But the last time you drove us forth, The snow was wrapped about its head, That night the wind blew from the North, And on my heart the child was dead. The child is mine and none of yours, My life was his while he had breath, What of your claim to him endures, Who only gave him birth and death? ACCESSION. ONCE I loved, and my heart bowed down, Subject and slave, for Love was a King; He sat above with sceptre and crown, Turning his eyes from my sorrowing. The laugh of a god on his lips lay light-- His lips victorious that mocked my pain, And I mourned in the cold and the outer night, And my tears and my prayers were vain. Now the old spell is over and done, Myself I wear the ermine and gold, My brows are crowned, I ascend the throne, I have taken the sceptre and orb to hold. I smile victorious, set far above The music of voices that moan and pray, My feet are wet with the tears of love, And I turn my eyes away. THE DESTROYER. ACROSS the quiet pastures of my soul The invading army marched in splendid might My few poor forces fled beyond control, Scattered, defeated, hidden in the night. My fields were green, their hedges white with May, With gold of buttercups made bright and fair, The careless conquerors did not even stay To gather one of all the blossoms there. Only when they had passed, the fields were brown, The grass and blossoms trampled in the mud: The flowering hedges withered and torn down, And no one richer by a single bud. THE EGOISTS. TWO strangers, from opposing poles, Meet in the torrid zone of Love: And their desire seems set above The limitation of their souls. This is the trap; this is the snare, This is the false, enchanting light, And when it smoulders into night, How can each know the other is there? They own no bond of common speech; Each, from far shores by wild winds brought, Gropes for some cord of common thought To draw the other within reach. Each when the dark tide drowns their star, Cries out, "Thou art not one with me: One flesh we seemed when eyes could see, But now, how far thou art! How far!" Each calling, "Come! be mine! be wise!" Stands obstinately in his place, How can these two come face to face, Till light spring from their meeting eyes? Could both but once cry, "Far thou art, But I am coming!" How the beat Of waves that part them would retreat, Resurge and find them, heart to heart! THE WAY OF LOVE. THE butterfly loves the rose, He flutters around her bed, Till the soft curled leaves unclose, And she raises her darling head. He whispers of dawn and of dew, Of love, and the heart of love, Of worship, timid and true, And she takes no joy thereof. But when, through the noon's blind heat, The arrogant bee flaunts by, She yields him her heart's hid sweet, And he leaves her alone, to die.