When the years that pass thee have shown, in passing,
That my love, _in its strength at least_, was rare—
Wilt thou not think—ah, hope of the hopeless—
E’en as thou wouldst not, thou wilt not—care!
Early Love
Who says I wrong thee, my half-opened rose?
Little he knows of thee or me, or love.—
I am so tender of thy fragile youth,
Yea, in my hours of wildest ecstasy,
Keeping close-bitted each careering sense.