ON the elm tree she was swinging, Just beyond the hedge of yew; But she slowly ceased from singing, From her breast a pink she drew.
Buttoning his coat of satin, Off he strode towards the woods, Tartly quoting Virgil’s Latin, That a woman’s made of moods.
Long ago within God’s garden Both were wrapped in long lone sleep, Heeding not if hoar frosts harden, Or the autumn leaves fall deep.
Laugh not at the statue calling Phyllis with her marble muff, Nor the marble cupids sprawling On a cloud of powder puff.
Laugh not at his hermit fashions Nor the book unwarmed by hope; Say not that it shows the passions Of a stony misanthrope.
For they loved while they were living, Loved with love untold, unheard; Though they parted unforgiving, Each too proud to say a word.
ONE gay glint of rose and silver flounces In a deep green dell, Where a streamlet bubbles down and bounces From a Triton’s mossy shell.
One more dance ere sunset on the mountain Laughing says, “Too late”; One sweet lute that tinkled with the fountain Called two hearts to court their fate.
Some small raindrops, just to tease the Triton, Mischievously fell; Some one spoke a jest that quenched the light on Eyes that he had long loved well.
That dark night he cursed the love he brought her, Though it made his soul; And she sobbed an echo to the water Brimming in the fountain bowl.
ONCE toward a sunlit garden, laden With the lime trees’ scented breath, Came to watch a merry youth and maiden, Love and Death.
At their bosoms Love threw fragrant posies, Tossed them laughing low and blithe, In the background Death amid the roses Moved his scythe.
Ere the latest rose the path was strewing, Her sweet maiden soul was fled; He beside her grave his cheeks bedewing, Bent his head.
Sobbing Love then thought to give him pleasure, Bade his curse on Death attend; But the youth begged Death who held his treasure Be his friend.
Death as friend might give the old completeness Time could give to him no more, Death, not Love alone, the former sweetness Might restore.
Love then saw the youth was worthier loving, Dowered with a stronger grace; And with downcast eyelids shyly moving, Kissed Death’s face.
WHERE burning tapers hold White suppliant hands from arms of gold Around the Host; there no one sets Sweet violets.