What! Brave, to win a glance of hers,
The rows of lynx-eyed dowagers!
Try undeterred
To speak the dear name of my dear,
And whisper softly in her ear
Love's little word!
Nay, but I'll not! Her eye shall heed
A letter in the flowers I'll speed.
No ball-room now!
Let Parma violets make good
Whatever be her passing mood.
They hold my vow.
Ensconced with Heine or with Taine,
Or, if I like, the Goncourts twain,
The time will go.
I'll dream, until the hour shall stir
Reality, and wait for her.
She'll come, I know.
ART
More fair the work, more strong,
Stamped in resistance long,—
Enamel, marble, song.
Poet, no shackles bear,
Yet bid thy Muse to wear
The buskin bound with care.
A fashion loose forsake,—
A shoe of sloven make,
That any foot may take.
Sculptor, the clay withstand,
That yieldeth to the hand,
Though listless heart command.
Contend till thou have wrought,
Till the hard stone have caught
The beauty of thy thought.