THE SOURCE
Thou hast
Drawn laughter from
A well of secret tears
And thence so elvish it rings,—mocking
And sweet:
BLUE HYACINTHS
In your
Curled petals what ghosts
Of blue headlands and seas,
What perfumed immortal breath sighing
Of Greece.
PART TWO
TO WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Ah, Walter, where you live I rue
These days come all too late for me;
What matter if her eyes are blue
Whose rival is Persephone?
Fiesole, 1909.
THE PLEDGE
White doves of Cytherea, by your quest
Across the blue Heaven's bluest highest air,
And by your certain homing to Love's breast,
Still to be true and ever true—I swear.