III
You say I do not love you!—Yet, it seems,
When I have kissed your hand and said farewell,
A fragrance, wilder than the wood’s wild bloom,
Companions dim my soul and fills, with dreams,
The sad and sordid streets where people dwell,
Dreams of spring’s wild perfume.
A PUPIL OF PAN
My love’s adorable and wise
As heaven and the winds of spring:
Go thou and gaze into her eyes—
Such scholars of the starry skies!
—Canst marvel at the thing?
My love is like a bud that blows
With fragrant honey in its heart:
Go, watch her smile—Wouldst not suppose
She from some warm, white, serious rose
Had learned the happy art?
The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrung
That strew her fancy’s golden floor:
Go listen—For, the woods among,
She met with Pan, when very young,
Who taught her all his lore.
LORA OF THE VALES
Lora is her name that slips
Soft as love between the lips:
You must know she is so wise
All she does is lift her eyes,—
Larkspur-blue as April skies,—
At her name—and that replies—
She ’s so wise, is Lora.