O lamentable brother! if those pity thee, Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me; Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers, Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours! AD DOMNULAM SUAM Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Love me: we will pass and part, Ere this love grow stronger. I have loved thee, Child! too well, To do aught but leave thee: Nay! my lips should never tell Any tale, to grieve thee. Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, I may love thee: we will part, Ere my love grow stronger. Soon thou leavest fairy-land; Darker grow thy tresses: Soon no more of hand in hand; Soon no more caresses! Little lady of my heart! Just a little longer, Be a child: then, we will part, Ere this love grow stronger. AMOR UMBRATILIS A gift of Silence, sweet! Who may not ever hear: To lay down at your unobservant feet, Is all the gift I bear. I have no songs to sing, That you should heed or know: I have no lilies, in full hands, to fling Across the path you go. I cast my flowers away, Blossoms unmeet for you! The garland I have gathered in my day: My rosemary and rue. I watch you pass and pass, Serene and cold: I lay My lips upon your trodden, daisied grass, And turn my life away. Yea, for I cast you, sweet! This one gift, you shall take: Like ointment, on your unobservant feet, My silence, for your sake. AMOR PROFANUS Beyond the pale of memory, In some mysterious dusky grove; A place of shadows utterly, Where never coos the turtle-dove, A world forgotten of the sun: I dreamed we met when day was done, And marvelled at our ancient love. Met there by chance, long kept apart, We wandered through the darkling glades; And that old language of the heart We sought to speak: alas! poor shades! Over our pallid lips had run The waters of oblivion, Which crown all loves of men or maids. In vain we stammered: from afar Our old desire shone cold and dead: That time was distant as a star, When eyes were bright and lips were red. And still we went with downcast eye And no delight in being nigh, Poor shadows most uncomforted. Ah, Lalage! while life is ours, Hoard not thy beauty rose and white, But pluck the pretty, fleeting flowers That deck our little path of light: For all too soon we twain shall tread The bitter pastures of the dead: Estranged, sad spectres of the night. VILLANELLE OF MARGUERITE'S "A little, _passionately, not at all?_" She casts the snowy petals on the air: And what care we how many petals fall! Nay, wherefore seek the seasons to forestall? It is but playing, and she will not care, A little, passionately, not at all!