(A Sonnet.)

When autumn comes, my orchard trees alone Shall bear no fruit to deck the reddening year— When apple gatherers climb the branches sere Only on mine no harvest shall be grown. For when the pearly blossom first was blown, I filled my hands with delicate buds and dear, I dipped them in thine icy waters clear, O well of Art! and turned them all to stone.

Therefore, when winter comes, I shall not eat Of mellow apples such as others prize: I shall go hungry in a magic spring!— All round my head and bright before mine eyes The barren, strange, eternal blossoms meet, While I, not less an-hungered, gaze and sing.

Temple Garlands.

There is a temple in my heart Where moth or rust can never come, A temple swept and set apart To make my soul a home;

And round about the doors of it Hang garlands that for ever last, That gathered once are always sweet; The roses of the Past!

Pallor.

The great white lilies in the grass Are pallid as the smile of death; For they remember still—alas!— The graves they sprang from underneath.

The angels up in heaven are pale— For all have died, when all is said; Nor shall the lutes of Eden avail To let them dream they are not dead.

Song.

I have lost my singing-voice; My heyday’s over. No more I lilt my cares and joys, But keep them under cover. My heyday’s gone: I sit and look on. Life rushes past with a sob and a moan.

Wherefore should I care to tell The pang that rends me? If it leave me all is well; And if it last it ends me. The tears that rise To my entrancèd eyes Drop for a world full of hunger and sighs.

Personality.