Snapdragon, sunflower, sweet-pea, Flowers which fill the heart of me With so sweet and bitter fancy: Glowing rose and pensive pansy, You that pierce me with a blade Beat from molten memory, With what art, how tenderly, You heal the wounds that you have made! Thrushes, finches, birds that beat Magical and thrilling sweet Little far-off fairy gongs: Blackbird with your mellow songs, Valiant robin, thieving sparrows, Though you wound me as with arrows, Still with you among these flowers Surely I find my sweetest hours. THE BOND Once, I remember, when we were at home I had come into church, and waited late, Ere lastly kneeling to communicate Alone: and thinking that you would not come. Then, with closed eyes (having received the Host) I prayed for your dear self, and turned to rise; When lo! beside me like a blessed ghost-- Nay, a grave sunbeam--_you_! Scarcely my eyes Could credit it, so softly had you come Beside me as I thought I walked alone. Thus long ago; but now, when fate bereaves Life of old joys, how often as I’m kneeling To take the Blessed Sacrifice that weaves Life’s tangled threads, so broken to man’s seeing, Into one whole; I have the sudden feeling That you are by, and look to see a face Made in fair flesh beside me, and all my being Thrills with the old sweet wonder and faint fear As in that sabbath hour--how long ago!-- When you had crept so lightly to your place. Then, then, _I know_ (My heart can always tell) that you are near. TO YOU--UNSUNG (SONNET) How should I sing you?--you who dwell unseen Within the darkest chamber of my heart. What picturesque and inward-turning art Could shadow forth the image of my queen, Sweet, world aloof, ineffably serene Like holy dawn, yet so entirely part Of what am I, as well a man might start To paint his breathing, or his red blood’s sheen. Nay, seek yourself, who are their truest breath, In these my songs made for delight of men. Oh, where they fail, ’tis I that am in blame, But, where the words loom larger than my pen, Be sure they ring glad echoes of your name, And Love that triumphs over Life and Death. A CHRISTMAS WISH I cannot give you happiness: For wishes long have ceased to bring The Fortune which to page and king They brought in those good centuries, When with a quaint and starry wand Witches turned poor men’s thoughts to gold And Cinderella’s carriage rolled Through moonlight into Fairyland. I may but _wish_ you happiness: Not Pleasure’s dusty fruit to find, But wines of Mirth and Friendship kind, And Love, to make with you a home. But may Our Lord whose Son has come Now heed the wish and make it true, Even as elves were wont to do When wishing could bring happiness. TO KATHLEEN, AT CHRISTMAS (AN ACROSTIC)