His venerable hand to take, And warming in our own, A passage back, or two, to make To times when he was young.

His quaint opinions to inspect, His knowledge to unfold On what concerns our mutual mind, The literature of old;

What interested scholars most, What competitions ran When Plato was a certainty. And Sophocles a man;

When Sappho was a living girl, And Beatrice wore The gown that Dante deified. Facts, centuries before,

He traverses familiar, As one should come to town And tell you all your dreams were true; He lived where dreams were sown.

His presence is enchantment, You beg him not to go; Old volumes shake their vellum heads And tantalize, just so.

XI.

Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur, -- you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain. XII.

I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled.

Brazil? He twirled a button, Without a glance my way: "But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show to-day?"

XIII.

EXCLUSION.

The soul selects her own society, Then shuts the door; On her divine majority Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot's pausing At her low gate; Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling Upon her mat.

I've known her from an ample nation Choose one; Then close the valves of her attention Like stone.

XIV.

THE SECRET.

Some things that fly there be, -- Birds, hours, the bumble-bee: Of these no elegy.

Some things that stay there be, -- Grief, hills, eternity: Nor this behooveth me.

There are, that resting, rise. Can I expound the skies? How still the riddle lies!

XV.

THE LONELY HOUSE.

I know some lonely houses off the road A robber 'd like the look of, -- Wooden barred, And windows hanging low, Inviting to A portico, Where two could creep: One hand the tools, The other peep To make sure all's asleep. Old-fashioned eyes, Not easy to surprise!

How orderly the kitchen 'd look by night, With just a clock, -- But they could gag the tick, And mice won't bark; And so the walls don't tell, None will.

A pair of spectacles ajar just stir -- An almanac's aware. Was it the mat winked, Or a nervous star? The moon slides down the stair To see who's there.

There's plunder, -- where? Tankard, or spoon, Earring, or stone, A watch, some ancient brooch To match the grandmamma, Staid sleeping there.

Day rattles, too, Stealth's slow; The sun has got as far As the third sycamore. Screams chanticleer, "Who's there?" And echoes, trains away, Sneer -- "Where?" While the old couple, just astir, Fancy the sunrise left the door ajar!

XVI.

To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.

Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love.

We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.

XVII.

DAWN.

When night is almost done, And sunrise grows so near That we can touch the spaces, It 's time to smooth the hair

And get the dimples ready, And wonder we could care For that old faded midnight That frightened but an hour.

XVIII.

THE BOOK OF MARTYRS.

Read, sweet, how others strove, Till we are stouter; What they renounced, Till we are less afraid; How many times they bore The faithful witness, Till we are helped, As if a kingdom cared!

Read then of faith That shone above the fagot; Clear strains of hymn The river could not drown; Brave names of men And celestial women, Passed out of record Into renown!

XIX.

THE MYSTERY OF PAIN.

Pain has an element of blank; It cannot recollect When it began, or if there were A day when it was not.

It has no future but itself, Its infinite realms contain Its past, enlightened to perceive New periods of pain.

XX.

I taste a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol!

Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.

When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!

Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun!

XXI.

A BOOK.

He ate and drank the precious words, His spirit grew robust; He knew no more that he was poor, Nor that his frame was dust. He danced along the dingy days, And this bequest of wings Was but a book. What liberty A loosened spirit brings!

XXII.

I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.

Nor had I time to love; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.

XXIII.

UNRETURNING.

'T was such a little, little boat That toddled down the bay! 'T was such a gallant, gallant sea That beckoned it away!

'T was such a greedy, greedy wave That licked it from the coast; Nor ever guessed the stately sails My little craft was lost!

XXIV.

Whether my bark went down at sea, Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails;

By what mystic mooring She is held to-day, -- This is the errand of the eye Out upon the bay.

XXV.

Belshazzar had a letter, -- He never had but one; Belshazzar's correspondent Concluded and begun In that immortal copy The conscience of us all Can read without its glasses On revelation's wall.

XXVI.

The brain within its groove Runs evenly and true; But let a splinter swerve, 'T were easier for you To put the water back When floods have slit the hills, And scooped a turnpike for themselves, And blotted out the mills!

II. LOVE.

I.

MINE.

Mine by the right of the white election! Mine by the royal seal! Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison Bars cannot conceal!

Mine, here in vision and in veto! Mine, by the grave's repeal Titled, confirmed, -- delirious charter! Mine, while the ages steal!

II.

BEQUEST.

You left me, sweet, two legacies, -- A legacy of love A Heavenly Father would content, Had He the offer of;

You left me boundaries of pain Capacious as the sea, Between eternity and time, Your consciousness and me.

III.

Alter? When the hills do. Falter? When the sun Question if his glory Be the perfect one.

Surfeit? When the daffodil Doth of the dew: Even as herself, O friend! I will of you!

IV.

SUSPENSE.

Elysium is as far as to The very nearest room, If in that room a friend await Felicity or doom.

What fortitude the soul contains, That it can so endure The accent of a coming foot, The opening of a door!

V.

SURRENDER.

Doubt me, my dim companion! Why, God would be content With but a fraction of the love Poured thee without a stint. The whole of me, forever, What more the woman can, -- Say quick, that I may dower thee With last delight I own!

It cannot be my spirit, For that was thine before; I ceded all of dust I knew, -- What opulence the more Had I, a humble maiden, Whose farthest of degree Was that she might, Some distant heaven, Dwell timidly with thee!

VI.

If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.

VII.

WITH A FLOWER.

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too -- And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.

VIII.

PROOF.

That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved I did not love enough.

That I shall love alway, I offer thee That love is life, And life hath immortality.

This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.

IX.

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there; And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there.

Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life Some burning noon go dry!

X.

TRANSPLANTED.

As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes, Until it puzzled came To continents of summer, To firmaments of sun, To strange, bright crowds of flowers, And birds of foreign tongue! I say, as if this little flower To Eden wandered in -- What then? Why, nothing, only, Your inference therefrom!

XI.

THE OUTLET.

My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me?