If every kiss that lingered Upon the lips you pressed, Was but an empty token, More fickle than the rest; I wish that I had died, dear, For death were best. A LAMENT Like a song that is sung, like a tale that is told, The life in me hushes the voice of its gladness; Youth walks by my side, but his hands have grown cold, And deep in his eyes lurks the shadow of sadness. Alas! for the flowers that never come to me; Alas! for the morning again, now day closes; The joy of a love is as nothing, for through me There passes the deep-wounding thorn of the roses. TO —— The wind's on the hill, The sun's on the lea, The lark's on the wing And the dawn's on the sea, And the rapture that springeth of Love, is on me. THOUGHTS Ah! the kiss of the sweet night air, And the still, deep eyes of the cloudy skies, Grown dim with peace: Peace, the angel of death, that is everywhere. Ah! the bliss of the soul at rest, And of eyes that weep growing calm in sleep, Hushéd by night: Night, the shadow of death, that in blessing is blessed. SHIPS Fair ships, happy and free, Smile on the lonely sea, Only to fade again Into the mist and rain. Ah! me. Thus do bright hopes appear On life's vast ocean drear; Hopes that beguile the mind, And passing leave behind A tear. THE DREAM-CHILD There is a child who will come to me, Often at dusk, when my mind is free. She is the child that I used to be, When I was only nine. Over her hair is a wreath of flowers, Those are the thoughts of the golden hours Spent in the glory of childhood's bowers, Fancy, those thoughts were mine! Butterflies whiter than flakes of snow Hover around her lips, and oh! They are the prayers that I used to know, God may remember still. God who they tell us will not forget Even a penitent child's regret! Now I am callous of prayers, and yet— Ah, how I hope that He will. THE DAY The day walks over the mountains, To the splash of a thousand fountains, To the song of a million streams. Her hair is unbound and flowing, Her eyes are as bluebells growing In a valley of shade and dreams. Her breast, than the snow is whiter, Her lips, than the poppies brighter, Her limbs are as strong white fire. Thus she comes from the sky above her To the arms of the Earth her lover, In a splendour of warm desire. FROM MY SOUL Oh! but to find expression for the thoughts, So marvellous and yet so undefined, That flow from out the palpitating soul To consecrate the mind. Oh! but to have the gift to put in words, That potent passion, that divine desire, That thrills the aching spirit with unrest And sets the brain on fire.