You found my life, a poor lame bird
That had no heart to sing,
You would not speak the magic word
To give it voice and wing.
Yet sometimes, dreaming of that hour,
I think, if you had known
How much my life was in your power,
It might have sung and flown.
TO J. R.
Last Sunday night I read the saddening story
Of the unanswered love of fair Elaine,
The ‘faith unfaithful’ and the joyless glory
Of Lancelot, ‘groaning in remorseful pain.’
I thought of all those nights in wintry weather,
Those Sunday nights that seem not long ago,
When we two read our Poet’s words together,
Till summer warmth within our hearts did glow.
Ah, when shall we renew that bygone pleasure,
Sit down together at our Merlin’s feet,
Drink from one cup the overflowing measure,
And find, in sharing it, the draught more sweet?
That time perchance is far, beyond divining.
Till then we drain the ‘magic cup’ apart;
Yet not apart, for hope and memory twining
Smile upon each, uniting heart to heart.
THE TEMPTED SOUL
Weak soul, by sense still led astray,
Why wilt thou parley with the foe?
He seeks to work thine overthrow,
And thou, poor fool! dost point the way.
Hast thou forgotten many a day,
When thou exulting forth didst go,
And ere the noon wert lying low,
A broken and defenceless prey?