Men, women, call thee so or so;
I do not know.
Thou hast no name
For me, but in my heart aflame
Burns tireless, neath a silver vine.
And round entwine
Its purple girth
All things of fragrance and of worth.
Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb
Of pain! thou sob!
Thou like a bar
Of some sonata, heard from far
Through blue-hue'd veils! When in these wise,
To my soul's eyes,
Thy shape appears,
My aching hands are full of tears.
A HALTING SONNET
TO MISS ELLEN TERRY ON HER BIRTHDAY
It is not meet for one like me to praise
A lady, princess, goddess, artist such;
For great ones crane their foreheads to her touch,
To change their splendours into crowns of bays.
But poets never rhyme as they are bid;
Nor never see their ft goal; but aspire,
With straining eyes, to some far silvern spire;
Flowers among, sing to the gods cloud-hid.
One of these, onetime, opened velvet eyes
Upon the world—the years recall the day;
Those lights still shine, conscious of power alway,
But flattering men with feigned looks of surprise.
The couplet is so great that, where thou art,
—Thou being a poem—it is past my art.
WINGS IN THE DARK
TO ROBERT HARBOROUGH SHERARD