Each when the dark tide drowns their star,
Cries out, "Thou art not one with me:
One flesh we seemed when eyes could see,
But now, how far thou art! How far!"
Each calling, "Come! be mine! be wise!"
Stands obstinately in his place,
How can these two come face to face,
Till light spring from their meeting eyes?
Could both but once cry, "Far thou art,
But I am coming!" How the beat
Of waves that part them would retreat,
Resurge and find them, heart to heart!
THE WAY OF LOVE.
THE butterfly loves the rose,
He flutters around her bed,
Till the soft curled leaves unclose,
And she raises her darling head.
He whispers of dawn and of dew,
Of love, and the heart of love,
Of worship, timid and true,
And she takes no joy thereof.
But when, through the noon's blind heat,
The arrogant bee flaunts by,
She yields him her heart's hid sweet,
And he leaves her alone, to die.
The depth of her dying bliss
Her grief-white butterfly knows:
And the bee laughs low in the kiss
Of another, a redder rose.
TO ONE WHO PLEADED FOR CANDOUR IN LOVE.
HERE is the dim enchanted wood
Your face, a mystery divine,
But half revealed, half understood,
Appears the counterpart of mine.
Beyond the wood the daylight lies;
Cruel and hard, it lies in wait
To steal the magic from your eyes
And from your lips the thrill of fate.
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