O a dewy rose-garden is the house,
A garden shut from the sun;
The breath of it sweet floats up, as my feet
Float down to my waiting one.
But if ever a word of love thinks he,
It falls from his heart still-born;
Who bends to the rose does not haste to close
His hand around bud and thorn.
The beautiful soul that is in him turns
His beautiful face agleam;
My own soul flies to feast in his eyes,
Where the silent love-words teem.
Our talk is of books, and of thoughts and moods,
Of the wild flowers in the rain;
And he leans his cheek, when we do not speak,
On his chair where my hand had lain.
Yet never a word of love does he say,
And never a word crave I;
For the faint green May would wither away
At the quick touch of July.
And at last—at last we look our last,
And the dim day grows more dim;
But his eyes still shine in these eyes of mine,
And my soul goes forth with him.
For though not a word of love does he say,
Still never a word crave I;
For the words of earth are of little worth
When a song drops out of the sky.
Under the King
LOVE with the deep eyes and soft hair,
Love with the lily throat and hands,
Is done to death, and free as air
Am I of all my King’s commands.