Of such was I, who knew not what Sweet mysteries may rise Within the heart when 't is its lot To love and realize. Of such was I, ah me! till, lo, Your face on mine did gleam, And changed that world, I used to know, Into an evil dream. That world wherein, on hill and plain, Great blood-red poppies bloomed, Their hot hearts thirsty for the rain, And sleepily perfumed. Above, below, on every part A crimson shadow lay, As if the red sun streamed athwart And sunset was alway. I know not how, I know not when, I only know that there She met me in the haunted glen, A poppy in her hair. Her face seemed fair as Mary's is, That knows no sin or wrong; Her presence filled the silences As music fills a song. And she was clad like the Mother of God, As 't were for Christ's sweet sake, But when she moved and where she trod A hiss went of a snake. Though seeming sinless, till I die I shall not know for sure Why to my soul she seemed a lie And otherwise than pure. Nor why I kissed her soon and late And for her felt desire, While loathing of her passion ate Into my soul like fire. Was it because my soul could tell That, like the poppy-flower, She had no soul? a thing of Hell, That o'er it had no power. Or was it that your love at last My soul so long had craved, From the sweet sin that held me fast At that last moment saved? Content When I behold how some pursue Fame, that is care's embodiment, Or fortune, whose false face looks true,-- A humble home with sweet content Is all I ask for me and you. A humble home, where pigeons coo, Whose path leads under breezy lines Of frosty-berried cedars to A gate, one mass of trumpet-vines, Is all I ask for me and you. A garden, which, all summer through, The roses old make redolent, And morning-glories, gay of hue, And tansy, with its homely scent, Is all I ask for me and you. An orchard, that the pippins strew, From whose bruised gold the juices spring; A vineyard, where the grapes hang blue, Wine-big and ripe for vintaging, Is all I ask for me and you. A lane, that leads to some far view Of forest and of fallow-land, Bloomed o'er with rose and meadow-rue, Each with a bee in its hot hand, Is all I ask for me and you. At morn, a pathway deep with dew, And birds to vary time and tune; At eve, a sunset avenue, And whippoorwills that haunt the moon, Is all I ask for me and you. Dear heart, with wants so small and few, And faith, that's better far than gold, A lowly friend, a child or two, To care for us when we are old, Is all I ask for me and you. Berrying I.