He will not notice me, this guest resplendent,
       Unseen I shall remain,
     Content to live if of his banquet royal
       Some glimpses I may gain.

     Behold!  Behold!  His banquet hall’s before me,
       Pillared with forest trees;
     Lo! as he feasts, a thousand sunbeams sparkle,
       His gracious smiles are these.

     Hail to thee, brilliant world!  Ye heavens fretted
       With clouds of silver hue! 
     Ye waves of mighty ocean, tossing, tossing,
       Fair in my sight as new!

     Far in the past (if years my life has numbered,
       Ghost-like in thought they drift),
     Came to me silently the truth eternal—­
       Joy is life’s richest gift.

     Thus, in return for life’s abundant dower,
       A gift have I:  I bear
     A spotless soul, from whose unseen recesses
       Exhales a fragrance rare.

     Strong is the power in gentle souls indwelling,
       Born of a joy divine;
     Theirs is a sphere untrod by creatures earthly,
       By beings gross, supine.

     Fragile and small, and set in quiet places,
       My worth should I forget? 
     Some one who seeks friend, counselor, or lover,
       Will find and prize me yet.

     Thou lovely maid, through mossy pathways straying,
       Striving to make thy choice,
     Hearing the while the brook which downward leaping,
       Lifts up its merry voice,
     Pluck me; and as a rich reward I’ll whisper
       Things them wilt love to hear: 
     The name of him who comes to win thy favor
       I’ll whisper in thine ear!

SVANHVIT’S COLLOQUY

          From ‘The Islands of the Blest’

          SVANHVIT (alone in her chamber)

     No Asdolf yet,—­in vain and everywhere
     Hath he been sought for, since his foaming steed,
     At morn, with vacant saddle, stood before
     The lofty staircase in the castle yard. 
     His drooping crest and wildly rolling eye,
     And limbs with frenzied terror quivering,
     All seemed as though the midnight fiends had urged
     His swiftest flight through many a wood and plain. 
     O Lord, that know’st what he hath witnessed there! 
     Wouldst thou but give one single speaking sound
     Unto the faithful creature’s silent tongue,
     That momentary voice would be, for me,
     A call to life or summons to the grave.

     [She goes to the window.]

     And yet what childish fears are these!  How oft
     Hath not my Asdolf boldest feats achieved
     And aye returned, unharmed and beautiful! 
     Yes, beautiful, alas! like this cold flower
     That proudly glances on the frosty pane. 
     Short is the violet’s, short the cowslip’s spring;—­
     The frost-flowers live far longer:  cold as they