I. SHE CHAINED HER IN A CAVERN FRORE II. IF HE ONE DAY COME AGAIN III. THREE LITTLE MAIDS THEY DID TO DEATH IV. MAIDENS WITH BOUNDEN EYES V. THE THREE BLIND SISTERS VI. THERE CAME ONE HERE TO SAY VII. ORLAMONDE HAD SEVEN DAUGHTERS VIII. SHE HAD THREE CROWNS OF GOLD IX. TOWARD THE CASTLE SHE MADE HER WAY X. HER LOVER WENT HIS WAY XI. MOTHER, MOTHER, DO YOU NOT HEAR? XII. NOW YOUR LAMPS ARE ALL ALIGHT XIII. SISTERS, SISTERS, THIRTY YEARS XIV. THERE WERE THREE SISTERS FAIN TO DIE XV. I HOLD, TO EVERY SIN The right to reproduce these poems or to set them to music is reserved by the translator, and application must be made to him or to Mr J. B. Pinker of Talbot House, Arundel Street. "AND IN HIS HAND A GLASS WHICH SHOWS US MANY MORE" SHAKESPEARE "ET TORPENTI MULTA RELINQUITUR MISERIA" "DE IMITATIONE" HOT-HOUSES THE HOT-HOUSE O Hot-house deep in the forest's heart! O doors forever sealed! Lo, all that lives beneath thy dome, And in my soul, and the likeness of these things! The thoughts of a princess who is sick with hunger, The listless mood of a mariner in the desert, And brazen music at the windows Of men who are sick to death! Seek out the coolest corners-- And you think of a woman who has swooned on a day of harvest. Postilions have entered the courtyard of the hospital, And there passes yonder an Uhlan, who has turned sick-nurse. Behold it all by moonlight! (Nothing, nothing is in its rightful place!) And you think of a madwoman haled before the judges, A warship in full sail on the waters of a canal, Birds of the night perched among lilies, And the knell of a passing-bell at the mid-day hour of Angelus. And yonder--beneath those domes of glass-- A group of sick folk halted amid the meadows, An odour of ether abroad on the sunny air! My God, my God, when shall we feel the rain, And the snow, and the wind, in this close house of glass? PRAYER O Pity me that wander hence To haunt the threshold of intent My soul is pale with impotence, Colourless and indolent. A soul for action all too weak, Pallid with tears, it vainly heeds The weary hands that idly seek To grapple with abortive deeds. Forth from my slumbering heart exhale The purple bubbles of its dream; My soul, with waxen hands and frail, Pours forth a drowsy lunar gleam, A listless light that dimly shows The faded lilies of days unborn; A languid light that only throws The shadows of those hands forlorn. THE HOUSE OF LASSITUDE O Blue monotony of my heart! Blue with languor are my dreams, When the mournful moonlight seems Clearer vision to impart: