the shell, about its feet
Foam-curled.

Undulating overhead,
How its changing body glows!
On its shoulder dawn hath spread
A rose.

Marble, snow, blend amorously
In that form by sunlight kissed--
Slumbering Antiope
Of mist!

Sailing unto distant goal,
Over Alps and Apennines,
Sister of the woman-soul,
It shines;

Till my heart flies forth at last
On the wings of passion warm,
And I yearn to gather fast
Its form.

Reason saith: "Mere vapour thing!
Bursting bubble! Yet, we deem,
Holds this wind-distorted ring
Our dream."

Faith declareth: "Beauty seen,
Like a cloud, is but a thought,
Or a breath, that, having been,
Is naught.

"Have thy vision. Build it proud.
Let thy soul be full thereof.
Love a woman--love a cloud--
But love!"

THE BLACKBIRD

A bird from yonder branch at dawn
Is trilling forth a joyful note,
Or hopping o'er the frozen lawn,
In yellow boots and ebon coat.

It is the blackbird credulous.
Little of calendar knows he,
Whose soul, with sunbeams luminous,
Sings April to the snows that be.

Rain sweeps in torrents unrepressed.
The Arve makes dull the Rhone with mire.
The pleasant hall retains its guest
In goodly cheer before the fire.

The mountains have their ermine on,
Each one a mighty magistrate,
And hold grave conference upon
A case of Winter lasting late.

The bird dries well his wing, and long,
Despite the rains, the mists that roll,
Insists upon his little song,
Believes in Spring with all his soul.

He softly chides the slumberous morn
For dallying so long abed,
And bids the shivering flower forlorn
Be bold, and raise aloft its head;

Behind the dark sees day that smiles,
Even as behind the Holy Rod,
When bare the altar, dim the aisles,
The child of faith beholds his God.

He trusts to Nature's purpose high,
Sure of her laws for here and now.
Who laughs at thy philosophy,
Dear blackbird, is less wise than thou!

THE FLOWER THAT MAKES THE SPRINGTIME

The chestnut trees are soon to flower
At fair _Saint Jean,_ the villa dipped
In sun, before whose viny tower
Stretch purple mountains silver-tipped.

The little leaves that yesterday
Pressed in their bodices were seen
Have put their sober garb away,
And touched the tender twigs with green.

But vainly do the sunbeams fill
The branches with a flood of light.
The shy bud hesitateth still
To show the secret thyrse of white.

And yet the rosy peach-tree blooms,
Like some faint blush of first