Not Spring's
Thou art, but her's,
Most cool, most virginal,
Winter's, with thy faint breath, thy snows
Rose-tinged.
ROMA AETERNA
The sun
Is warm to-day,
O Romulus, and on
Thine olden Palatine the birds
Still sing.
"HE'S KILLED THE MAY . . ."
"He's killed the May and he's laid her by
To bear the red rose company."
Not thou,
White rose, but thy
Ensanguined sister is
The dear companion of my heart's
Shed blood.
AMAZE
I know
Not these my hands
And yet I think there was
A woman like me once had hands
Like these.
SHADOW
A-sway,
On red rose,
A golden butterfly . . .
And on my heart a butterfly
Night-wing'd.