Surely I served thee, as the wrinkled elm Yieldeth his nature to the jocund vine, Strength unto beauty: may the flood o'erwhelm Root, trunk, and branch, if they have not been thine. If thine no more, if lightly left behind, To guard the dancing clusters thought unmeet, It is because with gilded trellis twined Thy liberal growth demands untempered heat. Yet, while they spread more freely to the sun, Those tendrils; while they wanton in the breeze Gathering all heaven's bounties, henceforth one Abides more honoured than the neighbouring trees. Ah dear, there's something left of that great gift; And humbly marvelling at thy former choice A head once crowned with love I dare uplift, And, for that once I pleased thee, still rejoice. NOTES OF AN INTERVIEW It is but little that remaineth Of the kindness that you gave me, And that little precious remnant you withhold. Go free; I know that time constraineth, Wilful blindness could not save me: Yet you say I caused the change that I foretold. At every sweet unasked relenting, Though you'd tried me with caprice, Did my welcome, did my gladness ever fail? To-day not loud is my lamenting: Do not chide me; it shall cease: Could I think of vanished love without a wail? Elsewhere, you lightly say, are blooming All the graces I desire: Thus you goad me to the treason of content: If ever, when your brow is glooming, Softer faces I admire, Then your lightnings make me tremble and repent. Grant this: whatever else beguileth Restless dreaming, drowsy toil, As a plaything, as a windfall, let me hail it. Believe: the brightest one that smileth To your beaming is a foil, To the splendour breaking from you, though you veil it. PREPARATION Too weak am I to pray, as some have prayed, That love might hurry straightway out of mind, And leave an ever-vacant waste behind. I thank thee rather, that through every grade Of less and less affection we decline, As month by month thy strong importunate fate Thrusts back my claims, and draws thee toward the great, And shares amongst a hundred what was mine. Proud heroes ask to perish in high noon: I'd have refractions of the fallen day, And heavings when the gale hath flown away, And this slow disenchantment: since too soon, Too surely, comes the death of my poor heart, Be it inured to pain, in mercy, ere we part. DETERIORA One year I lived in high romance, A soul ennobled by the grace Of one whose very frowns enhance The regal lustre of the face, And in the magic of a smile I dwelt as in Calypso's isle.