"How have Eden bowers grown Without Adam to bend them! How have Eden flowers blown, Squandering their sweet breath, Without me to tend them! The Tree of Life was ours, Tree twelvefold-fruited, Most lofty tree that flowers, Most deeply rooted: I chose the Tree of Death. "Hadst thou but said me nay, Adam, my brother, I might have pined away; I, but none other: God might have let thee stay Safe in our garden, By putting me away Beyond all pardon. "I, Eve, sad mother Of all who must live, I, not another, Plucked bitterest fruit to give My friend, husband, lover. O wanton eyes run over! Who but I should grieve?-- Cain hath slain his brother: Of all who must die mother, Miserable Eve!" Thus she sat weeping, Thus Eve, our mother, Where one lay sleeping Slain by his brother. Greatest and least Each piteous beast To hear her voice Forgot his joys And set aside his feast. The mouse paused in his walk And dropped his wheaten stalk; Grave cattle wagged their heads In rumination; The eagle gave a cry From his cloud station; Larks on thyme beds Forbore to mount or sing; Bees drooped upon the wing; The raven perched on high Forgot his ration; The conies in their rock, A feeble nation, Quaked sympathetical; The mocking-bird left off to mock; Huge camels knelt as if In deprecation; The kind hart's tears were falling; Chattered the wistful stork; Dove-voices with a dying fall Cooed desolation, Answering grief by grief. Only the serpent in the dust, Wriggling and crawling, Grinned an evil grin, and thrust His tongue out with its fork. GROWN AND FLOWN. I loved my love from green of Spring Until sere Autumn's fall; But now that leaves are withering How should one love at all? One heart's too small For hunger, cold, love, everything. I loved my love on sunny days Until late Summer's wane; But now that frost begins to glaze How should one love again? Nay, love and pain Walk wide apart in diverse ways. I loved my love,--alas to see That this should be, alas! I thought that this could scarcely be, Yet has it come to pass: Sweet sweet love was, Now bitter bitter grown to me. A FARM WALK. The year stood at its equinox And bluff the North was blowing, A bleat of lambs came from the flocks, Green hardy things were growing; I met a maid with shining locks Where milky kine were lowing. She wore a kerchief on her neck, Her bare arm showed its dimple, Her apron spread without a speck, Her air was frank and simple.