To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses, I leave his troupes of beauties sick and wan; I cannot find among these pale, pale roses, The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon. Lady Macbeth, the lovely star of crime, The Greek poet's dream born in a northern clime-- Ah, she could quench my dark heart's deep desiring; Or Michelangelo's dark daughter Night, In a strange posture dreamily admiring Her beauty fashioned for a giant's delight! MIST AND RAIN. Autumns and winters, springs of mire and rain, Seasons of sleep, I sing your praises loud, For thus I love to wrap my heart and brain In some dim tomb beneath a vapoury shroud In the wide plain where revels the cold wind, Through long nights when the weathercock whirls round, More free than in warm summer day my mind Lifts wide her raven pinions from the ground. Unto a heart filled with funereal things That since old days hoar frosts have gathered on, Naught is more sweet, O pallid, queenly springs, Than the long pageant of your shadows wan, Unless it be on moonless eves to weep On some chance bed and rock our griefs to sleep. SUNSET. Fair is the sun when first he flames above, Flinging his joy down in a happy beam; And happy he who can salute with love The sunset far more glorious than a dream. Flower, stream, and furrow!--I have seen them all In the sun's eye swoon like one trembling heart-- Though it be late let us with speed depart To catch at least one last ray ere it fall! But I pursue the fading god in vain, For conquering Night makes firm her dark domain, Mist and gloom fall, and terrors glide between, And graveyard odours in the shadow swim, And my faint footsteps on the marsh's rim, Bruise the cold snail and crawling toad unseen. THE CORPSE. Remember, my Beloved, what thing we met By the roadside on that sweet summer day; There on a grassy couch with pebbles set, A loathsome body lay. The wanton limbs stiff-stretched into the air, Steaming with exhalations vile and dank, In ruthless cynic fashion had laid bare The swollen side and flank. On this decay the sun shone hot from heaven As though with chemic heat to broil and burn, And unto Nature all that she had given A hundredfold return. The sky smiled down upon the horror there As on a flower that opens to the day; So awful an infection smote the air, Almost you swooned away. The swarming flies hummed on the putrid side, Whence poured the maggots in a darkling stream, That ran along these tatters of life's pride With a liquescent gleam.