BEFORE THE GATE.

But when at last, upon their way returning,
Taciturn, late, and loath,

83

Through the broad meadow in the sunset burning, They reached the gate, one fine spell hindered them both.

Her heart was troubled with a subtile anguish

Such as but women know

That wait, and lest love speak or speak not languish, And what they would, would rather they would

not so.

Till he said,

man-like, nothing comprehending

Of all the wondrous guile

That women won win themselves with, and bending

Eyes of relentless asking on her the while, —

"Ah, if beyond this gate the path united

Our steps as far as death,

And I might open it!" His voice, affrighted
At its own daring, faltered under his breath.

Then she

whom both his faith and fear enchanted

Far beyond words to tell,

Feeling her woman's finest wit had wanted

The art he had that knew to blunder so well

Shyly drew near a little step, and mocking,

"Shall we not be too late

For tea?" she said. "I'm quite worn out with walking.

H

IN LOVE'S OWN TIME.

AD I but earlier known that from the eyes

Of that bright soul that fires me like the sun,
I might have drawn new strength my race to run,
Burning as burns the phoenix ere it dies ;
Even as the stag or lynx or leopard flies

To seek his pleasure and his pain to shun,
Each word, each smile of her would I have won,
Flying where now sad age all flight denies.

Yet why complain? For even now I find

In that glad angel's face, so full of rest,

Health, and content, heart's ease and peace of mind. Perchance I might have been less simply blest, Finding her sooner if 't is age alone

That lets me soar with her to seek God's throne.

MICHAEL ANGELO.

H'

GARDEN-FANCIES.

THE FLOWER'S NAME.

ERE 'S the garden she walked across,

Arm in my arm, such a short while since :

Hark, now I push its wicket, the moss

Hinders the hinges and makes them wince! She must have reached this shrub ere she turned, As back with that murmur the wicket swung; For she laid the poor snail, my chance foot spurned, To feed and forget it the leaves among.

GARDEN-FANCIES.

Down this side of the gravel-walk

She went while her robe's edge brushed the box; And here she paused in her gracious talk

To point me a moth on the milk-white flox. Roses, ranged in valiant row,

I will never think that she passed you by! She loves you, noble roses, I know;

But yonder see, where the rock-plants lie!

This flower she stopped at, finger on lip,

Stooped over, in doubt, as settling its claim;
Till she gave me, with pride to make no slip,
Its soft meandering Spanish name.
What a name! was it love, or praise?

Speech half-asleep, or song half-awake?
I must learn Spanish, one of these days,
Only for that slow sweet name's sake.

Roses, if I live and do well,

I may bring her, one of these days, To fix you fast with as fine a spell,

Fit you each with his Spanish phrase! But do not detain me now; for she lingers There, like sunshine over the ground, And ever I see her soft white fingers Searching after the bud she found.

Flower, you Spaniard, look that you grow not,
Stay as you are and be loved forever!

Bud, if I kiss you 't is that you blow not,
Mind, the shut pink mouth opens never!

85

For while thus it pouts, her fingers wrestle,
Twinkling the audacious leaves between,
Till round they turn and down they nestle.
Is not the dear mark still to be seen?

Where I find her not, beauties vanish;
Whither I follow her, beauties flee;

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish

June 's twice June since she breathed it with me? Come, bud, show me the least of her traces,

Treasure my lady's lightest footfall

Ah, you may flout and turn up your faces
Roses, you are not so fair after all.

ROBERT BROWNING.

L

TRUE LOVE.

ET me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alteration finds,

Or bends with the remover to remove:

O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark

That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

It is the star to every wandering bark,

Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

Within his bending sickle's compass come;

Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

If this be error and upon me proved,

I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE.

THE BROOK-SIDE.

87

I

THE BROOK-SIDE.

WANDERED by the brook-side,
I wandered by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow

The noisy wheel was still.
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

The night came on alone —

The little stars sat one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening wind passed by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirred -
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.