In its hiding mystical, Memory's reliquary sweet, Glances of another greet Gloves with fingers white and small. And another yet may list To inhale a faint perfume Of the violets from her room, Freshly given--faded, kissed. Here a slipper's curving grace One with sighing treasureth. There another guards a breath In a mask's light edge of lace. I've no slipper to revere, Neither glove nor tress nor flower; But I cherish for love's dower A divine, adored tear,-- Fallen from the blue above, Clearest dew, heaven's drop for me, Pearl dissolved secretly In the chalice of my love. To mine eyes the dim-worn dew Beams, a gem of Orient worth, Standing from the parchment forth, Diamond of a sapphire blue,-- Steadfast, lustreful and deep! Tear that fell unhoped, unsought, On a song my soul once wrought, From an eye unused to weep. SPRING'S FIRST SMILE While up and down the earth men pant and plod, March, laughing at the showers and days unsteady, And whispering secret orders to the sod, For Spring makes ready. And slyly when the world is sleeping yet, He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies, And fashions golden buttercups to set In woodland mazes. Coif-maker fine, he worketh well his plan. Orchard and vineyard for his touch are prouder. From a white swan he hath a down to fan The trees with powder. While Nature still upon her couch doth lean, Stealthily hies he to the garden closes, And laces in their bodices of green Pale buds of roses. Composing his solfeggios in the shade, He whistles them to blackbirds as he treadeth, And violets in the wood, and in the glade Snowdrops, he spreadeth. Where for the restless stag the fountain wells, His hidden hand glides soft amid the cresses, And scatters lily-of-the-valley bells, In silver dresses. He sinks the sweet, vermilion strawberries Deep in the grasses for thy roving fingers, And garlands leaflets for thy forehead's ease, When sunshine lingers. When, labour done, he must away, turns he On April's threshold from his fair creating, And calleth unto Spring: "Come, Spring--for see, The woods are waiting!" CONTRALTO There lies within a great museum's hall, Upon a snowy bed of carven stone, A statue ever strange and mystical, With some fair fascination all its own. And is it youth or is it maiden sweet, A goddess or a god come down to sway? Love fearful, hesitating, turns his feet, Nor any word's avowal will betray. Sideways it lieth, with averted face, Stretching its lovely limbs, half mischievous, Unto the curious crowd, an idle grace Lighting its marble form luxurious. For fashioning of its evil beauty brought The sexes twain each one its magic dower. Man whispers "Aphrodite!" in his thought, And woman "Eros!" wondering at its power. Uncertain sex and certain grace, that seem To melt forever in a fountain's kiss, Waters that whelm the body as they gleam And merge, and it is one with Salmacis.