All her hours were yellow sands, Blown in foolish whorls and tassels; Slipping warmly through her hands; Patted into little castles. Shiny day on shiny day Tumble in a rainbow clutter, As she flipped them all away, Sent them spinning down the gutter. Leave for her a red young rose, Go your way, and save your pity; She is happy, for she knows That her dust is very pretty. _To a Much Too Unfortunate Lady_ He will love you presently If you be the way you be. Send your heart a-skittering, He will stoop, and lift the thing. Be your dreams as thread, to tease Into patterns he shall please. Let him see your passion is Ever tenderer than his.... Go and bless your star above, Thus are you, and thus is Love. He will leave you white with woe, If you go the way you go. If your dreams were thread to weave, He will pluck them from his sleeve. If your heart had come to rest, He will flick it from his breast. Tender though the love he bore, You had loved a little more.... Lady, go and curse your star, Thus Love is, and thus you are. _Paths_ I shall tread, another year, Ways I walked with Grief, Past the dry, ungarnered ear And the brittle leaf. I shall stand, a year apart, Wondering, and shy, Thinking, "Here she broke her heart; Here she pled to die." I shall hear the pheasants call, And the raucous geese; Down these ways, another Fall, I shall walk with Peace. But the pretty path I trod Hand-in-hand with Love,-- Underfoot, the nascent sod, Brave young boughs above, And the stripes of ribbon grass By the curling way,-- I shall never dare to pass To my dying day. _Hearthside_ Half across the world from me Lie the lands I'll never see-- I, whose longing lives and dies Where a ship has sailed away; I, that never close my eyes But to look upon Cathay. Things I may not know nor tell Wait, where older waters swell; Ways that flowered at Sappho's tread, Winds that sighed in Homer's strings, Vibrant with the singing dead, Golden with the dust of wings. Under deeper skies than mine, Quiet valleys dip and shine. Where their tender grasses heal Ancient scars of trench and tomb I shall never walk; nor kneel Where the bones of poets bloom. If I seek a lovelier part, Where I travel goes my heart; Where I stray my thought must go; With me wanders my desire. Best to sit and watch the snow, Turn the lock, and poke the fire. _The New Love_ If it shine or if it rain, Little will I care or know. Days, like drops upon a pane, Slip, and join, and go.