help me the slow of heart to move
By some clear winning word of love;
Teach me the wayward feet to stay,
And guide them in the homeward way.

O Master, let me walk with thee
Before the taunting Pharisee;
Help me to bear the sting of spite,
The hate of men who hide thy light,
The sore distrust of souls sincere
Who cannot read thy judgments clear,
The dulness of the multitude
Who dimly guess that thou art good.

Teach me thy patience; still with thee
In closer, dearer company,
In work that keeps faith sweet and strong,
In trust that triumphs over wrong,
In hope that sends a shining ray
Far down ...

Two men, well versed in use of arms,
Set out, 'tis said, in search of game.
Each felt that hunting had its charms,
Yet widely differed they in aim.
Both felt their need of wholesome food
For present use and winter's store;
But one was of a careless mood--
Than the day's sport he asked no more.

No game he bagged from morn till night,
Content to show his master skill
In hitting every bird at sight,
And shooting down the deer at will.
Grand sport he deemed it, day by day,
As in the tangled forest brake
He brought the bounding stag to bay,
Or shot the wood-duck in the lake.

As he each night to home returned
He sang the pleasure of the chase;
But had not yet the lesson learned
That he was loser in the race.
Yet, when sat in the winte...

Before the April night was late
A rider came to the castle gate;
A rider breathing human breath,
But the words he spoke were the words of Death.

"Greet you well from the King our lord,
He marches hot for the eastward ford;
Living or dying, all or one,
Ye must keep the ford till the race be run.

Sir Alain rose with lips that smiled,
He kissed his wife, he kissed his child:
Before the April night was late
Sir Alain rode from the castle gate.

He called his men-at-arms by name,
But one there was uncalled that came:
He bade his troop behind him ride,
But there was one that rode beside.

        "Why will you spur so fast to die?
        Be wiser ere the night go by.
        A message late is a message lost;
        For all your...

"Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings
Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?"
"Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far
From its own country, and forgive the strings."
A simple answer! but even so forth springs,
From the Castalian fountain of the heart,
The Poetry of Life, and all 'that' Art
Divine of words quickening insensate things.
From the submissive necks of guiltless men
Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils;
Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils
Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then
That the poor Harp distempered music yields
To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?

The fountains serenade the flowers,
    Upon their silver lute--
And, nestled in their leafy bowers,
    The forest-birds are mute:
The bright and glittering hosts above
    Unbar their golden gates,
While Nature holds her court of love,
    And for her client waits.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
When torches kindle in the skies
    To light thee to thy bower.
The day we dedicate to care--
    To love the witching night;
For all that's beautiful and fair
    In hours like these unite.
E'en thus the sweets to flowerets given--
    The moonlight on the tree--
And all the bliss of earth and heaven--
    Are mingled, love, in thee.
Then, lady, wake--in beauty rise!
    'Tis now the promised hour,
Wh...

I have gone sometimes by the gates of Death
And stood beside the cavern through whose doors
Enter the voyagers into the unseen.
From that dread threshold only, gazing back,
Have eyes in swift illumination seen
Life utterly revealed, and guessed therein
What things were vital and what things were vain.
Know then, like a vast ocean from my feet
Spreading away into the morning sky,
I saw unrolled my vanished days, and, lo,
Oblivion like a morning mist obscured
Toils, trials, ambitions, agitations, ease,
And like green isles, sun-kissed, with sweet perfume
Loading the airs blown back from that dim gulf,
Gleamed only through the all-involving haze
The hours when we have loved and been beloved.

Therefore, sweet friends, as often as by Love
You rise absorb...

Have yo seen mi bonny Mary,
Shoo lives at Skircoit Green;
An old fowk say a fairer lass
Nor her wor nivver seen.
An th' young ens say shoo's th' sweetest flaar,
'At's bloomin thear to-day;
An one an all are scared to deeath,
Lest shoo should flee away.

Shoo's health an strength an beauty too,
Shoo's grace an style as weel:
An what's moor precious far nor all,
Her heart is true as steel.
Shoo's full ov tenderness an love,
For onny in distress;
Whearivver sorrows heaviest prove,
Shoo's thear to cheer an bless.

Her fayther's growin old an gray,
Her mother's wellny done;
But in ther child they find a stay,
As life's sands quickly run.
Her smilin face like sunshine comes,
To chase away ther cares,
An peeace an comfort allus...

My friend the Sun--like all my friends
Inconstant, lovely, far away -
Is out, and bright, and condescends
To glory in our holiday.

A furious march with him I'll go
And race him in the Western train,
And wake the hills of long ago
And swim the Devon sea again.

I have done foolishly to head
The footway of the false moonbeams,
To light my lamp and call the dead
And read their long black printed dreams.

I have done foolishly to dwell
With Fear upon her desert isle,
To take my shadowgraph to Hell,
And then to hope the shades would smile.

And since the light must fail me soon
(But faster, faster, Western train!)
Proud meadows of the afternoon,
I have remembered you again.

And I'll go seek through moor and dale
A...

Misery is my lot,
Poverty and pain;
Ill was I begot,
Ill must I remain;
Yet the wretched days
One sweet comfort bring,
When God whispering says,
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

Chariots rumble by,
Splashing me with mud;
Insolence see I
Fawn to royal blood;
Solace have I then
From each galling sting
In that voice again,--
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

Cowardly at heart,
I am forced to play
A degraded part
For its paltry pay;
Freedom is a prize
For no starving thing;
Yet that small voice cries,
"Sing, O singer, sing!"

I was young, but now,
When I'm old and gray,
Love--I know not how
Or why--hath sped away;
Still, in winter days
As in hours of spring,
Still a whisper says,