Iii

O last save me on the scaffold’s round! Take heart, that after a thirst profound The cup of delicious death is near,

And whoso hold it, or whence it flow, O drink it to France, to France! and know For the gift thou givest, thou hast her tear.

True seed thou wert of the sunnier hour, Honorable, and burst to flower Late in a hell-pit poison-walled:

Farewell, mortality lopped and pale, Thou body that wast my friend! and Hail, Dear spirit already!... My name is called.

Winter Boughs

HOW tender and how slow, in sunset’s cheer, Far on the hill, our quiet treetops fade! A broidery of northern seaweed, laid Long in a book, were scarce more fine and clear. Frost, and sad light, and windless atmosphere Have breathed on them, and of their frailties made Beauty more sweet than summer’s builded shade, Whose green domes fall, to bring this wonder here. O ye forgetting and outliving boughs, With not a plume, gay in the jousts before, Left for the Archer! so, in evening’s eye, So stilled, so lifted, let your lover die, Set in the upper calm no voices rouse, Stript, meek, withdrawn, against the heavenly door.