Deep in the dear dust, Dear, we dream,
Our melancholy is a thing
At last our own; and none esteem
How our black lips are blackening.
And none note how our poor eyes fall,
Nor how our cheeks are sunk and sere . . .
Dear, when you waken, will you call? . . .
Alas! we are not very near.
Ainsi, elle viendrait à moi! les yeux bien fous!
Et elle me suivrait avec cet air partout!
TO E. M. G.
Lean back, and press the pillow deep,
Heart's dear demesne, dear Daintiness;
Close your tired eyes, but not to sleep . . .
How very pale your pallor is!
You smile, your cheek's voluptuous line
Melts in your dimpled saucy cave.
Your hairbraids seem a wilful vine,
Scorning to imitate a wave.
Your voice is tenebrous, as if
An angel mocked a blackbird's pipe.
You are my magic orchard feoff,
Where bud and fruit are always ripe.
O apple garden! all the days
Are fain to crown the darling year,
Ephemeral bells and garland bays,
Shy blade and lusty, bursting ear.
In every kiss I call you mine,
Tell me, my dear, how pure, how brave
Our child will be! what velvet eyne,
What bonny hair our child will have!
CROCUSES IN GRASS