XVIII

To A. D.

THE nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion call,

And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.

For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang

Our hearts and lips together.

XIX

YOUR heart has trembled to my tongue,
Your hands in mine have lain,

Your thought to me has leaned and clung,
Again and yet again,

My dear,

Again and yet again.

Now die the dream, or come the wife,

The past is not in vain,

For wholly as it was your life

Can never be again,

My dear,

Can never be again.

XX

THE surges gushed and sounded,
The blue was the blue of June,
And low above the brightening east
Floated a shred of moon.

The woods were black and solemn,
The night winds large and free,
And in your thought a blessing seemed

To fall on land and sea.

1877

XXI

WE flash across the level.
We thunder thro' the bridges.
We bicker down the cuttings.
We sway along the ridges.

A rush of streaming hedges,

Of jostling lights and shadows,
Of hurtling, hurrying stations,
Of racing woods and meadows.

We charge the tunnels headlongThe blackness roars and shatters. We crash between embankmentsThe open spins and scatters.

We shake off the miles like water, We might carry a royal ransom ; And I think of her waiting, waiting, And long for a common hansom.

XXII

THE West a glimmering lake of light,
A dream of pearly weather,

The first of stars is burning white—
The star we watch together.
Is April dead? The unresting year
Will shape us our September,
And April's work is done, my dear-
Do you not remember?

O gracious eve! O happy star,

Still-flashing, glowing, sinking!—

Who lives of lovers near or far

So glad as I in thinking?

The gallant world is warm and green,

For May fulfils November.

When lights and leaves and loves have been, you remember?

Sweet, will