The fireside, the lamp's little narrow light; The dream with head on hand, and the delight Of eyes that lose themselves in loving looks; The hour of steaming tea and of shut books; The solace to know evening almost gone; The dainty weariness of waiting on The nuptial shadow and night's softest bliss; Ah, it is this that without respite, this That without stay, my tender fancy seeks, Mad with the months and furious with the weeks. _From Romances sans Paroles_ I 'Tis the ecstasy of repose, 'Tis love when tired lids close, 'Tis the wood's long shuddering In the embrace of the wind, 'Tis, where grey boughs are thinned, Little voices that sing. O fresh and frail is the sound That twitters above, around, Like the sweet tiny sigh That lies in the shaken grass; Or the sound when waters pass And the pebbles shrink and cry. What soul is this that complains Over the sleeping plains, And what is it that it saith? Is it mine, is it thine, This lowly hymn I divine In the warm night, low as a breath? II I divine, through the veil of a murmuring, The subtle contour of voices gone, And I see, in the glimmering lights that sing, The promise, pale love, of a future dawn. And my soul and my heart in trouble What are they but an eye that sees, As through a mist an eye sees double, Airs forgotten of songs like these? O to die of no other dying, Love, than this that computes the showers Of old hours and of new hours flying: O to die of the swing of the hours! III Tears in my heart that weeps, Like the rain upon the town. What drowsy languor steeps In tears my heart that weeps? O sweet sound of the rain On earth and on the roofs! For a heart's weary pain O the song of the rain! Vain tears, vain tears, my heart! What, none hath done thee wrong? Tears without reason start From my disheartened heart. This is the weariest woe, O heart, of love and hate Too weary, not to know Why thou hast all this woe. IV A frail hand in the rose-grey evening Kisses the shining keys that hardly stir, While, with the light, small flutter of a wing, And old song, like an old tired wanderer, Goes very softly, as if trembling, About the room long redolent of Her. What lullaby is this that comes again To dandle my poor being with its breath? What wouldst thou have of me, gay laughing strain? What hadst thou, desultory faint refrain That now into the garden to thy death Floatest through the half-opened window-pane? V O sad, sad was my soul, alas! For a woman, a woman's sake it was. I have had no comfort since that day, Although my heart went its way, Although my heart and my soul went From the woman into banishment.