With breast advanced, drinking the winds that flee, And through the cordage wail, I mount the hurrying waves night hides from me Beneath her sombre veil. I feel the tremblings of all passions known To ships before the breeze; Cradled by gentle winds, or tempest-blown I pass the abysmal seas That are, when calm, the mirror level and fair Of my despair! CONTEMPLATION. Thou, O my Grief, be wise and tranquil still, The eve is thine which even now drops down, To carry peace or care to human will, And in a misty veil enfolds the town. While the vile mortals of the multitude, By pleasure, cruel tormentor, goaded on, Gather remorseful blossoms in light mood-- Grief, place thy hand in mine, let us be gone Far from them. Lo, see how the vanished years, In robes outworn lean over heaven's rim; And from the water, smiling through her tears, Remorse arises, and the sun grows dim; And in the east, her long shroud trailing light, List, O my grief, the gentle steps of Night. TO A BROWN BEGGAR-MAID. White maiden with the russet hair, Whose garments, through their holes, declare That poverty is part of you, And beauty too. To me, a sorry bard and mean, Your youthful beauty, frail and lean, With summer freckles here and there, Is sweet and fair. Your sabots tread the roads of chance, And not one queen of old romance Carried her velvet shoes and lace With half your grace. In place of tatters far too short Let the proud garments worn at Court Fall down with rustling fold and pleat About your feet; In place of stockings, worn and old, Let a keen dagger all of gold Gleam in your garter for the eyes Of roués wise; Let ribbons carelessly untied Reveal to us the radiant pride Of your white bosom purer far Than any star; Let your white arms uncovered shine. Polished and smooth and half divine; And let your elfish fingers chase With riotous grace The purest pearls that softly glow. The sweetest sonnets of Belleau, Offered by gallants ere they fight For your delight; And many fawning rhymers who Inscribe their first thin book to you Will contemplate upon the stair Your slipper fair; And many a page who plays at cards, And many lords and many bards, Will watch your going forth, and burn For your return; And you will count before your glass More kisses than the lily has; And more than one Valois will sigh When you pass by. But meanwhile you are on the tramp, Begging your living in the damp, Wandering mean streets and alleys o'er, From door to door; And shilling bangles in a shop Cause you with eager eyes to stop, And I, alas, have not a son To give to you.