Now before me looms
  Something more than human;
Something more than beauty blooms
  In the wrath of Woman—­
    Something to bow down before
    Reverently and adore.

[Illustration:  (WHERE SHALL WE LAND?—­TITLE)]

WHERE SHALL WE LAND?

    “Where shall we land you, sweet?”—­Swinburne.

All listlessly we float
Out seaward in the boat
        That beareth Love. 
Our sails of purest snow
Bend to the blue below
    And to the blue above. 
        Where shall we land?

We drift upon a tide
Shoreless on every side,
    Save where the eye
Of Fancy sweeps far lands
Shelved slopingly with sands
    Of gold and porphyry. 
        Where shall we land?

The fairy isles we see,
Loom up so mistily—­
    So vaguely fair,
We do not care to break
Fresh bubbles in our wake
    To bend our course for there. 
        Where shall we land?

The warm winds of the deep
Have lulled our sails to sleep,
    And so we glide
Careless of wave or wind,
Or change of any kind,
    Or turn of any tide. 
        Where shall we land?

We droop our dreamy eyes
Where our reflection lies
    Steeped in the sea,
And, in an endless fit
Of languor, smile on it
    And its sweet mimicry. 
        Where shall we land?

“Where shall we land?” God’s grace! 
I know not any place
    So fair as this—­
Swung here between the blue
Of sea and sky, with you
    To ask me, with a kiss,
        “Where shall we land?”

[Illustration:  (WHERE SHALL WE LAND?—­TAILPIECE)]

[Illustration:  (THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS—­TITLE)]

THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS

The touches of her hands are like the fall
  Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down
The peach just brushes ’gainst the garden wall;
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp
  Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown
The blighting frost hath turned from green to crisp.

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night,
The touches of her hands, and the delight—­
  The touches of her hands! 
The touches of her hands are like the dew
That falls so softly down no one e’er knew
The touch thereof save lovers like to one
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion.

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands,
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands;
  Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs;
Or—­in between the midnight and the dawn,
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone—­
  Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes.

[Illustration:  (THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS—­TAILPIECE)]

[Illustration:  (O RARELY SOFT, THE TOUCHES OF HER HANDS)]

A SONG OF LONG AGO