She left at dawn. . . . I am blind In the tangle of my long hair. . . . Is it she? the witch? the witch? Ah, who is there? VENDOR'S SONG My songs to sell, good sir! I pray you buy. Here's one will win a lady's tears, Here's one will make her gay, Here's one will charm your true love true Forever and a day; Good sir, I pray you buy! _Oh, no, he will not buy._ My songs to sell, sweet maid! I pray you buy. This one will teach you Lilith's lore, And this what Helen knew, And this will keep your gold hair gold, And this your blue eyes blue; Sweet maid, I pray you buy! _Oh, no, she will not buy. If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry my songs to sell, I never would cry my songs to sell._ AVIS "_Belle Aliz matin leva._" Avis, the fair, at dawn Rose lightly from her bed, Herself arrayed. Avis, the fair, the maid, In vestiment of lawn; Across the fields she sped, Five flowerets there she found, In fragrant garland wound, Avis, the fair, at dawn, Five roses red. Go thou from thence of thy pity! Thou lovest not me. DOOMSDAY Peter stands by the gate, And Michael by the throne. "Peter, I would pass the gate And come before the throne." "Whose spirit prayed never at the gate, In life nor at the throne, In death he may not pass the gate To come before the throne": Peter said from the gate; Said Michael from the throne. GRAIN FIELD Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for The Eternal: Blue for Our Lady: Red for the five Wounds of her Son SONG I make my shroud but no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows. I make my shroud but no one knows. In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair. PIERROT _For Aubrey Beardsley's picture "Pierrot is dying."_ Pierrot is dying; Tiptoe in, Finger touched to lip, Harlequin, Columbine and Clown. Hush! how still he lies In his bed, White slipped hand and white Sunken head. Oh, poor Pierrot. There's his dressing-gown Across the chair, Slippers on the floor. . . . Can he hear Us who tiptoe in? Pillowed high he lies In his bed; Listen, Columbine. "He is dead." Oh, poor Pierrot. THE MONK IN THE GARDEN _He comes from Mass early in the morning_ The sky's the very blue Madonna wears; The air's alive with gold! Mark you the way The birds sing and the dusted shimmer of dew On leaf and fruit? . . . Per Bacco, what a day! TO THE DEAD IN THE GRAVEYARD UNDERNEATH MY WINDOW _Written in a Moment of Exasperation_