But what of that? I strike my string (For songs in youth are sweet); I 'll wait and hear the waters bring Their loud resounding beat; Then, in her own bold numbers sing The Ocean's dear deceit! TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP Thy tones are silver melted into sound, And as I dream I see no walls around, But seem to hear A gondolier Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream. Italian skies--that I have never seen-- I see above. (Ah, play again, my queen; Thy fingers white Fly swift and light And weave for me the golden mesh of love.) Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes And soft dark hair, 'T is thou that mak'st my skies So swift to change To far and strange: But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair. Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee As one who drowns In floods of melody. Still in thy art Give me this part, Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns. CONFESSIONAL Search thou my heart; If there be guile, It shall depart Before thy smile. Search thou my soul; Be there deceit, 'T will vanish whole Before thee, sweet. Upon my mind Turn thy pure lens; Naught shalt thou find Thou canst not cleanse. If I should pray, I scarcely know In just what way My prayers would go. So strong in me I feel love's leaven, I 'd bow to thee As soon as Heaven! MISAPPREHENSION Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song, With my heart's blood imbued, Instinct with passion, tremulously strong, With grief subdued; Breathing a fortitude Pain-bought. And one who claimed much love for what I wrought, Read and considered it, And spoke: "Ay, brother,--'t is well writ, But where's the joke?" PROMETHEUS Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire And swept to earth with it o'er land and sea. He lit the vestal flames of poesy, Content, for this, to brave celestial ire. Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven To lift men's souls above their low estate. But judge you now, when poets wield the pen, Think you not well the wrong has been repaired? 'Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared: The fire has been returned to Heaven again! We have no singers like the ones whose note Gave challenge to the noblest warbler's song. We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong As that which broke from Shelley's golden throat. The measure of our songs is our desires: We tinkle where old poets used to storm. We lack their substance tho' we keep their form: We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres. LOVE'S PHASES