’Tis night and spring, Sweetheart, and spring! Starfire lights your heart’s blossoming. In the intimate dark there’s never an ear ... So give; ripe fruit must shrivel and fall. As you are mine, Sweetheart, give all! The poem entitled “Dipsa” is virtually an epithalamium fifty lines in length, among them: I wonder can it really be that you And I are here alone, and that the night Is full of hours, and all the world asleep, And none to call to you to come away; For you have given all yourself to me, Making me gentle by your willingness. There is also a sequence of nine sonnets in slightly less specific vein,[46] as plainly written to a woman, and as plainly spoken by the poet herself. In _Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds_ (1914) five of the last poems—“Blue Scarf,” “White Green,” “Aubade,” “A Lady,” and “In a Garden”—are written to women and are full of passionate imagery. In _Pictures of the Floating World_ (1919) there is a sixty-page sequence, “Planes of Personality: Two Speak Together,” more extensive and unmistakably variant than anything found elsewhere in Lowell. In the first poem, “Vernal Equinox,” one finds: “Why are you not here to overpower me with your tense and urgent love?” The second is the often quoted “The Letter,” empty of variant suggestion when lifted from its context, but ending: I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart against The want of you; Of squeezing it into little ink drops And posting it. And I scald alone here under the fire Of the great moon. In her final volume, _What’s O’Clock_, there are thirty pages beginning with “Twenty-four Hokku on a Modern Theme” and ending with “Onlooker,” which are comparable with, though less passionate than, the sequence above. Charlotte Mew, a woman who by date of birth (1870) should precede Miss Lowell, took her own life in 1928. Virginia Moore describes her as definitely variant.[47] Unhappily for literature she destroyed all traces of that fact even more carefully than did Emily Brontë or Emily Dickinson—so completely that we have of her work only two thin volumes, scarcely fifty poems in all. This meager remainder is of high enough quality to gain her inclusion in the _Dictionary of National Biography_ and in virtually every anthology of twentieth-century poetry. It does not, however, include a single poem of which one can say “this is more variant than otherwise,” though two or three (especially “The Farmer’s Wife”) are poignantly successful in expressing a man’s emotional viewpoint. Several (e.g., “Madeleine in Church”) show a deep religious conviction of sin, and doubtless this, as well as a passion for privacy, led her to the wholesale winnowing which critics, being unaware of her emotional bent, laid to rigorous self-criticism of an aesthetic sort. Certainly if what she destroyed was at all comparable to what remains, there has been no more tragic literary, as well as personal, suicide since Chatterton.