Also I praise long hands that lie as flowers Which though they labour not are worthy praise, And praise deep eyes like pools wherein the stars Gleam out reflected in their loveliness, For whoso look on such there is no greyness May hang about his heart on any day. The other things that I would praise to-day? Besides white hands and all the fragile flowers, And by their praise dispel the evening's greyness? I praise dim hair that worthiest is of praise And dream upon its unbound loveliness, And how therethrough mine eyes have seen the stars. Yea, through that cloud mine eyes have seen the stars That drift out slowly when night steals the day, Through such a cloud meseems their loveliness Surpasses that of all the other flowers. For that one night I give all nights my praise And love therefrom the twilight's coming greyness. There is a stillness in this twilight greyness Although the rain hath veiled the flow'ry stars, They seem to listen as I weave this praise Of what I have not seen all this grey day, And they will tell my praise unto the flowers When May shall bid them in in loveliness. O ye I love, who hold this loveliness Near to your hearts, may never any greyness Enshroud your hearts when ye would gather flowers, Or bind your eyes when ye would see the stars; But alway do I give ye flowers by day, And when day's plucked I give ye stars for praise. But most, thou Flower, whose eyes are like the stars, With whom my dreams bide all the live-long day, Within thy hands would I rest all my praise. Portrait From "La Mère Inconnue." Now would I weave her portrait out of all dim splendour. Of Provence and far halls of memory, Lo, there come echoes, faint diversity Of blended bells at even's end, or As the distant seas should send her The tribute of their trembling, ceaselessly Resonant. Out of all dreams that be, Say, shall I bid the deepest dreams attend her? Nay! For I have seen the purplest shadows stand Alway with reverent chere that looked on her, Silence himself is grown her worshipper And ever doth attend her in that land Wherein she reigneth, wherefore let there stir Naught but the softest voices, praising her. "Fair Helena" by Rackham "_What I love best in all the world?_" When the purple twilight is unbound, To watch her slow, tall grace and its wistful loveliness, And to know her face is in the shadow there, Just by two stars beneath that cloud-- The soft, dim cloud of her hair, And to think my voice can reach to her As but the rumour of some tree-bound stream, Heard just beyond the forest's edge, Until she all forgets I am, And knows of me Naught but my dream's felicity. Laudantes Decem Pulchritudinis Johannae Templi I