My soul is sick at the end of all, Sick and sad, being weary too, Weary of being so vain, so vain, Weary and sad at the end of all, And O I long for the touch of you! I long for your hands upon my face; Snow-cold as spirits they will be; I wait until they bring the ring. I wait for their coolness over my face Like a treasure deep in the sea. I wait to know their healing spell, Lest in the desolate sun I die, So that I die not out in the sun; O bathe mine eyes and make them well, Where things unhappy slumbering lie. Where many swans upon the sea, Swans that wander over the sea, Stretch forth their mournful throats in vain In wintry gardens by the sea Sick men pluck roses in their pain. I long for your hands upon my face; Snow-cold as spirits they will be, And soothe my aching sight, alas! My vision like the withered grass Where listless lambs irresolute pass! FIFTEEN SONGS I She chained her in a cavern frore. She set a sign upon the door. The key into the ocean fell: The maid forgot the lamp as well. She waited for the days of spring; Year by year did seven die, And every year one passed her by. She waited thro' the winter's cold, And her tresses, waiting too, Recalled the light that once they knew. They sought the light, they found it out, Crept thro' the rocks and round about, And lit the rocks with all their gold. He comes at eve that passed of old: Amazéd at the wondrous sight He does not dare approach the light. He deems it is a mystic sign, Or else a spring that gushes gold, Or angels at their sport divine: He turns, and passes as of old. II If he one day come again What shall then be said? --Say that one awaited him, Always, that is dead. Ay, but if he ask me more, Yet know me not again? --Speak as any sister might, Lest he be in pain. If he ask where you are gone What shall I reply? --Give him then my golden ring, Make him no reply. If he asks me why the hall Shows a silent floor? --Show him then the smouldered lamp And the open door. If he ask me of the hour When you fell asleep? --Tell him, tell him that I smiled Lest my love should weep. III Three little maids they did to death, To see what hid within their hearts. The first little heart was full of bliss, And lo, wherever its blood might run, Three serpents hissed till three years were done. The second was full of gentlehood, And lo, wherever its blood might run Three lambs that fed till three years were done. The third was full of pain and woe, And lo, wherever the red blood crept Archangels three their vigil kept. IV