Weak Truth, a-leaning on her crutch, Wan, wasted Truth, in her utmost need, Thy kingly intellect shall feed,

Until she be an athlete bold,

And weary with a finger's touch

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Like that strange angel which of old, Until the breaking of the light, Wrestled with wandering Israel,

Past Yabbok brook the lingering night, And heaven's mazed signs stood still In the dim tract of Penuel.

MADELINE.

THOU art not steeped in golden languors,
No tranced summer calm is thine,
Ever varying Madeline.

Through light and shadow thou dost range,
Sudden glances, sweet and strange,

Delicious spites, and darling angers,

And airy forms of flitting change.

Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou are perfect in love-lore.

Revealings deep and clear are thine

Of wealthy smiles: but who may know
Whether smile or frown be fleeter?

Whether smile or frown be sweeter,

Who may know?

Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow
Light-glooming over eyes divine,

Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine,
Ever varying Madeline.

Thy smile and frown are not aloof
From one another,

Each to each is dearest brother;
Hues of the silken sheeny woof
Momently shot into each other.
All the mystery is thine;
Smiling, frowning, evermore,
Thou art perfect in love-lore,
Ever varying Madeline.

A subtle, sudden flame,

By veering passion fanned,

About thee breaks and dances; When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of angered shame

O'erflows thy calmer glances,
And o'er black brows drops down
A sudden-curved frown:

But when I turn away,
Thou, willing me to stay,

Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest, But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-netted smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angerly; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown.

SONG. THE OWL.

WHEN cats run home and light is come,
And dew is cold upon the ground,
And the far-off stream is dumb,

And the whirring sail goes round,

And the whirring sail goes round;

Alone and warming his five wits,
The white owl in the belfry sits.

When

merry

milkmaids click the latch,

And rarely smells the new-mown hay,

And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch

Twice or thrice his roundelay,

Twice or thrice his roundelay;

Alone and warming his five wits,

The white owl in the belfry sits.