Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate? With hands clenched in the shade and tears of gall, When Vengeance beats her hellish battle-call, And makes herself the captain of our fate, Angel of kindness, have you tasted hate? Angel of health, did ever you know pain, Which like an exile trails his tired footfalls The cold length of the white infirmary walls, With lips compressed, seeking the sun in vain? Angel of health, did ever you know pain? Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know? Know you the fear of age, the torment vile Of reading secret horror in the smile Of eyes your eyes have loved since long ago? Angel of beauty, do you wrinkles know? Angel of happiness, and joy, and light, Old David would have asked for youth afresh From the pure touch of your enchanted flesh; I but implore your prayers to aid my plight, Angel of happiness, and joy, and light. THE EYES OF BEAUTY. You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose; But all the sea of sadness in my blood Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood. In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er, That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate By woman's tooth and talon; ah, no more Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate. It is a ruin where the jackals rest, And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay-- A perfume swims about your naked breast! Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way! With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared! SONNET OF AUTUMN. They say to me, thy clear and crystal eyes: "Why dost thou love me so, strange lover mine?" Be sweet, be still! My heart and soul despise All save that antique brute-like faith of thine; And will not bare the secret of their shame To thee whose hand soothes me to slumbers long, Nor their black legend write for thee in flame! Passion I hate, a spirit does me wrong. Let us love gently. Love, from his retreat, Ambushed and shadowy, bends his fatal bow, And I too well his ancient arrows know: Crime, horror, folly. O pale marguerite, Thou art as I, a bright sun fallen low, O my so white, my so cold Marguerite. THE REMORSE OF THE DEAD. O shadowy Beauty mine, when thou shalt sleep In the deep heart of a black marble tomb; When thou for mansion and for bower shalt keep Only one rainy cave of hollow gloom; And when the stone upon thy trembling breast, And on thy straight sweet body's supple grace, Crushes thy will and keeps thy heart at rest, And holds those feet from their adventurous race; Then the deep grave, who shares my reverie, (For the deep grave is aye the poet's friend) During long nights when sleep is far from thee,