VIII.

Do not blame me if I doubt thee.
I can call love by its name

When thine arm is wrapt about me;
But even love seems not the same,
When I sit alone, without thee.

IX.

In thy clear eyes I descried
Many a proof of love, to-day;
But to-night, those unbelied
Speechful eyes being gone away,
There's the proof to seek, beside.

X.

Dost thou love me, my Beloved ?
Only thou canst answer yes!
And, thou gone, the proof's disprovëd,
And the cry rings answerless-
Dost thou love me, my Belovëd ?

LOVE you seek for, presupposes
Summer heat and sunny glow.
Tell me, do you find moss-roses

Budding, blooming in the snow? Snow might kill the rose-tree's rootShake it quickly from your foot,

Lest it harm you as you go.

IT.

From the ivy where it dapples
A grey ruin, stone by stone,
Do you look for grapes or apples,

Or for sad green leaves alone? Pluck the leaves off, two or threeKeep them for morality

When you shall be safe and gone.

INCLUSIONS.

I.

OH, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to lie along in thine? As a little stone in a running stream, it seems to lie

and pine.

Now drop the poor pale hand, Dear, unfit to plight with thine.

II.

Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn closer to thine own?

My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by many a tear run down.

Now leave a little space, Dear, lest it should wet thine own.

ш.

Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, commingled with thy soul ?

Red

grows the cheek, and warm the hand; the part is in the whole:

Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when soul is joined to soul.

INSUFFICIENCY.

I.

THERE is no one beside thee and no one above thee, Thou standest alone as the nightingale sings!

And my words that would praise thee are impotent things,

For none can express thee though all should approve thee.

I love thee so, Dear, that I only can love thee.

II.

Say, what can I do for thee? weary thee, grieve thee?

Lean on thy shoulder, new burdens to add?
Weep my tears over thee, making thee sad?

Oh, hold me not-love me not! let me retrieve thee.
I love thee so, Dear, that I only can leave thee.

SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

I.

I THOUGHT Once how Theocritus had sung

Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,
Who each one in a gracious hand appears

To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:
And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,
I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,
Those of my own life, who by turns had flung
A shadow across me. Straightway I was 'ware,
So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move

Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair;
And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—

'Guess now who holds thee ?'-' Death,' I said. But,

there,

The silver answer rang,—' Not Death, but Love.'