No grey old priestly devil, But, young, with cheeks aflame— Who e'en when sick with revel, Can jealous be and blame. To greybeards I'm a stranger, And he, too, hates the old: Of God, the world-arranger, The wisdom here behold! The Church has ken of living, And tests by heart and face. To me she'll be forgiving! Who will not show me grace? I lisp with pretty halting, I curtsey, bid "good day," And with the fresh defaulting I wash the old away! Praise be this man-God's guerdon, Who loves all maidens fair, And his own heart can pardon The sin he planted there. While beauty in my face is, With piety I'll stand, When age has killed my graces, Let Satan claim my hand! THE BOAT OF MYSTERY. Yester-eve, when all things slept— Scarce a breeze to stir the lane— I a restless vigil kept, Nor from pillows sleep could gain, Nor from poppies nor—most sure Of opiates—a conscience pure. Thoughts of rest I 'gan forswear, Rose and walked along the strand, Found, in warm and moonlit air, Man and boat upon the sand, Drowsy both, and drowsily Did the boat put out to sea. Passed an hour or two perchance, Or a year? then thought and sense Vanished in the engulfing trance Of a vast Indifference. Fathomless, abysses dread Opened—then the vision fled. Morning came: becalmed, the boat Rested on the purple flood: "What had happened?" every throat Shrieked the question: "was there—Blood?" Naught had happened! On the swell We had slumbered, oh, so well! AN AVOWAL OF LOVE (_during which, however, the poet fell into a pit_). Oh marvel! there he flies Cleaving the sky with wings unmoved—what force Impels him, bids him rise, What curb restrains him? Where's his goal, his course? Like stars and time eterne He liveth now in heights that life forswore, Nor envy's self doth spurn: A lofty flight were't, e'en to see him soar! Oh albatross, great bird, Speeding me upward ever through the blue! I thought of her, was stirred To tears unending—yea, I love her true!