X.
"He"s sweetest friend or hardest foe, Best angel or worst devil; I either hate or ... love him so, I can"t be merely civil!
XI.
"You trust a woman who puts forth Her blossoms thick as summer"s?
You think she dreams what love is worth, Who casts it to new-comers?
XII.
"Such love"s a cowslip-ball to fling, A moment"s pretty pastime; _I_ give ... all me, if anything, The first time and the last time.
XIII.
"Dear neighbour of the trellised house, A man should murmur never, Though treated worse than dog and mouse, Till doated on for ever!"
MY HEART AND I.
I.
Enough! we"re tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus, And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly The hard types of the mason"s knife, As heaven"s sweet life renews earth"s life With which we"re tired, my heart and I.
II.
You see we"re tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men, And in our own blood drenched the pen, As if such colours could not fly.
We walked too straight for fortune"s end, We loved too true to keep a friend; At last we"re tired, my heart and I.
III.
How tired we feel, my heart and I!
We seem of no use in the world; Our fancies hang grey and uncurled About men"s eyes indifferently; Our voice which thrilled you so, will let You sleep; our tears are only wet: What do we here, my heart and I?
IV.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
It was not thus in that old time When Ralph sat with me "neath the lime To watch the sunset from the sky.
"Dear love, you"re looking tired," he said; I, smiling at him, shook my head: "T is now we"re tired, my heart and I.
V.
So tired, so tired, my heart and I!
Though now none takes me on his arm To fold me close and kiss me warm Till each quick breath end in a sigh Of happy languor. Now, alone, We lean upon this graveyard stone, Uncheered, unkissed, my heart and I.
VI.
Tired out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems To tempt us, crusted with loose gems Of powers and pleasures? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even A pretty child, or G.o.d"s blue heaven, We feel so tired, my heart and I.
VII.
Yet who complains? My heart and I?
In this abundant earth no doubt Is little room for things worn out: Disdain them, break them, throw them by!
And if before the days grew rough We _once_ were loved, used,--well enough, I think, we"ve fared, my heart and I.
THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD.
What"s the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled; Sweet south-wind, that means no rain; Truth, not cruel to a friend; Pleasure, not in haste to end; Beauty, not self-decked and curled Till its pride is over-plain; Light, that never makes you wink; Memory, that gives no pain; Love, when, _so_, you"re loved again.
What"s the best thing in the world?
--Something out of it, I think.
WHERE"S AGNES?
I.
Nay, if I had come back so, And found her dead in her grave, And if a friend I know Had said, "Be strong, nor rave: She lies there, dead below:
II.
"I saw her, I who speak, White, stiff, the face one blank: The blue shade came to her cheek Before they nailed the plank, For she had been dead a week."
III.
Why, if he had spoken so, I might have believed the thing, Although her look, although Her step, laugh, voice"s ring Lived in me still as they do.
IV.
But dead that other way, Corrupted thus and lost?
That sort of worm in the clay?
I cannot count the cost, That I should rise and pay.
V.