Nay, come although the boughs be bare,
Though snowflakes fledge the summer’s nest,
And in some far Ausonian air
The thrush, your minstrel, warm his breast.
Come, sunshine’s treasurer, and bring
To doubting flowers their faith in spring,
To birds and me the need to sing!
ABSENCE.
Sleep is Death’s image,—poets tell us so;
But Absence is the bitter self of Death,
And, you away, Life’s lips their red forego,
Parched in an air unfreshened by thy breath.
Light of those eyes that made the light of mine,
Where shine you? On what happier fields and flowers?
Heaven’s lamps renew their lustre less divine,
But only serve to count my darkened hours.
If with your presence went your image too,
That brain-born ghost my path would never cross
Which meets me now where’er I once met you,
Then vanishes, to multiply my loss.
MONNA LISA.
She gave me all that woman can,
Nor her soul’s nunnery forego,
A confidence that man to man
Without remorse can never show.
Rare art, that can the sense refine
Till not a pulse rebellious stirs,
And, since she never can be mine,
Makes it seem sweeter to be hers!
THE OPTIMIST.
Turbid from London’s noise and smoke,
Here I find air and quiet too:
Air filtered through the beech and oak,
Quiet by nothing harsher broke
Than wood-dove’s meditative coo.