To The Poet L. Maviles[20]

Thy soul is seeking tranquil paths Alone; thou hatest barking mouths; And yet thy country's love enflames thee, O maker of the noble sonnet.

In the white alabaster vase Filled with pure native earth, a flower Of dream that only few can see Trembles and scatters fragrances.

Thy verse, the vase; thy mind, the flower. But a hand broke the vase, and now The azure beauty of the flower

Has found a mate in the powder's smoke Upon Crete's Isle, the blue sea's crown, Mother of bards and tyrant slayers.

1896.