The stormy petrels of my fancy fly
  In warning course across the darkening green,
  And, like a frightened bird, my heart doth cry
  And seek to find some rock of rest between
  The threatening sky and the relentless wave. 
  It is not length of life that grief doth crave,
  But only calm and peace in which to die.

  Here let me rest upon this single hope,
  For oh, my wings are weary of the wind,
  And with its stress no more may strive or cope. 
  One cry has dulled mine ears, mine eyes are blind,—­
  Would that o’er all the intervening space,
  I might fly forth and see thee face to face. 
  I fly; I search, but, love, in gloom I grope.

  Fly home, far bird, unto thy waiting nest;
  Spread thy strong wings above the wind-swept sea. 
  Beat the grim breeze with thy unruffled breast
  Until thou sittest wing to wing with me. 
  Then, let the past bring up its tales of wrong;
  We shall chant low our sweet connubial song,
  Till storm and doubt and past no more shall be!

HER THOUGHT AND HIS

  The gray of the sea, and the gray of the sky,
  A glimpse of the moon like a half-closed eye. 
  The gleam on the waves and the light on the land,
  A thrill in my heart,—­and—­my sweetheart’s hand.

  She turned from the sea with a woman’s grace,
  And the light fell soft on her upturned face,
  And I thought of the flood-tide of infinite bliss
  That would flow to my heart from a single kiss.

  But my sweetheart was shy, so I dared not ask
  For the boon, so bravely I wore the mask. 
  But into her face there came a flame:—­
  I wonder could she have been thinking the same?

THE RIGHT TO DIE

I have no fancy for that ancient cant
That makes us masters of our destinies,
And not our lives, to hold or give them up
As will directs; I cannot, will not think
That men, the subtle worms, who plot and plan
And scheme and calculate with such shrewd wit,
Are such great blund’ring fools as not to know
When they have lived enough. 
Men court not death
When there are sweets still left in life to taste. 
Nor will a brave man choose to live when he,
Full deeply drunk of life, has reached the dregs,
And knows that now but bitterness remains. 
He is the coward who, outfaced in this,
Fears the false goblins of another life. 
I honor him who being much harassed
Drinks of sweet courage until drunk of it,—­
Then seizing Death, reluctant, by the hand,
Leaps with him, fearless, to eternal peace!

BEHIND THE ARRAS