Strange, if a face, when you thought of me, Rose like your own face present now, With eyes as dear in their due degree, Much such a mouth, and as bright a brow, Till you saw yourself, while you cried “‘Tis She!” 6. Well, you may, you must, set down to me Love that was life, life that was love; A tenure of breath at your lips’ decree, A passion to stand as your thoughts approve, A rapture to fall where your foot might be. -- St. 6. vv. 3-5 express the entire devotion and submissiveness of her love. 7. But did one touch of such love for me Come in a word or a look of yours, Whose words and looks will, circling, flee Round me and round while life endures,-- Could I fancy “As I feel, thus feels He”; 8. Why, fade you might to a thing like me, And your hair grow these coarse hanks of hair, Your skin, this bark of a gnarled tree,-- You might turn myself!--should I know or care, When I should be dead of joy, James Lee? A Tale. Epilogue to ‘The Two Poets of Croisic’. 1. What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or was it rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head. 2. Anyhow there’s no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where suchlike used to go, Singing for a prize, you know. 3. Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing: I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that’s behind. 4. There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears! 5. None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune, Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note’s worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile “In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!” 6. When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed? Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped. 7. All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What “cicada”? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire, Lighted on the crippled lyre. -- St. 7. “Cicada”: do you say? Pooh!: that’s bringing the mysterious little thing down to the plane of entomology. 8.