Thou, too, beloved, art still the same,
Deep heart, passionate, tender and true,
The same clear spirit and glancing wit
Piercing the armor of folly through.
Sad, olivaster, Spanish face,
Sweet low brow under shadowy hair,
Dark eyes mingled of tears and fire,
Voice like a song-bird’s heard through a prayer.
Time! if thou steal her girlish beauty,
Leave her spirit undimmed and free.
Touch the rose with thy frosty fingers,
But the rose’s perfume stays with me.
WIND HARPINGS
FAINT smell of box
In the evening air,
Faint bleat of flocks
From fields afar;
On the gray rocks,
The lap and lapse
Of the wan water.
The sunset fields
Stretch fair and far.
Mid the winrowed clouds
The sickle moon
Has clipt a star!
Pale golden bloom!
First flower of the night!
It trembles down
To the sunset streak,
Light lost in light!
In the pleached bower,
In the garden old,
Hand closed in hand,
We sit together.
We do not speak.
A wind from the pine
With fingers fine,
Lays her warm hair
Against my cheek.
Sweet silent hour!
As flower to flower
Heart speaks to heart
As star to star!
Oh, hawthorn bower
Oh, garden old
How dear, how sad
Your memories are!