Loyal to truth, yet wed to whim,
She held in fee her constant mind.
Whatever tempests drove her bark,
You felt her soul’s deep anchor bind.
In that dark day when, fever-driven,
Her wits went wandering up and down,
And seeming-cruel, friendly shears
Closed on her girl-head’s glorious crown,
Another woman might have wept
To see such gold so idly spilled.
She only smiled, as curl and coil
Fell, till the shearer’s lap was filled;
Then softly said: “Hair-sunsets fade
As when night clips day’s locks of gold!
Dear Death, thy priestly hands I bless,
And, nun-like, seek thy convent-fold!”
Then slept, nor woke. O miser Death,
What gold thou hidest in thy dust!
What ripest beauty there decays,
What sharpest wits there go to rust!
Hide not this jewel with the rest—
Base gems whose color fled thy breath—
But, worn on thine imperial hand,
Make all the world in love with Death!
SONNET
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN
Dedicated to E. C. H.
OFT had I heard thy beauty praised, dear flower,
And often searched for thee through field and wood,
Yet could I never find the secret bower
Where thou dost lead in maiden solitude
A cloistered life; but on one happy day
Wandering in idle thought, with a dear friend,
Through dying woods, listening the robin’s lay,
I saw thy fairy flowers whose azure gemmed
The fading grass beneath a cedar’s boughs.
Oh never yet so glad a sight has met
These eyes of mine! Depart, before the snows
Of hastening winter thy fringed garments wet.
Thine azure flowers should never fade nor die,
But bloom, exhale, and gain their native sky.