Naught now remains, naught now remains but night—
Night peaceful, with the moon on field and wave!
A MEMORY OF ELLEN TERRY’S BEATRICE
A wind of spring that whirls the feignéd snows
Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees:
Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries,
Yet tender with the prescience of the rose;
A strain desired, that through the memory goes,
Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize;
A flame dissembled, only lit to tease,