He thinks of his morn of life, His hale, strong years; And braves as he may the night Of darkness and tears. 16 Since we loved,—(the earth that shook As we kissed, fresh beauty took)— Love hath been as poets paint, Life as heaven is to a saint; All my joys my hope excel, All my work hath prosper’d well, All my songs have happy been, O my love, my life, my queen. 17 When Death to either shall come,— I pray it be first to me,— Be happy as ever at home, If so, as I wish, it be. Possess thy heart, my own; And sing to the child on thy knee, Or read to thyself alone The songs that I made for thee. 18 WISHES I wish’d to sing thy grace, but nought Found upon earth that could compare: Some day, maybe, in heaven, I thought,— If I should win the welcome there,— There might I make thee many a song: But now it is enough to say I ne’er have done our life the wrong Of wishing for a happier day. 19 A LOVE LYRIC Why art thou sad, my dearest? What terror is it thou fearest, Braver who art than I The fiend to defy? Why art thou sad, my dearest? And why in tears appearest, Closer than I that wert At hiding thy hurt? Why art thou sad, my dearest, Since now my voice thou hearest? Who with a kiss restore Thy valour of yore. 20 ΕΡΟΣΕΡΟΣ Why hast thou nothing in thy face? Thou idol of the human race, Thou tyrant of the human heart, The flower of lovely youth that art; Yea, and that standest in thy youth An image of eternal Truth, With thy exuberant flesh so fair, That only Pheidias might compare, Ere from his chaste marmoreal form Time had decayed the colours warm; Like to his gods in thy proud dress Thy starry sheen of nakedness. Surely thy body is thy mind, For in thy face is nought to find, Only thy soft unchristen’d smile, That shadows neither love nor guile, But shameless will and power immense, In secret sensuous innocence. O king of joy, what is thy thought? I dream thou knowest it is nought, And wouldst in darkness come, but thou Makest the light where’er thou go. Ah yet no victim of thy grace, None who e’er long’d for thy embrace, Hath cared to look upon thy face. 21 THE FAIR BRASS An effigy of brass Trodden by careless feet Of worshippers that pass, Beautiful and complete, Lieth in the sombre aisle Of this old church unwreckt, And still from modern style Shielded by kind neglect. It shows a warrior arm’d: Across his iron breast His hands by death are charmed To leave his sword at rest, Wherewith he led his men O’ersea, and smote to hell The astonisht Saracen, Nor doubted he did well.