O tell me, didst thou come to hear, Sweet Spring, that I should die this year; And call’st across from the far shore To me one greeting more? [Illustration: text decoration] _To Death._ (FROM LENAU.) If within my heart there’s mould, If the flame of Poesy And the flame of Love grow cold, Slay my body utterly. Swiftly, pause not nor delay; Let not my life’s field be spread With the ash of feelings dead, Let thy singer soar away. [Illustration: text decoration] _A June-Tide Echo._ (AFTER A RICHTER CONCERT.) [Illustration: text decoration] In the long, sad time, when the sky was grey, And the keen blast blew through the city drear, When delight had fled from the night and the day, My chill heart whispered, “June will be here! “June with its roses a-sway in the sun, Its glory of green on mead and tree.” Lo, now the sweet June-tide is nearly done, June-tide, and never a joy for me! Is it so much of the gods that I pray? Sure craved man never so slight a boon! To be glad and glad in my heart one day-- One perfect day of the perfect June. Sweet sounds to-night rose up, wave upon wave; Sweet dreams were afloat in the balmy air. This is the boon of the gods that I crave-- To be glad, as the music and night were fair. For once, for one fleeting hour, to hold The fair shape the music that rose and fell Revealed and concealed like a veiling fold; To catch for an instant the sweet June spell. For once, for one hour, to catch and keep The sweet June secret that mocks my heart; Now lurking calm, like a thing asleep, Now hither and thither with start and dart. Then the sick, slow grief of the weary years, The slow, sick grief and the sudden pain; The long days of labour, the nights of tears-- No more these things would I hold in vain. I would hold my life as a thing of worth; Pour praise to the gods for a precious thing. Lo, June in her fairness is on the earth, And never a joy does the niggard bring. _To Lallie._ (OUTSIDE THE BRITISH MUSEUM.) [Illustration: text decoration] Up those Museum steps you came, And straightway all my blood was flame, O Lallie, Lallie! The world (I had been feeling low) In one short moment’s space did grow A happy valley. There was a friend, my friend, with you; A meagre dame, in peacock blue Apparelled quaintly: This poet-heart went pit-a-pat; I bowed and smiled and raised my hat; You nodded--faintly. My heart was full as full could be; You had not got a word for me, Not one short greeting; That nonchalant small nod you gave (The tyrant’s motion to the slave) Sole mark’d our meeting.