IV Now I do not intend--what were the gain?-- To dwell with streaming eyes upon the past; But yet my love which you may think lies slain, Perhaps is only wide awake at last. My love, perhaps,--which now is memory!-- Although beneath your blows it cringe and cry And bleed to will, and must, as I foresee, Still suffer long and much before it die,-- Judges you justly when it seems aware Of some not all banal compunction, And of your memory in its despair Reproaching you, "Ah, fi! it was ill done!" V I see you still. I softly pushed the door-- As one o'erwhelmed with weariness you lay; But O light body love should soon restore, You bounded up, tearful at once and gay. O what embraces, kisses sweet and wild! Myself, from brimming eyes I laughed to you Those moments, among all, O lovely child, Shall be my saddest, but my sweetest, too. I will remember your smile, your caress, Your eyes, so kind that day,--exquisite snare!-- Yourself, in fine, whom else I might not bless, Only as they appeared, not as they were. VI I see you still! Dressed in a summer dress, Yellow and white, bestrewn with curtain-flowers; But you had lost the glistening laughingness Of our delirious former loving hours. The eldest daughter and the little wife Spoke plainly in your bearing's least detail,-- Already 'twas, alas! our altered life That stared me from behind your dotted veil. Forgiven be! And with no little pride I treasure up,--and you, no doubt, see why,-- Remembrance of the lightning to one side That used to flash from your indignant eye! VII Some moments, I'm the tempest-driven bark That runs dismasted mid the hissing spray, And seeing not Our Lady through the dark Makes ready to be drowned, and kneels to pray. Some moments, I'm the sinner at his end, That knows his doom if he unshriven go, And losing hope of any ghostly friend, Sees Hell already gape, and feels it glow. Oh, but! Some moments, I've the spirit stout Of early Christians in the lion's care, That smile to Jesus witnessing, without A nerve's revolt, the turning of a hair! Aquarelles GREEN See, blossoms, branches, fruit, leaves I have brought, And then my heart that for you only sighs; With those white hands of yours, oh, tear it not, But let the poor gift prosper in your eyes. The dew upon my hair is still undried,-- The morning wind strikes chilly where it fell. Suffer my weariness here at your side To dream the hour that shall it quite dispel.