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Longing for joys she knows not,
Athirst with a vain desire,

There she sits in the picture,

Daughter of foam and fire.

Louise Chandler Moulton [1835-1908]

ADONAIS

SHALL We meet no more, my love, at the binding of the sheaves,

In the happy harvest-fields, as the sun sinks low,

When the orchard paths are dim with the drift of fallen

leaves,

And the reapers sing together, in the mellow, misty eves: O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!

Love met us in the orchard, ere the corn had gathered plume,

O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer days that die when the months are in the

bloom,

And the peaks are ripe with sunset, like the tassels of the broom,

In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die, leafing sweeter each to each,

O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! All the heart was full of feeling: love had ripened into speech, Like the sap that turns to nectar in the velvet of the peach, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Sweet as summer days that die at the ripening of the corn,-
O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!
Sweet as lovers' fickle oaths, sworn to faithless maids for-
sworn,

When the musty orchard breathes like a mellow drinking

horn,

Over happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Face to Face

895

Love left us at the dying of the mellow autumn eves,-
O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow!
When the skies are ripe and fading, like the colors of the
leaves,

And the reapers kiss and part, at the binding of the sheaves,
In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

Then the reapers gather home, from the gray and misty meres;

O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Then the reapers gather home, and they bear upon their

spears,

One whose face is like the moon, fallen gray among the spheres,

With the daylight's curse upon it, as the sun sinks low.

Faint as far-off bugles blowing, soft and low the reapers

sung;

O, happy are the apples when the south winds blow! Sweet as summer in the blood, when the heart is ripe and

young,

Love is sweetest in the dying, like the sheaves he lies among, In the happy harvest-fields as the sun sinks low.

William Wallace Harney [1831

FACE TO FACE

If my face could only promise that its color would remain; If my heart were only certain it would hide the moment's

pain;

I would meet you and would greet you in the old familiar

tone,

And naught should ever show you the wrong that you have

done.

If my trembling hand were steady, if my smiles had not all

fled;

If my eyes spoke not so plainly of the tears they often shed; I would meet you and would greet you at the old trysting

place,

And perchance you'd deem me happy if you met me face to face.

If the melody of Springtime awoke no wild refrain,
If the Autumn's gold burthen awoke no living pain,
I would meet you and would greet you, as years ago we met,
Before our hearts were shipwrecked on the ocean of regret.

If my woman's soul were stronger, if my heart were not so true,

I should long have ceased remembering the love I had for

you;

But I dare not meet or greet you, in the old familiar way, Until we meet in Heaven, where all tears have passed away. Frances Cochrane [18

ASHORE

OUT I came from the dancing-place,
The night-wind met me face to face-

A wind off the harbor, cold and keen,
"I know," it whistled, "where thou hast been."

A faint voice fell from the stars above-
"Thou? whom we lighted to shrines of Love!"

I found when I reached my lonely room
A faint sweet scent in the unlit gloom.

And this was the worst of all to bear,
For some one had left white lilac there.

The flower you loved, in times that were.

Laurence Hope [ ? -1904]

KHRISTNA AND HIS FLUTE

BE still, my heart, and listen,
For sweet and yet acute

I hear the wistful music

Of Khristna and his flute.
Across the cool, blue evenings,
Throughout the burning days,
Persuasive and beguiling,

He plays and plays and plays.

Impenitentia Ultima

Ah, none may hear such music
Resistant to its charms,

The household work grows weary,
And cold the husband's arms.

I must arise and follow,

To seek, in vain pursuit,
The blueness and the distance,
The sweetness of that flute!

In linked and liquid sequence,
The plaintive notes dissolve
Divinely tender secrets

That none but he can solve.
O Khristna, I am coming,

I can no more delay.

"My heart has flown to join thee,"
How shall my footsteps stay?

Beloved, such thoughts have peril;
The wish is in my mind
That I had fired the jungle,
And left no leaf behind,-
Burnt all bamboos to ashes,

And made their music mute,

To save thee from the magic

Of Khristna and his flute,

897

Laurence Hope [ ?-1904]

IMPENITENTIA ULTIMA

BEFORE my light goes out forever, if God should give me choice of graces,

I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be;

But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces,

Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see!"

For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world's sad roses,

And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat,

But at Thy terrible judgment seat, when this my tired life

closes,

I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

But once, before the sand is run and the silver thread is

broken,

Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years, Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token

Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears.

Her pitiful hands should calm and her hair stream down and blind me,

Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear, And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out

behind me,

And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.

Before the running waters fall and my life be carried under, And Thine anger cleave me through, as a child cuts down a flower,

I will praise Thee, Lord, in hell, while my limbs are racked asunder,

For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace hour.

of an

Ernest Dowson (1867-1900]

NON SUM QUALIS ERAM BONAE SUB REGNO

CYNARAE

LAST night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed

Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head.

I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

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