* * *

     Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows
     Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. 
     No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: 
     Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. 
     Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure,
     Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: 
     Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones
     Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless.

* * *

     Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping
     Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 
     Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried,
     Brooding o’er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar. 
     Darker grows the valley, more and more forgetting: 
     So were it with me if forgetting could be willed. 
     Tell the grassy hollow that holds the bubbling well-spring,
     Tell it to forget the source that keeps it filled.

* * *

     Stepping down the hill with her fair companions,
     Arm in arm, all against the raying West,
     Boldly she sings, to the merry tune she marches,
     Brave in her shape, and sweeter unpossessed. 
     Sweeter, for she is what my heart first awaking
     Whispered the world was; morning light is she. 
     Love that so desires would fain keep her changeless;
     Fain would fling the net, and fain have her free.

* * *

     Happy happy time, when the white star hovers
     Low over dim fields fresh with bloomy dew,
     Near the face of dawn, that draws athwart the darkness,
     Threading it with colour, like yewberries the yew. 
     Thicker crowd the shades as the grave East deepens
     Glowing, and with crimson a long cloud swells. 
     Maiden still the morn is; and strange she is, and secret;
     Strange her eyes; her cheeks are cold as cold sea-shells.

* * *

     Sunrays, leaning on our southern hills and lighting
     Wild cloud-mountains that drag the hills along,
     Oft ends the day of your shifting brilliant laughter
     Chill as a dull face frowning on a song. 
     Ay, but shows the South-west a ripple-feathered bosom
     Blown to silver while the clouds are shaken and ascend
     Scaling the mid-heavens as they stream, there comes a sunset
     Rich, deep like love in beauty without end.

* * *

     When at dawn she sighs, and like an infant to the window
     Turns grave eyes craving light, released from dreams,
     Beautiful she looks, like a white water-lily
     Bursting out of bud in havens of the streams. 
     When from bed she rises clothed from neck to ankle
     In her long nightgown sweet as boughs of May,
     Beautiful she looks, like a tall garden lily
     Pure from the night, and splendid for the day.