There is as yet no shadow in his glance, Too cool his temples for the laurel's glow; But later o'er those marble brows, perchance, A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow, And single petals one by one will fall O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall, --The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile As though a song were rising there the while. THE TOMB OF A YOUNG GIRL We still remember! The same as of yore All that has happened once again must be. As grows a lemon-tree upon the shore-- It was like that--your light, small breasts you bore, And his blood's current coursed like the wild sea. That god-- who was the wanderer, the slim Despoiler of fair women; he--the wise,-- But sweet and glowing as your thoughts of him Who cast a shadow over your young limb While bending like your arched brows o'er your eyes. THE POET You Hour! From me you ever take your flight, Your swift wings wound me as they whir along; Without you void would be my day and night, Without you I'll not capture my great song. I have no earthly spot where I can live, I have no love, I have no household fane, And all the things to which myself I give Impoverish me with richness they attain. THE PANTHER His weary glance, from passing by the bars, Has grown into a dazed and vacant stare; It seems to him there are a thousand bars And out beyond those bars the empty air. The pad of his strong feet, that ceaseless sound Of supple tread behind the iron bands, Is like a dance of strength circling around, While in the circle, stunned, a great will stands. But there are times the pupils of his eyes Dilate, the strong limbs stand alert, apart, Tense with the flood of visions that arise Only to sink and die within his heart. GROWING BLIND Among all the others there sat a guest Who sipped her tea as if one apart, And she held her cup not quite like the rest; Once she smiled so it pierced one's heart. When the group of people arose at last And laughed and talked in a merry tone, As lingeringly through the rooms they passed I saw that she followed alone. Tense and still like one who to sing must rise Before a throng on a festal night She lifted her head, and her bright glad eyes Were like pools which reflected light. She followed on slowly after the last As though some object must be passed by, And yet as if were it once but passed She would no longer walk but fly. THE SPANISH DANCER As a lit match first flickers in the hands Before it flames, and darts out from all sides Bright, twitching tongues, so, ringed by growing bands Of spectators--she, quivering, glowing stands Poised tensely for the dance--then forward glides