BURNING OLD LETTERS. 465 MONNA LISA. THE OPTIMIST. Light of those eyes that made the light | From past and future toils I rest, of mine, Where shine you? On what happier fields and flowers? Heaven's lamps renew their lustre less divine, But only serve to count my darkened hours. If with your presence went your image 100, That brain-born ghost my path would never cross Which meets me now where'er I once met you, Then vanishes, to multiply my loss. MONNA LISA. SHE gave me all that woman can, Rare art, that can the sense refine Till not a pulse rebellious stirs, And, since she never can be mine, Makes it seem sweeter to be hers! THE OPTIMIST. TURBID from London's noise and smoke, Quiet by nothing harsher broke The Truce of God is here; the breeze Time, leaning on his scythe, forgets Repose fills all the generous space One Sabbath pacifies my year; So I turn tory for the nonce, Sun, sink no deeper down the sky; ON BURNING SOME OLD LETTERS. WITH what odorous woods and spices O'er these leaves her wrist has slid, Sunshine left there by her eyes; Rarest woods were coarse and rough, It shall be this slab, brought home Fire I gather from the sun On the altar now, alas, There to burn through dust and damp All is ashes now, but they In my soul are laid away, And their radiance round me hovers Love, and teach men what it meant. THE PROTEST. I COULD not bear to see those eyes But that a glow from deeper skies, From conscious fountains more divine, Is (is it?) mine. Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Still on it went, I have it! Grant, ye kindly Powers, I from this spot may never stir, If only these uncounted hours CASA SIN ALMA. RECUERDO DE MADRID. SILENCIOSO por la puerta Y la encuentro en vano abierta A CHRISTMAS CAROL. May pass, and seem too short, with Her! FOR THE SUNDAY-SCHOOL CHILDREN But who she is, her form and face, Unbodied, like the cuckoo's song. AGRO-DOLCE. ONE kiss from all others prevents me, And burns on thy lips and torments me: One kiss for all others requites me, And sweetens my dreams and invites me: Ah, could it be mine, it were sweeter And yet, thus denied, it can never THE BROKEN TRYST. WALKING alone where we walked to- So shall we learn to understand gether, When June was breezy and blue, I watch in the gray autumnal weather If a dead leaf startle behind me, I think 't is your garment's hem, The simple faith of shepherds then, And they who do their souls no wrong, And, oh, where no memory could find me, Shall daily hear the angel-song, Might I whirl away with them! "To-day the Prince of Peace is born!" MY PORTRAIT GALLERY. OFT round my hall of portraiture I gaze, By Memory reared, the artist wise and holy, From stainless quarries of deep-buried days. There, as I muse in soothing melancholy, Your faces glow in more than mortal youth, Companions of my prime, now. vanished wholly, The loud, impetuous boy, the low-voiced maiden, Now for the first time seen in flawless truth. Ah, never master that drew mortal breath Can match thy portraits, just and generous Death, Whose brush with sweet regretful tints is laden! Thou pain est that which struggled here below Half unders ood, or understood for woe, And with a sweet forewarning Mak'st round the sacred front an aureole glow Woven of that light that rose on Easter morning. PAOLO TO FRANCESCA. I WAS with thee in Heaven: I cannot tell If years or moments, so the sudden bliss, When first we found, then lost, us in a kiss, Abolished Time, abolished Earth and Hell, Left only Heaven. Then from our blue there fell The dagger's flash, and did not fall amiss, For nothing now can rob my life of this, That once with thee in Heaven, all else is well. Us, undivided when man's vengeance came, God's half-forgives that doth not here divide; And, were this bitter whirl-blast fanged with flame, To me 't were summer, we being side by side: This granted, I God's mercy will not blame, For, given thy nearness, nothing is denied. Yet here to claim remembrance were, methinks, |