Rose and Roof-Tree | Page 5

mote of the air,
I could turn to gold for thee!
"WHEN, LOOKING DEEPLY IN THY FACE."
When, looking deeply in thy face,
I catch the undergleam of grace

That grows beneath the outward glance,
Long looking, lost as in a
trance
Of long desires that fleet and meet
Around me like the fresh
and sweet
White showers of rain which, vanishing,
'Neath heaven's
blue arches whirl, in spring;
Suddenly then I seem to know
Of some
new fountain's overflow
In grassy basins, with a sound
That leads
my fancy, past all bound,
Into a region of retreat
From this my life's
bewildered heat.
Oh if my soul might always draw
From those deep
fountains full of awe,
The current of my days should rise
Unto the
level of thine eyes!
WITHIN A YEAR

I.
Lips that are met in love's
Devotion sweet,
While parting lovers
passionately greet,
And earth through heaven's arc more swiftly
moves--
Oh, will they be less dear
Within a year?
II.
Eyes in whose shadow-spell
Far off I read
That which to lovers
taking loving heed
Dear women's eyes full soon and plainly tell--
Oh, will you give such cheer
This time a year?
III.
Behold! the dark year goes,
Nor will reveal
Aught of its purpose, if
for woe or weal,
Swift as a stream that o'er the mill-weir flows:
Mayhap the end draws near
Within the year!
IV.
Yet, darling, once more touch
Those lips to mine.
Set on my life
that talisman divine;
Absence, new friends, I fear not overmuch----
Even Death, should he appear
Within the year!
THE SINGING WIRE.
Hark to that faint, ethereal twang
That from the bosom of the breeze

Has caught its rise and fall: there rang
Æolian harmonies!
I looked; again the mournful, chords,
In random rhythm lightly flung

From off the wire, came shaped in words;
And thus, meseemed,
they sung.

"I, messenger of many fates,
Strung to the tones of woe or weal,

Fine nerve that thrills and palpitates
With all men know or feel,--
"Oh, is it strange that I should wail?
Leave me my tearless, sad
refrain,
When in the pine-top wakes the gale
That breathes of
coming rain.
"There is a spirit in the post;
It, too, was once a murmuring tree;
Its
sapless, sad, and withered ghost
Echoes my melody.
"Come close, and lay your listening ear
Against the bare and
branchless wood.
Say, croons it not, so low and clear,
As if it
understood?"
I listened to the branchless pole
That held aloft the singing wire;
I
heard its muffled music roll,
And stirred with sweet desire:
"O wire more soft than seasoned lute,
Hast thou no sunlit word for
me?
Though long to me so coyly mute,
Sure she may speak through
thee!"
I listened; but it was in vain.
At first, the wind's old, wayward will

Drew forth the tearless, sad refrain:
That ceased, and all was still.
But suddenly some kindling shock
Struck flashing through the wire: a
bird,
Poised on it, screamed and flew; the flock
Rose with him,
wheeled, and whirred.
Then to my soul there came this sense:
"Her heart has answered unto
thine;
She comes, to-night. Go, hie thee hence!
Meet her: no more
repine!"
Mayhap the fancy was far-fetched;
And yet, mayhap, it hinted true.

Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched
In mine, that gave
me--you!

And so more dear to me has grown,
Than rarest tones swept from the
lyre,
The minor-movement of that moan
In yonder singing wire.
Nor care I for the will of states.
Or aught besides, that smites that
string,
Since then so close it knit our fates,
What time the bird took
wing!
MOODS OF LOVE.
I.
IN ABSENCE.
My love for thee is like a winged seed
Blown from the heart of thy
rare beauty's flower,
And deftly guided by some breezy power
To
fall and rest, where I should never heed,
In deepest caves of memory.
There, indeed,
With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,--
Ev'n
making cold neglect and darkness dower
Its roots with life,--swiftly it
'gan to breed,
Till now wide-branching tendrils it outspreads
Like
circling arms, to prison its own prison,
Fretting the walls with blooms
by myriads,
And blazoning in my brain full summer-season:
Thy
face, whose dearness presence had not taught.
In absence multiplies,
and fills all thought.
II.
HEART'S FOUNTAIN.
Her moods are like the fountain's, changing ever,
That spouts aloft a
sudden, watery dome,
Only to fall again in shattering foam,
Just
where the wedded jets themselves dissever,
And palpitating
downward, downward quiver,
Unfolded like a swift ethereal flower,

That sheds white petals in a blinding shower,
And straightway
soars anew with blithe endeavor.
The sun may kindle it with healthful fire;
Upon it falls the

cloud-gray's leaden load;
At night the stars shall haunt the whirling
spire:
Yet these have but a transient garb bestowed.
So her glad life,
whate'er the hours impart,
Plays still 'twixt heaven's cope and her own
clear heart.
III.
SOUTH-WIND SONG.
Soft-throated South, breathing of summer's ease
(Sweet breath,
whereof the violet's life is made!)
Through lips moist-warm, as thou
hadst lately stayed
'Mong rosebuds, wooing to the cheeks of these

Loth blushes faint and maidenly--rich Breeze,
Still doth thy honeyed
blowing bring a shade
Of sad foreboding. In thy hand is laid
The
power to build or blight rich fruit of trees,
The deep, cool grass, and
field of thick-combed