swiftly from their shoulders, cast aside
The burden of thy jewelled bands that break
Their very hearts . . . often it is too late.
They fear the world will mock them and deride
When they are stripped of all their golden state.
But some are brave . . . but some among us dare
Cry out against thy torment and be free!
And I would rather a gay beggar be,
And go in rags for all eternity,
Than that thy clanking pomp should cover me,
O Care! . . .

"Quelque part une Enfance tres douce doit mourir"
Albert Samian

Alas! I do not know on what sad day
My childhood went away . . .
It may have left me softly in the night
When I was sleeping--dreaming--who can tell?
Perhaps it whispered "wings were made for flight!"
I only know it never said "farewell" . . .

And so I cannot tell when youth will go
Although I love it so . . .
But like a little amorous girl that clings
To some fair boy, my spirit all afraid,
While yet she holds youth back by the bright wings,
Knows he must leave her for some other maid!

Candle-Light

Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath,
Flickering points of honey-coloured flame,
From sunset gardens of the moon you came,
Pale flowers of passion . . . delicate flowers of death . . .

Blossoms of opal fire that raised on high
Upon a hundred silver stems are seen
Above the brilliant dance, or set between
The brimming wine-cups . . . flowers of revelry!

Roses with amber petals that arise
Out of the purple darkness of the night
To deck the darkened house of Love, to light
The laughing lips, the beautiful glad eyes.

Lilies with violet-coloured hearts that break
In shining clusters round the silent dead,
A diadem of stars at feet and head,
The glory dazzles . . . but they do not wake . . .

O golden flowers the moon goes gathering
In magic gardens of her fairy-land,
While splendid angels of the sunset stand
Watching in flaming circles wing to wing . . .

Frail golden flowers that perish at a breath,
That wither in the hands of light, and die
When bright dawn wakens in a silver sky.
Pale flowers of passion . . . delicate flowers of death.

In the South

I was pale and sad in the South like the olive-trees
That droop their silver heads by the dusty roads,
And are grave and cold and grey in spite of the sun . . .
In the veils of rose and blue that the bright dawn spun
Day wrapped me round in vain!
I longed for the