For, I know not why, when I tell my thought, It seems as though I fling it away; And the charm wherewith a fancy is fraught, When secret, dies with the fleeting lay Into which it is wrought. So my butterfly-dreams their golden wings But seldom unfurl from their chrysalis; And thus I retain my loveliest things, While the world, in its worldliness, does not miss What a poet sings. Two Portraits I You say, as one who shapes a life, That you will never be a wife, And, laughing lightly, ask my aid To paint your future as a maid. This is the portrait; and I take The softest colors for your sake: The springtime of your soul is dead, And forty years have bent your head; The lines are firmer round your mouth, But still its smile is like the South. Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad, Yet never more than gravely glad; And the old charm still lurks within The cloven dimple of your chin. Some share, perhaps, of youthful gloss Your cheek hath shed; but still across The delicate ear are folded down Those silken locks of chestnut brown; Though here and there a thread of gray Steals through them like a lunar ray. One might suppose your life had passed Unvexed by any troubling blast; And such--for all that I foreknow-- May be the truth! The deeper woe! A loveless heart is seldom stirred; And sorrow shuns the mateless bird; But ah! through cares alone we reach The happiness which mocketh speech; In the white courts beyond the stars The noblest brow is seamed with scars; And they on earth who've wept the most Sit highest of the heavenly host. Grant that your maiden life hath sped In music o'er a golden bed, With rocks, and winds, and storms at truce, And not without a noble use; Yet are you happy? In your air I see a nameless want appear, And a faint shadow on your cheek Tells what the lips refuse to speak. You have had all a maid could hope In the most cloudless horoscope: The strength that cometh from above; A Christian mother's holy love; And always at your soul's demand A brother's, sister's heart and hand. Small need your heart hath had to roam Beyond the circle of your home; And yet upon your wish attends A loving throng of genial friends. What, in a lot so sweet as this, Is wanting to complete your bliss? And to what secret shall I trace The clouds that sometimes cross your face, And that sad look which now and then Comes, disappears, and comes again, And dies reluctantly away In those clear eyes of azure gray? At best, and after all, the place You fill with such a serious grace,