THE TIRED CUPID

The thin moonlight with trickling ray,
Thridding the boughs of silver may,
Trembles in beauty, pale and cool,
On folded flower, and mantled pool. 
All in a haze the rushes lean—­
And he—­he sits, with chin between
His two cold hands; his bare feet set
Deep in the grasses, green and wet. 
About his head a hundred rings
Of gold loop down to meet his wings,
Whose feathers, arched their stillness through,
Gleam with slow-gathering drops of dew. 
The mouse-bat peers; the stealthy vole
Creeps from the covert of its hole;
A shimmering moth its pinions furls,
Grey in the moonshine of his curls;
’Neath the faint stars the night-airs stray,
Scattering the fragrance of the may;
And with each stirring of the bough
Shadow beclouds his childlike brow.

DREAMS

Be gentle, O hands of a child;
Be true:  like a shadowy sea
In the starry darkness of night
    Are your eyes to me.

But words are shallow, and soon
Dreams fade that the heart once knew;
And youth fades out in the mind,
    In the dark eyes too.

What can a tired heart say,
Which the wise of the world have made dumb? 
Save to the lonely dreams of a child,
    “Return again, come!”

FAITHLESS

The words you said grow faint;
  The lamps you lit burn dim;
Yet, still be near your faithless friend
  To urge and counsel him.

Still with returning feet
  To where life’s shadows brood,
With steadfast eyes made clear in death
  Haunt his vague solitude.

So he, beguiled with earth,
  Yet with its vain things vexed,
Keep even to his own heart unknown
  Your memory unperplexed.

THE SHADE

Darker than night; and oh, much darker she,
Whose eyes in deep night darkness gaze on me. 
No stars surround her; yet the moon seems hid
Afar somewhere, beneath that narrow lid. 
She darkens against the darkness; and her face
Only by adding thought to thought I trace,
Limned shadowily:  O dream, return once more
To gloomy Hades and the whispering shore!

BE ANGRY NOW NO MORE

Be angry now no more! 
  If I have grieved thee—­if
Thy kindness, mine before,
No hope may now restore: 
  Only forgive, forgive!

If still resentment burns
  In thy cold breast, oh if
No more to pity turns,
No more, once tender, yearns
  Thy love; oh yet forgive!...

Ask of the winter rain
June’s withered rose again: 
Ask grace of the salt sea: 
She will not answer thee. 
God would ten times have shriven
A heart so riven;
In her cold care thou would’st be
Still unforgiven.