XII

     Not solely that the Future she destroys,
     And the fair life which in the distance lies
     For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies: 
     Nor that the passing hour’s supporting joys
     Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat
     Distinction in old times, and still should breed
     Sweet Memory, and Hope,—­earth’s modest seed,
     And heaven’s high-prompting:  not that the world is flat
     Since that soft-luring creature I embraced
     Among the children of Illusion went: 
     Methinks with all this loss I were content,
     If the mad Past, on which my foot is based,
     Were firm, or might be blotted:  but the whole
     Of life is mixed:  the mocking Past will stay: 
     And if I drink oblivion of a day,
     So shorten I the stature of my soul.

     XIII

     ‘I play for Seasons; not Eternities!’
     Says Nature, laughing on her way.  ’So must
     All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!’
     And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies
     She is full sure!  Upon her dying rose
     She drops a look of fondness, and goes by,
     Scarce any retrospection in her eye;
     For she the laws of growth most deeply knows,
     Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag—­there, an urn. 
     Pledged she herself to aught, ’twould mark her end! 
     This lesson of our only visible friend
     Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn? 
     Yes! yes!—­but, oh, our human rose is fair
     Surpassingly!  Lose calmly Love’s great bliss,
     When the renewed for ever of a kiss
     Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

     XIV

     What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
     Contempt the nobler agony to kill? 
     Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
     And strike this rusty bosom with new stings! 
     It seems there is another veering fit,
     Since on a gold-haired lady’s eyeballs pure
     I looked with little prospect of a cure,
     The while her mouth’s red bow loosed shafts of wit. 
     Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy
     Has decked the woman thus? and does her head
     Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited? 
     Madam, you teach me many things that be. 
     I open an old book, and there I find
     That ‘Women still may love whom they deceive.’ 
     Such love I prize not, madam:  by your leave,
     The game you play at is not to my mind.

     XV

     I think she sleeps:  it must be sleep, when low
     Hangs that abandoned arm toward the floor;
     The face turned with it.  Now make fast the door. 
     Sleep on:  it is your husband, not your foe. 
     The Poet’s black stage-lion of wronged love
     Frights not our modern dames:- well if he did! 
     Now will I pour new