Mourning ferns, pray tell me why
  Shook you with that passing sigh? 
  Is it that you chanced to spy
  Something in the Abbot’s eye?

  Here no dream, nor thought of sin,
  Where no worlding enters in;
  Here no longing, no desire,
  Heat nor flame of earthly fire.

  Branches waving green above,
  Whisper naught of life nor love;
  Softened winds that seem a breath,
  Perfumed, bring no fear of death.

  Is it living thus to live? 
  Has life nothing more to give? 
  Ah, no more of smile or sigh—­
  Life, the world, and love, good-bye.

  Gray, and passionless, and dim,
  Echoing of the solemn hymn,
  Lies the walk, ’twixt fern and rose,
  Here within the garden close.

LOVE-SONG

  If Death should claim me for her own to-day,
    And softly I should falter from your side,
  Oh, tell me, loved one, would my memory stay,
    And would my image in your heart abide? 
  Or should I be as some forgotten dream,
    That lives its little space, then fades entire? 
  Should Time send o’er you its relentless stream,
    To cool your heart, and quench for aye love’s fire?

  I would not for the world, love, give you pain,
    Or ever compass what would cause you grief;
  And, oh, how well I know that tears are vain! 
    But love is sweet, my dear, and life is brief;
  So if some day before you I should go
    Beyond the sound and sight of song and sea,
  ’T would give my spirit stronger wings to know
    That you remembered still and wept for me.

SLOW THROUGH THE DARK

  Slow moves the pageant of a climbing race;
    Their footsteps drag far, far below the height,
    And, unprevailing by their utmost might,
  Seem faltering downward from each hard won place. 
  No strange, swift-sprung exception we; we trace
    A devious way thro’ dim, uncertain light,—­
    Our hope, through the long vistaed years, a sight
  Of that our Captain’s soul sees face to face. 
    Who, faithless, faltering that the road is steep,
  Now raiseth up his drear insistent cry? 
    Who stoppeth here to spend a while in sleep
  Or curseth that the storm obscures the sky? 
    Heed not the darkness round you, dull and deep;
  The clouds grow thickest when the summit’s nigh.

THE MURDERED LOVER

  Say a mass for my soul’s repose, my brother,
    Say a mass for my soul’s repose, I need it,
  Lovingly lived we, the sons of one mother,
    Mine was the sin, but I pray you not heed it.

  Dark were her eyes as the sloe and they called me,
    Called me with voice independent of breath. 
  God! how my heart beat; her beauty appalled me,
    Dazed me, and drew to the sea-brink of death.

  Lithe was her form like a willow.  She beckoned,
    What could I do save to follow and follow,
  Nothing of right or result could be reckoned;
    Life without her was unworthy and hollow.