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The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.


Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through joys and fears,
Than the two hearts beating each to each !


ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea,
And the sun looked over the mountain's rim:
And straight was a path of gold for him,
And the need of a world of men for me. .



I DREAM of a red-rose tree.
And which of its roses three
Is the dearest rose to me?


Round and round, like a dance of snow
In a dazzling drift, as its guardians, go
Floating the women faded for ages,
Sculptured in stone, on the poet's pages.
Then follow women fresh and gay,
Living and loving and loved to-day.
Last, in the rear, flee the multitude of maidens,
Beauties yet unborn. And all, to one cadence,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.

Dear rose, thy term is reached,
Thy leaf hangs loose and bleached :
Bees pass it unimpeached.

iv. Stay then, stoop, since I cannot climb, You, great shapes of the antique time,

How shall I fix you, fire you, freeze you,
Break my heart at your feet to please you?
Oh, to possess and be possessed !
Hearts that beat 'neath each pallid breast !
Once but of love, the poesy, the passion,
Drink but once and die !-In vain, the same fashion,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.

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Deep, as drops from a statue's plinth
The bee sucked in by the hyacinth,
So will I bury me while burning,
Quench like him at a plunge my yearning,
Eyes in your eyes, lips on your lips !
Fold me fast where the cincture slips,
Prison all my soul in eternities of pleasure,
Girdle me for once! But no—the old measure,
They circle their rose on my rose tree.


Dear rose without a thorn,
Thy bud's the babe unborn :
First streak of a new morn.


Wings, lend wings for the cold, the clear !
What is far conquers what is near.

Roses will bloom nor want beholders,
Sprung from the dust where our flesh moulders.
What shall arrive with the cycle's change?
A novel grace and a beauty strange.
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 !


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.

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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.

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