am thy suffering servant all the year;
And when I wake thy name is on my lips,
And when I sleep I feel thy finger-tips
Press'd on mine eyes, as if thy wraith were there,
To save my soul from night's entire eclipse.

ix.

Till I have heard from thee my doom of death
I shall be proud to serve thee with my breath,
And with my labour, and be thine withal
As Man is God's,--content with any thrall
That's bound in thee; content with any lot
That's link'd with thine, in some secluded spot
Which thou hast lov'd, O Lady! in the past,
And where remorse and wrong will find us not.

x.

To know thee fair, ah God! how sweet is this;
To find thee wavering, and to grasp in bliss
Only the dream of thee, how sad the while!
And yet, by reason of a moment's smile,
How grand to hope, how gracious to forget!
Thou false to me? Thou heedless of a debt
Of love's incurring? Nay, by Juno's crown,
Thy snow-white hand shall be my guerdon yet!

xi.

The spirit-love that leads us to the soul
Athwart the body as its fairest goal,--
The love that lives in languor undefined
And yet is strong,--the love that can be kind
And yet aggressive as a soldier's blade,
Keen to the hilt, entranced and not afraid,--
This is the love that will survive the death
Of all endowments which the years have made.

xii.

Wilt frown at this? Wilt chide me? Wilt appeal,
As some are wont, when lovers, out of zeal,
O'erstep the bounds of wisdom which hath ceased
To win men's praise? The Matins of the East
Sung by the lark,--the Credo of the Cloud
Which oft he sings in confirmation proud
Of his great love,--all this were mine excuse
If I could sing as he, so dawn-endow'd.

xiii.

For I'd be welcome, then, where'er thou art,
And gladden thee, and play as prompt a part
As Romeo play'd with Juliet at his breast.
Who loves not love, who hates to be caress'd,
Is Nature's bane; and I'll denounce him, too.
For he's a foe to all that's just and true
In earth and Heaven; and when he seeks a joy,
His quest shall fail,--his hand shall miss the clue.

xiv.

We know these things. We know how dark a word
May let in light, and how the smallest bird
May mix the morn with music till we think
The fire-lit air is wine for us to drink,--
And every drop salvation,--every sound
A Muse's whisper,--all the flower-full ground
A fancy-carpet fit for knights to tread
When on their way to Arthur's Table Round.

xv.

A peevish fool