Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs? The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, The Rider has passed from sight; The day dies out of the crimson west, And coldly falls the night. She presses her tremulous fingers tight Against her closed eyes, And on the lonesome threshold there, She cowers down and cries. THE SARCASTIC FAIR. Her mouth is a honey-blossom, No doubt, as the poet sings; But within her lips, the petals, Lurks a cruel bee, that stings. RAPTURE. In my rhyme I fable anguish, Feigning that my love is dead, Playing at a game of sadness, Singing hope forever fled,-- Trailing the slow robes of mourning, Grieving with the player's art, With the languid palms of sorrow Folded on a dancing heart. I must mix my love with death-dust, Lest the draught should make me mad; I must make believe at sorrow, Lest I perish, over-glad. DEAD. I. Something lies in the room Over against my own; The windows are lit with a ghastly bloom Of candles, burning alone,-- Untrimmed, and all aflare In the ghastly silence there! II. People go by the door, Tiptoe, holding their breath, And hush the talk that they held before, Lest they should waken Death, That is awake all night There in the candlelight! III. The cat upon the stairs Watches with flamy eye For the sleepy one who shall unawares Let her go stealing by. She softly, softly purrs, And claws at the banisters. IV. The bird from out its dream Breaks with a sudden song, That stabs the sense like a sudden scream; The hound the whole night long Howls to the moonless sky, So far, and starry, and high. THE DOUBT. She sits beside the low window, In the pleasant evening-time, With her face turned to the sunset, Reading a book of rhyme. And the wine-light of the sunset, Stolen into the dainty nook, Where she sits in her sacred beauty, Lies crimson on the book. O beautiful eyes so tender, Brown eyes so tender and dear, Did you leave your reading a moment Just now, as I passed near? Maybe, 'tis the sunset flushes Her features, so lily-pale; Maybe, 'tis the lover's passion, She reads of in the tale. O darling, and darling, and darling, If I dared to trust my thought; If I dared to believe what I must not, Believe what no one ought,-- We would read together the poem Of the Love that never died, The passionate, world-old story Come true, and glorified. THE THORN. "Every Rose, you sang, has its Thorn, But this has none, I know." She clasped my rival's Rose Over her breast of snow. I bowed to hide my pain, With a man's unskilful art; I moved my lips, and could not say The Thorn was in my heart! THE MYSTERIES.