Iii

O violin!--Cease, cease within My soul, O haunting violin! In vain, in vain, you bring again Back from the past the blissful pain Of all the love then spoken; When on my breast, at happy rest, A sunny while her head was pressed-- Peace, peace to these wild memories! For, like my heart naught remedies, Her violin lies broken.

HER VESPER SONG.

The Summer lightning comes and goes In one pale cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose A burning heart were never still-- As in my bosom pulses beat Before the coming of his feet.

All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose Breathes dewy balm about the place, As if the dreams the garden knows Took immaterial form and face-- As in my heart sweet thoughts arise Beneath the ardour of his eyes.

The moon above the darkness shows An orb of silvery snow and fire, As if the night would now disclose To heav'n her one divine desire-- As in the rapture of his kiss All of my soul is drawn to his.

The cloud, it knows not that it glows; The rose knows nothing of its scent; Nor knows the moon that it bestows Light on our earth and firmament-- So is the soul unconscious of The beauties it reveals through LOVE.

AT PARTING.

What is there left for us to say, Now it has come to say good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday Have vanished in the sunset sky-- What is there left for us to say, Now different ways before us lie?

A word of hope, a word of cheer, A word of love, that still shall last, When we are far to bring us near Through memories of the happy past; A word of hope, a word of cheer, To keep our sad hearts true and fast.

What is there left for us to do, Now it has come to say farewell? And care, that bade us once adieu, Returns again with us to dwell-- What is there left for us to do, Now different ways our fates compel?

Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And look the love that shall remain-- When severed so by many a mile-- The sweetest balm for bitterest pain; Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile, And trust in GOD to meet again.

CARISSIMA MEA.

I look upon my lady's face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

It is not made, as others sing Of their dear loves, like ivory, But like a wild rose in the spring: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her brow is low and very fair, And o'er it, smooth and shadowy, Lies deep the darkness of her hair: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray, And gaze out glad and fearlessly, Their wonder haunts me night and day: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate, Twin curves of pencilled ebony, Within their spans contain my fate: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her mouth, that was for kisses curved, So small and sweet, it well may be That it for me is yet reserved: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Between her hair and rounded chin, Calm with her soul's calm purity, There lies no shadow of a sin: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Of perfect form, she is not tall, Just higher than the heart of me, Where'er I place her, all in all: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

She is not shaped, as some have sung Of their dear loves, like some slim tree, But like the moon when it is young: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her hands, that smell of violet, So white and fashioned gracefully, Have woven round my heart a net: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Yea, I have loved her many a day; And though for me she may not be, Still at her feet my love I lay: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Albeit she be not for me, GOD send her grace and grant that she Know nought of sorrow all her days: Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Margery.