it, then, a fault of taste in me,
Who like no tragic exit at the end?

AFTER LOVE.

O TO part now, and, parting now,
Never to meet again;
To have done for ever, I and thou,
With joy, and so with pain.

It is too hard, too hard to meet
As friends, and love no more;
Those other meetings were too sweet
That went before.

And I would have, now love it over,
An end to all, an end:
I cannot, having been your lover,
Stoop to become your friend!

ALLA PASSERETTA BRUNA.

IF I bid you, you will come,
If I bid you, you will go,
You are mine, and so I take you
To my heart, your home;
Well, ah, well I know
I shall not forsake you.

I shall always hold you fast,
I shall never set you free,
You are mine, and I possess you
Long as life shall last;
You will comfort me,
I shall bless you.

I shall keep you as we keep
Flowers for memory, hid away,
Under many a newer token
Buried deep,
Roses of a gaudier day,
Rings and trinkets, bright and broken.

Other women I shall love,
Fame and fortune I may win,
But when fame and love forsake me
And the light is night above,
You will let me in,
You will take me.

NOCTURNES.

NOCTURNE.

ONE little cab to hold us two,
Night, an invisible dome of cloud,
The rattling wheels that made our whispers loud,
As heart-beats into whispers grew;
And, long, the Embankment with its lights,
The pavement glittering with fallen rain,
The magic and the mystery that are night's,
And human love without the pain.

The river shook with wavering gleams,
Deep buried as the glooms that lay
Impenetrable as the grave of day,
Near and as distant as our dreams.
A bright train flashed with all its squares
Of warm light where the bridge lay mistily.
The night was all about us: we were free,
Free of the day and all its cares!

That was an hour of bliss too long,
Too long to last where joy is brief.
Yet one escape of souls may yield relief
To many weary seasons' wrong.
"O last for ever!" my heart cried;
It ended: heaven was done.
I had been dreaming by her side
That heaven was but begun.

HER STREET.

(IN ABSENCE.)

I PASSED your street of many memories.
A sunset, sombre pink, the flush
Of inner rose-leaves idle fingers crush,
Died softly, as the rose that dies.
All the high heaven behind the roof lay thus