Now thou dost sing, and I am lost in thee
    As one who drowns
  In floods of melody. 
    Still in thy art
    Give me this part,
  Till perfect love, the love of loving crowns.

CONFESSIONAL

  Search thou my heart;
    If there be guile,
  It shall depart
    Before thy smile.

  Search thou my soul;
    Be there deceit,
  ’T will vanish whole
    Before thee, sweet.

  Upon my mind
    Turn thy pure lens;
  Naught shalt thou find
    Thou canst not cleanse.

  If I should pray,
    I scarcely know
  In just what way
    My prayers would go.

  So strong in me
    I feel love’s leaven,
  I ’d bow to thee
    As soon as Heaven!

MISAPPREHENSION

  Out of my heart, one day, I wrote a song,
    With my heart’s blood imbued,
  Instinct with passion, tremulously strong,
    With grief subdued;
    Breathing a fortitude
      Pain-bought. 
  And one who claimed much love for what I wrought,
    Read and considered it,
      And spoke: 
  “Ay, brother,—­’t is well writ,
      But where’s the joke?”

PROMETHEUS

  Prometheus stole from Heaven the sacred fire
    And swept to earth with it o’er land and sea. 
    He lit the vestal flames of poesy,
  Content, for this, to brave celestial ire.

  Wroth were the gods, and with eternal hate
    Pursued the fearless one who ravished Heaven
    That earth might hold in fee the perfect leaven
  To lift men’s souls above their low estate.

  But judge you now, when poets wield the pen,
    Think you not well the wrong has been repaired? 
    ’Twas all in vain that ill Prometheus fared: 
  The fire has been returned to Heaven again!

  We have no singers like the ones whose note
    Gave challenge to the noblest warbler’s song. 
    We have no voice so mellow, sweet, and strong
  As that which broke from Shelley’s golden throat.

  The measure of our songs is our desires: 
    We tinkle where old poets used to storm. 
    We lack their substance tho’ we keep their form: 
  We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres.

LOVE’S PHASES

  Love hath the wings of the butterfly,
    Oh, clasp him but gently,
  Pausing and dipping and fluttering by
    Inconsequently. 
  Stir not his poise with the breath of a sigh;
  Love hath the wings of the butterfly.

  Love hath the wings of the eagle bold,
    Cling to him strongly—­
  What if the look of the world be cold,
    And life go wrongly? 
  Rest on his pinions, for broad is their fold;
  Love hath the wings of the eagle bold.

  Love hath the voice of the nightingale,
    Hearken his trilling—­
  List to his song when the moonlight is pale,—­
    Passionate, thrilling. 
  Cherish the lay, ere the lilt of it fail;
  Love hath the voice of the nightingale.