Fared Father Leonor, wrapt with morn and God, New-perfected in look and limb with sleep, Fain of each friendly tree whereby he trod, At dew-drop salutations smiling deep. He paced the hollow towards his pleasant goal Where burst from out a tall oak's roots a spring, As prayer from priviest fibres of the soul Leaps forth in loneliness. There stood a stalwart ring Of twelve great oaks about that middle Oak, Which uttered forth the fount, as erstwhile stood The sweetest Twelve of time round Him who spoke The words that watered life's long drought of good. Straight fell the father Leonor on his knees Down by the foot of that Christ-Oak, and cried, My master, while they sleep, I pray for these, My soul's dear sons, my sixty, that abide About my cell since first my wandering feet In these Armoric wilds were stayed: O Lord,[2] . . . . . . Footnote 2: "The Legend of St. Leonor" is given in full in Mr. Lanier's "Retrospects and Prospects." WHAT AM I WITHOUT THEE? What am I without thee, Beloved? A mere stem, that hath no flower; A sea forever at storm, without its calms; A shrine, with the Virgin stolen out; A cloud void of lightning; A bleak moor where yearnings moan like the winter winds; A rock on sea-sand, whence the sea hath retired, and no longer claspeth and loveth it; A hollow oak with the heart riven thereout, living by the bark alone; A dark star; A bird with both wings broken; A Dryad in a place where no trees are; A brook that never reacheth the sea; A mountain without sunrise thereon and without springs therein; A wave that runneth on forever, to no shore; A raindrop suspended between Heaven and Earth, arrested in his course; A bud, that will never open; A hope that is always dying; An eye with no sparkle in it; A tear wept, dropped in the dust, cold; A bow whereof the string is snapped; An orchestra, wanting the violin; A poor poem; A bent lance; A play without plot or dénouement; An arrow, shot with no aim; Chivalry without his Ladye; A sound unarticulated; A water-lily left in a dry lake-bed; Sleep without a dream and without a waking-time; A pallid lip; A grave whereafter cometh neither Heaven nor hell; A broken javelin fixed in a breastplate; A heart that liveth, but throbbeth not; An Aurora of the North, dying upon the ice, in the night; A blurred picture; A lonesome, lonesome, lonesome yearning lover!