My mind has such a hawk as thou, It is an evil mood; It comes when there's no cause for grief, And on my joys doth brood. Then do I see my life in parts; The earth receives my bones, The common air absorbs my mind-- It knows not flowers from stones. SWEET STAY-AT-HOME Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content, Thou knowest of no strange continent: Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep A gentle motion with the deep; Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas, Where scent comes forth in every breeze. Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow For miles, as far as eyes can go; Thou hast not seen a summer's night When maids could sew by a worm's light; Nor the North Sea in spring send out Bright hues that like birds flit about In solid cages of white ice-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place. Thou hast not seen black fingers pick White cotton when the bloom is thick, Nor heard black throats in harmony; Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie Flat on the earth, that once did rise To hide proud kings from common eyes. Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom Where green things had such little room They pleased the eye like fairer flowers-- Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours. Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place, Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face; For thou hast made more homely stuff Nurture thy gentle self enough; I love thee for a heart that's kind-- Not for the knowledge in thy mind. A FLEETING PASSION Thou shalt not laugh, thou shalt not romp, Let's grimly kiss with bated breath; As quietly and solemnly As Life when it is kissing Death. Now in the silence of the grave, My hand is squeezing that soft breast; While thou dost in such passion lie, It mocks me with its look of rest. But when the morning comes at last, And we must part, our passions cold, You'll think of some new feather, scarf To buy with my small piece of gold; And I'll be dreaming of green lanes, Where little things with beating hearts Hold shining eyes between the leaves, Till men with horses pass, and carts. THE BIRD OF PARADISE Here comes Kate Summers, who, for gold, Takes any man to bed: "You knew my friend, Nell Barnes," she said; "You knew Nell Barnes--she's dead. "Nell Barnes was bad on all you men, Unclean, a thief as well; Yet all my life I have not found A better friend than Nell. "So I sat at her side at last, For hours, till she was dead; And yet she had no sense at all Of any word I said. "For all her cry but came to this-- 'Not for the world! Take care: Don't touch that bird of paradise, Perched on the bed-post there!' "I asked her would she like some grapes, Some damsons ripe and sweet; A custard made with new-laid eggs, Or tender fowl to eat. "I promised I would follow her, To see her in her grave; And buy a wreath with borrowed pence, If nothing I could save. "Yet still her cry but came to this-- 'Not for the world! Take care: Don't touch that bird of paradise, Perched on the bed-post there!'"