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I will make an Eve, be the Artist that began her, Shaped her to his mind !-Alas ! in like manner They circle their rose on my rose tree.


This is a spray the bird clung to,

Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to,

Fit for her nest and her treasure

Oh, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,So to be singled out, built in, and sung to !


This is a heart the queen leant on,

Thrilled in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic.

Oh, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on,Love to be saved for it, proffered to, spent on !


THAT fawn-skin-dappled hair of hers,

And the blue eye

Dear and dewy,
And that infantine fresh air of hers !

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To think men cannot take you, Sweet,

And enfold you,

Ay, and hold you, And so keep you what they make you, Sweet !

You like us for a glance, you know-

For a word's sake

Or a sword's sake : All 's the same, whate'er the chance, you know.

And in turn we make you ours, we say-

You and youth too,

Eyes and mouth too,
All the face composed of flowers, we say.

All 's our own, to make the most of, Sweet

Sing and say for,

Watch and pray for,
Keep a secret or go boast of, Sweet !


But for loving, why, you would not, Sweet,

Though we prayed you,

Paid you, brayed you
In a mortar-for you could not, Sweet !


So, we leave the sweet face fundly there .

Be its beauty

Its sole duty!
Let all hope of grace beyond, lie there !


And while the face lies quiet there,

Who shall wonder

That I ponder
A conclusion ? I will try it there.

As,--why must one, for the love foregone

Scout mere liking ?

Thunder-striking Earth,—the heaven, we looked above for, gone !

Why, with beauty, needs there money be,

Love with liking ?

Crush the fly-king
In his gauze, because no honey bee?

May not liking be so simple-sweet,

If love grew there

'T would undo there All that breaks the cheek to dimples sweet?

Is the creature too imperfect, say?

Would you mend it

And so end it?
Since not all addition perfects aye !


Or is it of its kind, perhaps,

Just perfection

Whence, rejection
Of a grace not to its mind, perhaps ?


Shall we burn up, tread that face at once

Into tinder,

And so hinder
Sparks from kindling all the place at once?

Or else kiss away one's soul on her ?

Your love fancies !

-A sick man sees
Truer, when his hot eyes roll on her!


Thus the craftsman thinks to grace the rose,

Plucks a mould-flower

For his gold flower,
Uses fine things that efface the rose


Rosy rubies make its cup more rose,

Precious metals

Ape the petals,-
Last, some old king locks it up, morose !

Then how grace a rose ? I know a way!

Leave it, rather.

Must you gather ?
Smell, kiss, wear it-at last, throw away


So far as our story approaches the end,

Which do you pity the most of us three ? -
My friend, or the mistress of my friend

With her wanton eyes, or me?


My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose

And over him drew her net.

When I saw him tangled in her toils,

A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,

The hundredth for a whim !

And before my friend be wholly hers,

How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle 's the game her pride prefers,

Though she snaps at a wren instead !

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,

My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake,

And gave me herself indeed.

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,

The wren is he, with his maiden face. -You look away and your lip is curled ?

Patience, a moment's space!

For see, my friend goes shaking and white,

He eyes me as the basilisk:
I have turned, it appears, his day to night,

Eclipsing his sun's disk,

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