Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly, Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily, What more eggs were with the _two_. Pushing through the elm-tree copse Winding by the stream, light-hearted, Where the osier pathway leads-- Past the boughs she stoops--and stops! Lo! the wild swan had deserted-- And a rat had gnawed the reeds. Ellie went home sad and slow: If she found the lover ever, With his red-roan steed of steeds, Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him--never, That swan's nest among the reeds! THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD WHAT'S the best thing in the world? June-rose by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when _so_ you're loved again. What's the best thing in the world?-- Something out of it, I think. SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart! Unlike our uses and our destinies. Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another as they strike athwart Their wings in passing. Thou, bethink thee, art A guest for queens to social pageantries, With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part Of chief musician. What hast _thou_ to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me, A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head; on mine the dew: And Death must dig the level where these agree. Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems, where The dancers will break footing, from the care Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. And dost thou lift this house's latch, too poor For hand of thine? and canst thou think, and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door? Look up, and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation! there's a voice within That weeps--as thou must sing--alone, aloof.