Late, when the sun was smouldering down the west,
She took my arm and laid her cheek to me;
The fainting twilight held her, and I guess'd
All she would tell, but could not let me see—
Wonder and joy, the rising of her breast,
And confidence, and still expectancy.
THE PARTING
Breathless was she and would not have us part:
"Adieu, my Saint," I said, "'tis come to this."
But she leaned to me, one hand at her heart,
And all her soul sighed trembling in a kiss.
DEDICATION OF A BOOK
To the Fountain of my long Dream,
To the Chalice of all my Sorrow,
To the Lamp held up, and the Stream
Of Light that beacons the Morrow;
To the Bow, the Quiver and Dart,
To the Bridle-rein, to the Yoke
Proudly upborne, to the Heart
On Fire, to the Mercy-stroke;
To Apollo herding his Cattle,
To Proserpina grave in Dis;
To the high Head in the Battle,
And the Crown—I consecrate this.
1911.