/# "_The predominacy of custom is every where visible, it sounds as a man would wonder to hear man profess, protest, engage, give great words, and then do just as they have done before, as though they were dead images and moved only by the wheels of custom._" _Francis BACON_. #/ My Hopes white-plumed, in valiant mail, Have beaten at her heart grown pale --Have failed, as all proud hopes must fail-- Lower the mast, fold up the sail. In vain we faced the high-winged gale And laughed as those whom Gods assail. The reefs near port now crush our bark, The jealous hounds of habit bark On land. As children in the dark My Lady shudders in the veil Of her meek hair--shall naught prevail? And only fears their echo find Within her torn and timid mind? Helplessly, my courage tears To free her of the doubts she wears Closer than Life.... Yet Time prepares The end of all things.... Melt, my tears! And flow as bitter as the sea Over my drowning Love and me! A SONNET TO MY LADY WITH THE JAUNDICE. Was not Titania golden? See these flowers Are they for being yellowish less fair? Apollo and the Godesses all share In this most glorious hue. The jealous bowers Of Kings are coloured thus, their reed of powers, Their rings, their chains, the crowns that they must wear Golden their mistress and their minion's hair Golden the bannered sun above their towers! Reflecting butter-cups amuses Puck But flower-rubbed eye-lids, and complexions mend: So fear not broken crystals long ill-luck But look in this new mirror, lovely friend. Both gods and fairies wait on lovers wills. That jaundices be changed to daffodils! EASTER DAY Much longer than these lilies, you or I, This book lives on mysterious memory Of an enchanted place to which you lent A fragrance that will render somnolent? --Sweet poisons are narcotics for our tears! Our ressurected past through dreams appears An angel standing by an empty tomb. What sadder thing may Time spin on her loom Than words?--Return to that once petaled door Through which Love passed--adding a few leaves more To the strange book of life: open its covers Only to the worn page where we were lovers Lost in fair imageries, there to forget Our hearts that weep as little children yet! LINES TAKEN FROM POEMS I SHALL NOT WRITE Love, all our colours Fade into shadows --Shadows, but empty Forms of the darkness? Pale with the spring-time, Wandering without you-- Sick with love-sickness! To sigh upon this chill air of December, To wonder why, and wondering why, remember!