Mysterious, beneath the boughs,
Like two enchanted shapes, they are,
Whom Love hath builded them a house
Of little leaf and star,
And the brown evening jar.
So lovely and so strange a thing
Each is to each to look upon,
They dare not hearken a bird sing,
Or from the other one
Take eyes—lest they be gone.
So still—the watching woodland peers
And pecks about them, butterflies
Light on her hand—a flower; eve hears
Two questions, two replies—
O love that never dies!
FOR A PICTURE BY ROSE CECIL O'NEIL
Kisses are long forgotten of this twain,
Kisses and words—the sweet small prophecies
That run before the Lord of Love: the fain
Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes,
All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door
Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this—
The end of all small speech of word or kiss,
And whose strange name is Love—and one name more.
One is this twain past power of speech to tell,
Each lost in each, and each for ever found;
Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell;
Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned
In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round,
And it is well with them—yea! it is well.
LOVE IN SPAIN
You shall not dare to drink this cup,
Yet fear this other I hold up—
Sings Love in Spain:
One brimming deep with woman's breath—
This other moon-lit cup is Death;
Drink one, drink twain.
No sippers we of ladies' lips,
Toyers of amorous finger tips,
Are we in Spain.