horrible all this is," he said to himself; "this is worse than
peeping and botanizing on a mother's grave."

He desired supreme grief, and grief fled from his lure; and rhymes
and images thronged his brain; and the poem that oftenest rose in his
mind, seemingly complete in cadence and idea, was so cruel, that
Lily, looking out of heaven, seemed to beg him to refrain. But though
he erased the lines on the paper, he could not erase them on his
brain, and baffled, he pondered over the phenomena of the antagonism
of desired aspirations and intellectual instincts. He desired a poem
full of the divine grace of grief; a poem beautiful, tender and pure,
fresh and wild as a dove crossing in the dawn from wood to wood. He
desired the picturesqueness of a young man's grief for a dead girl,
an Adonais going forth into the glittering morning, and weeping for
his love that has passed out of the sun into the shadow. This is what
he wrote:

A UNE POETRENAIRE.

We are alone! listen, a little while,
And hear the reason why your weary smile
And lute-toned speaking is so very sweet
To me, and how my love is more complete
Than any love of any lover. They
Have only been attracted by the gray
Delicious softness of your eyes, your slim
And delicate form, or some such whimpering whim,
The simple pretexts of all lovers;--I
For other reasons. Listen whilst I try
And say. I joy to see the sunset slope
Beyond the weak hours' hopeless horoscope,
Leaving the heavens a melancholy calm,
Of quiet colour chaunted like a psalm,
In mildly modulated phrases; thus
Your life shall fade like a voluptuous
Vision beyond the sight, and you shall die
Like some soft evening's sad serenity ...
I would possess your dying hours; indeed
My love is worthy of the gift, I plead
For them.

Although I never loved as yet,
Methinks that I might love you; I would get
From out the knowledge that the time was brief,
That tenderness whose pity grows to grief,
My dream of love, and yea, it would have charms
Beyond all other passions, for the arms
Of death are stretched you-ward, and he claims
You as his bride. Maybe my soul misnames
Its passion; love perhaps it is not, yet
To see you fading like a violet,
Or some sweet thought away, would be a strange
And costly pleasure, far beyond the range
Of common man's emotion. Listen, I
Will choose a country spot where fields of rye
An