To do with Past or Future, who have for boon
So rich a Present, to exhaust so soon
Between the daylight and the afterglow?
The last cloud passes, and how calm I grow!
And now-if I should close my eyes, my love,
And seem to sleep a little, and not move
Until the sky has got its perfect gold,
You will not think me dying while I hold
Your hand thus closely Kiss me now. Again!
Past chance of change-just where we left it
then.

ENONE.

I had him last! I had him first and last!
His morning beauty and his evening charm!
Oh, Love! triumphant over all the Past,
What Death can daunt you, or what Future
harm?

AD FINEM.

I WOULD not have believed it then,
If any one had told me so-
Ere you shall see his face again
A year and more shall go.

And let them come again to-day
To pity me and prophesy,
And I will face them all, and say
To all of them, You lie!

False prophets all, you lie, yon lie!
I will believe no word but his;
Will say December is July,
That Autumn April is,

Rather than say he has forgot,

Or will not come who bade me wait, Who wait him and accuse him not Of being very late.

He said that he would come in Spring, And I believed-believe him now,

Though all the birds have ceased to sing
And bare is every bough;

For Spring is not till he appear,
Winter is not when he is nigh-
The only Lord of all my year,
For whom I live-and die!

A PAUSE.

To have the imploring hands of her Clasped on his shoulder, and his check Brushed over slowly by the stir

Of thrilling hair, and not to speak;

To see within the unlifted eves

More than the fallen fringes prove Enough to hide, to see the rise

Of tear-drops in them, and not move;

Would this be strange? And yet at last,
What weary man may not do this,
Seeing when the long pursuit is past,
To only cease how sweet it is ?

To only cease and be as one
Who, when the fever leaves him, lies
Careless of what is come or gone,

Which yet he cannot realize;
For all his little thought is spent

In wondering what it was that gave To be so quiet and content, While yet he is not in the grave.

IN NUBIBUS.

THIS is a dream I had of her
When in the middle seas we were.
Sunlight possessed the clouds again,
Well emptied of unfruitful rain,
When, leaning o'er the vessel's side,
I watched the bubbles rise and glide
And break and pass away beneath:
And heard the creamy waters seethe.
As when an undecided breeze
Plays in the branches of the trees
Just ere the leaves begin to fall;
And as I listened, slowly all
The elm-tree branches on the Green
Rose up before me; and between
The stately trees on either side
I saw the pathway, smooth and wide,
In which I once had walked with her:
And in it men and women were,
Who came and went no otherwise
Than vague cloud-shadows to my eyes,
And whispering bubbles to my ear,
Who neither cared to see nor hear,
And straight forgot them every one.
But when the last of them was gone,
And now from end to end the walk
Was empty of them and their talk,
A listening, longing silence fell
Upon the elm-trees like a spell
Of expectation and desire,
And quick I saw the impulsive fire
Of sunset overflush the white
And waiting clouds with rosy light;
And then a breeze ran all along
The pathway, as if from a song-
Imparting freshness as it ran,
Till all the autumn leaves began
Midsummer murmurs in the air,
And suddenly I saw her the re-
And felt my heart leap up, and then
As suddenly shrink back again
To see that she was not alone;
But with her walking there was one
Whose face turned sidewise, as it were
The better so to hark to her,
Showed not enough to let me know
What man it was I envied so:
And yet I could not go away,
But fascinated still to stay,
And wait till they should pass me by,
I stood and watched them cloudily,
And saw them coming near and near,
And nearer yet till I could hear
Her voice and recognize his face;
And, save that a transmitted grace
Made it not easy to be known,
So went the dream-it was my own.

SLEEPING.

HUSHED within her quiet bed
She is lying, all the night,
In her pallid robe of white,
Eyelids on the pure eyes pressed,
Soft hands folded on the breast,-
And you thought I meant it-dead ?

Nay! I smile at your shocked face :

In the morning she will wake,
Turn her dreams to sport, and make
All the household glad and gay
Yet for many a merry day,

With her beauty and her grace.

But some Summer 'twill be said-
"She is lying, all the night,
In her pallid robe of white,
Eyelids on the tired eyes pressed,
Hands that cross upon the breast;"
We shall understand it-dead!

Yet 'twill only be a sleep:

When, with songs and dewy light, Morning blossoms out of Night, She will open her blue eyes 'Neath the palms of Paradise, While we foolish ones shall weep.

MORNING.

I ENTERED once, at break of day,
A chapel, lichen-stained and gray,
Where a congregation dozed and heard
An old monk read from a written Word.

No light through the window-panes could pass,
For shutters were closed on the rich-stained glass;
And in a gloom like the nether night
The monk read on by a taper's light.
Ghostly with shadows, that shrank and grew
As the dim light flared, were aisle and pew;
And the congregation that dozed around,
Listened without a stir or sound-
Save one, who rose with wistful face,
And shifted a shutter from its place.
Then light flashed in like a flashing gem-
For dawn had come unknown to them-
And a slender beam, like a lance of gold,
Shot to a crimson curtain-fold
Over the bended head of him

Who pored and pored by the taper dim;
And it kindled over his wrinkled brow
Such words-"The law which was till now:
And I wondered that, under that morning ray,
When night and shadow were scattered away,