O pansy-violet, What is this vague regret, This yearning, so like tears, That touches through the years Long past, when Myth and Fable In all strange things were able To beautify the Earth, Things of immortal worth?-- This longing, that to me Is like a memory Lived long ago, of those Fair children who, it knows, Loved with no mortal love; Whom smiling heaven above Fostered, and when they died Laid side by loving side. VI. O pansy-violet, I dream, remembering yet A wood-god-guarded tomb, Out of whose moss a bloom Sprang, with three petals wan As are the eyes of dawn; And two as darkly deep As are the eyes of sleep.-- O flower,--that seems to hold Some memory of old, A hope, a happiness, At which I can but guess,-- You are a sign to me Of immortality: Through you my spirit sees The deathless purposes Of death, that still evolves The beauty it resolves; The change that aye fulfills Life's meaning as God wills. Heart of my Heart Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- When we were children who would laugh and run, Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- Before came toil and care and years went ill, And one forgot and one remembered still, Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, Give me your hands and let me draw you near. Heart of my heart. Stars are not truer than your soul is true-- What need I more of heaven then than you? Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- What need I more to make my world complete? O woman nature, love that still endures, What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. Heart of my heart. Witnesses I. You say I do not love you!--Tell me why, When I have gazed a little on your face, And then gone forth into the world of men, A beauty, neither of the Earth or Sky, A glamour, that transforms each common place, Attends my spirit then? II. You say I do not love you!--Yet I know When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon Your words awhile, my heart has gone away Filled with strange music, very soft and low, A dim companion, touching with sweet tone The discords of the day. III. You say I do not love you!--Yet it seems, When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, A fragrance, sweeter than did flower yet bloom, Accompanies my soul and fills, with dreams, The sad and sordid streets, where people dwell, Dreams of spring's wild perfume. Wherefore I would not see, yet must behold The truth they preach in church and hall; And question so,--Is death then all, And life an idle tale that's told?