So might she look on me with pitying eyes, And lay calm hands of healing on my head: "_Because of thy long pains be comforted; For I, even I, am Love: sad soul, arise!_" So, for her graciousness, I might at last Gaze on the very face of Love, and hold Him fast In no disguise. Haply, I said, she will take pity on me, Though late I come, long after lily-time, With burden of waste days and drifted rhyme: Her kind, calm eyes, down drooping maidenly, Shall change, grow soft: there yet is time, meseems, I said, for solace; though I know these things are dreams And may not be! VAIN RESOLVES I said: "There is an end of my desire: Now have I sown, and I have harvested, And these are ashes of an ancient fire, Which, verily, shall not be quickened. Now will I take me to a place of peace, Forget mine heart's desire; In solitude and prayer, work out my soul's release. "I shall forget her eyes, how cold they were; Forget her voice, how soft it was and low, With all my singing that she did not hear, And all my service that she did not know. I shall not hold the merest memory Of any days that were, Within those solitudes where I will fasten me." And once she passed, and once she raised her eyes, And smiled for courtesy, and nothing said: And suddenly the old flame did uprise, And all my dead desire was quickened. Yea! as it hath been, it shall ever be, Most passionless, pure eyes! Which never shall grow soft, nor change, nor pity me. A REQUIEM Neobule, being tired, Far too tired to laugh or weep, From the hours, rosy and gray, Hid her golden face away. Neobule, fain of sleep, Slept at last as she desired! Neobule! is it well, That you haunt the hollow lands, Where the poor, dead people stray, Ghostly, pitiful and gray, Plucking, with their spectral hands, Scentless blooms of asphodel? Neobule, tired to death Of the flowers that I threw On her flower-like, fair feet, Sighed for blossoms not so sweet, Lunar roses pale and blue, Lilies of the world beneath. Neobule! ah, too tired Of the dreams and days above! Where the poor, dead people stray, Ghostly, pitiful and gray, Out of life and out of love, Sleeps the sleep which she desired. BEATA SOLITUDO What land of Silence, Where pale stars shine On apple-blossom And dew-drenched vine, Is yours and mine? The silent valley That we will find, Where all the voices Of humankind Are left behind. There all forgetting, Forgotten quite, We will repose us, With our delight Hid out of sight. The world forsaken, And out of mind Honour and labour, We shall not find The stars unkind. And men shall travail, And laugh and weep; But we have vistas Of Gods asleep, With dreams as deep.