With shadowy eyes long, long she gazed in his, Then whispered dreamily the one word, "Bliss." And like an echo on his sad mouth sate The answer:--"Bliss?--deep have we drunk of late! But death, I feel, some stealthy-footed death Draws near! whose claws will clutch away--whose breath?... I dreamed last night thou gather'dst flowers with me, Fairer than those of earth. And I did see How woolly gold they were, how woven through With fluffy flame, and webby with spun dew: And 'Asphodels' I murmured: then, 'These sure Are Eden amaranths, so angel pure That love alone may touch them.'--Thou didst lay The flowers in my hands; alas! then gray The world grew; and, meseemed, I passed away. In some strange manner on a misty brook, Between us flowing, striving still to look Beyond it, while, around, the wild air shook With torn farewells of pensive melody, Aching with tears and hopeless utterly; So merciless near, meseemed that I did hear That music in those flowers, and yearned to tear Their ingot-cored and gold-crowned hearts, and hush Their voices into silence and to crush: Yet o'er me was a something that restrained: The melancholy presence of two pained And awful, burning eyes that cowed and held My spirit while that music died or swelled Far out on shoreless waters, borne away-- Like some wild-bird, that, blinded with the ray Of dawn it wings tow'rds, lifting high its crest, The glory round it, sings its heavenliest, When suddenly all's changed; with drooping head, Daggered of thorns it plunged on, fluttering, dead, Still, still it seems to sing, though wrapped in night, The slow blood beading on its breast of white.-- And then I knew the flowers which thou hadst given Were strays of parting grief and waifs of heaven For tears and memories. Importunate They spoke to me of loves that separate!-- But, God! ah God! my God! thus was I left! And these were with me who was so bereft. The haunting torment of that dream of grief Weighs on my soul and gives me no relief." He bowed and wept into his hands; and she, Sorrowing beheld. Then, resting at her knee, Raised slow her oblong lute and smote some chords. But ere the impulse saddened into words, Said: "And didst love me as thy lips would prove, No visions wrought of sleep might move thy love. Firm is all love in firmness of his power; With flame, reverberant, moated stands his tower; So built as not to admit from fact a beam Of doubt, and much less of a doubt from dream: All such th' alchemic fire of love's desires,-- That moats its tower with flame,--turns to gold wires To chord the old lyre new whereon he lyres." She ceased; and then, sad softness in her eye, Sang to his dream a questioning reply:--