O happy grace of lovers of old time,
  Living to love like gods, and dead to live
    Symbols and saints for us who follow them;
  Even bitter Death must sweets to lovers give: 
    See how they wear their tears for diadem,
Throned on the star of an unshaken rhyme.

IN HER DIARY

Go, little book, and be the looking-glass
  Of her dear soul,
The mirror of her moments as they pass,
  Keeping the whole;
Wherein she still may look on yesterday
  To-day to cheer,
And towards To-morrow pass upon her way
  Without a fear. 
For yesterday hath never won a crown,
  However fair,
But that To-day a better for its own
  Might win and wear;
And yesterday hath never joyed a joy,
  However sweet,
That this To-day or that To-morrow too
  May not repeat. 
Think too, To-day is trustee for to-morrow,
  And present pain
That’s bravely borne shall ease the future sorrow
  Nor cry in vain
‘Spare us To-day, To-morrow bring the rod,’
  For then again
To-morrow from To-morrow still shall borrow,
  A little ease to gain: 
But bear to-day whate’er To-day may bring,
’Tis the one way to make To-morrow sing.

PARABLES

I

Dear Love, you ask if I be true,
  If other women move
The heart that only beats for you
  With pulses all of love.

Out in the chilly dew one morn
  I plucked a wild sweet rose,
A little silver bud new-born
  And longing to unclose.

I took it, loving new-born things,
  I knew my heart was warm,
’O little silver rose, come in
  And shelter from the storm.’

And soon, against my body pressed,
  I felt its petals part,
And, looking down within my breast
  I saw its golden heart.

O such a golden heart it has,
  Your eyes may never see,
To others it is always shut,
  It opens but for me.

But that is why you see me pass
  The honeysuckle there,
And leave the lilies in the grass,
  Although they be so fair;

Why the strange orchid half-accurst—­
  Circe of flowers she grows—­
Can tempt me not:  see! in my heart,
  Silver and gold, my rose.

II

Deep in a hidden lane we were,
  My little love and I;
When lo! as we stood kissing there—­
  A flower against the sky!

Frail as a tear its beauty hung—­
  O spare it, little hand. 
But innocence like its, alas! 
  Desire may not withstand.

And so I clambered up the bank
  And threw the blossom down,
But we were sadder for its sake
  As we walked back to town.

A LOVE-LETTER