[Illustration: COMMON LOT] INDIVIDUALITY. O yes, I love you, and with all my heart; Just as a weaker woman loves her own, Better than I love my beloved art, Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone, My king, my master. Since I saw your face I have dethroned it, and you hold that place. I am as weak as other women are: Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb; Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far. Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine. I know that your desertion or neglect Could break my heart, as women's hearts do break. If my wan days had nothing to expect From your love's splendor, all joy would forsake The chambers of my soul. Yes, this is true. And yet, and yet--one thing I keep from you. There is a subtle part of me, which went Into my long pursued and worshipped art; Though your great love fills me with such content No other love finds room now, in my heart. Yet that rare essence was my art's alone. Thank God, you cannot grasp it; 'tis mine own. Thank God, I say, for while I love you so, With that vast love, as passionate as tender, I feel an exultation as I know I have not made you a complete surrender. Here is my body; bruise it, if you will, And break my heart; I have that _something_ still. You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn Or bind the perfume of the rose, as well. God put it in my soul when I was born; It is not mine to give away, or sell, Or offer up on any altar shrine. It was my art's; and when not art's, 'tis mine, For love's sake I can put the art away, Or anything which stands 'twixt me and you. But that strange essence God bestowed, I say, To permeate the work He gave to do: And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent Through any channel save the one He meant. FRIENDSHIP AFTER LOVE. After the fierce midsummer all ablaze Has burned itself to ashes, and expires In the intensity of its own fires, There come the mellow, mild, St. Martin days, Crowned with the calm of peace, but sad with haze. So after Love has led us, till he tires Of his own throes and torments and desires, Comes large-eyed friendship: with a restful gaze He beckons us to follow, and across Cool, verdant vales we wander free from care. Is it a touch of frost lies in the air? Why are we haunted with a sense of loss? We do not wish the pain back, or the heat; And yet, and yet, these days are incomplete. [Illustration:] [Illustration:] QUERIES.