TO CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn, Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn Roof not a glance so keen as thine : Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit; A gentler death shall Falsehood die, Shot through and through with cunning words. Weak Truth, a-leaning on her crutch, 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, Through light and shadow thou dost range, Delicious spites, and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change. Smiling, frowning, evermore, Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, Thy smile and frown are not aloof Each to each is dearest brother; 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, |