ON AN OLD BOOK WITH UNCUT LEAVES

  Emblem of blasted hope and lost desire,
    No finger ever traced thy yellow page
    Save Time’s.  Thou hast not wrought to noble rage
  The hearts thou wouldst have stirred.  Not any fire
  Save sad flames set to light a funeral pyre
    Dost thou suggest.  Nay,—­impotent in age,
    Unsought, thou holdst a corner of the stage
  And ceasest even dumbly to aspire.

  How different was the thought of him that writ. 
    What promised he to love of ease and wealth,
  When men should read and kindle at his wit. 
    But here decay eats up the book by stealth,
  While it, like some old maiden, solemnly,
  Hugs its incongruous virginity!

ON THE SEA WALL

  I sit upon the old sea wall,
    And watch the shimmering sea,
  Where soft and white the moonbeams fall,
    Till, in a fantasy,
  Some pure white maiden’s funeral pall
    The strange light seems to me.

  The waters break upon the shore
    And shiver at my feet,
  While I dream old dreams o’er and o’er,
    And dim old scenes repeat;
  Tho’ all have dreamed the same before,
    They still seem new and sweet.

  The waves still sing the same old song
    That knew an elder time;
  The breakers’ beat is not more strong,
    Their music more sublime;
  And poets thro’ the ages long
    Have set these notes to rhyme.

  But this shall not deter my lyre,
    Nor check my simple strain;
  If I have not the old-time fire,
    I know the ancient pain: 
  The hurt of unfulfilled desire,—­
    The ember quenched by rain.

  I know the softly shining sea
    That rolls this gentle swell
  Has snarled and licked its tongues at me
    And bared its fangs as well;
  That ’neath its smile so heavenly,
    There lurks the scowl of hell!

  But what of that?  I strike my string
    (For songs in youth are sweet);
  I ’ll wait and hear the waters bring
    Their loud resounding beat;
  Then, in her own bold numbers sing
    The Ocean’s dear deceit!

TO A LADY PLAYING THE HARP

  Thy tones are silver melted into sound,
    And as I dream
  I see no walls around,
    But seem to hear
    A gondolier
  Sing sweetly down some slow Venetian stream.

  Italian skies—­that I have never seen—­
    I see above. 
  (Ah, play again, my queen;
    Thy fingers white
    Fly swift and light
  And weave for me the golden mesh of love.)

  Oh, thou dusk sorceress of the dusky eyes
    And soft dark hair,
  ’T is thou that mak’st my skies
    So swift to change
    To far and strange: 
  But far and strange, thou still dost make them fair.