XI. I liked that way you had with your curls And your mouth-there was never, to my mind, And the dented chin too-what a chin ! There were certain ways when you spoke, some words Your hand seemed-some would say, the pounce Of a scaly-footed hawk-all but ! The world was right when it called you thin. XII. But I turn my back on the world: I take Thirst at your presence! Fear no slips! BIFURCATION. We were two lovers; let me lie by her, My tomb beside her tomb. On hers inscribe 46 I loved him; but my reason bade prefer Duty to love, reject the tempter's bribe Of rose and lily when each path diverged, And either I must pace to life's far end As love should lead me, or, as duty urged, Plod the warm causeway arm in arm with friend. So, truth turned falsehood: How I loathe a flower, How prize the pavement!' still caressed his earThe deafish friend's-through life's day, hour by hour, As he laughed (coughing) Ay, it would appear!' But deep within my heart of hearts there hid Ever the confidence, amends for all, That heaven repairs what wrong earth's journey did When love from life-long exile comes at call. Duty and love, one broadway, were the best- Inscribe on mine-" I loved her: love's track lay With greensward where the rose and lily blow. Our roads are diverse farewell, love!' said she : 'Tis duty I abide by: homely sward And not the rock-rough picturesque for me! I leave you planted!' But man needs must move, And two halves make that whole, whereof-since here Inscribe each tomb thus: then, some sage acquaint The simple-which holds sinner, which holds saint! A LIKENESS. SOME people hangportraits up Asks, "Who was the lady, I wonder?' Adds the cousin, while John's corns ail. Of youth,-masks, gloves, and foils, But my master's, the Tipton Slasher") And the chamois-horns ("shot in the Chablais") Where a friend, with both hands in his pockets And remark a good deal of Jane Lamb in it, But the eyes are half out of their sockets; That hair's not so bad, where the gloss is, All that I own is a print, I keep my prints an imbroglio, When somebody tries my claret, And the National Portrait Gallery : Then I exhibit my treasure. After we've turned over twenty, And the debt of wonder my crony owes Is paid to my Marc Antonios, He stops me-"Festina lentè! What's that sweet thing there, the etching?" How my waistcoat strings want stretching, How my cheeks grow red as tomatoes, How my heart leaps! But hearts, after leaps, ache. “By the bye, you must take, for a keepsake, The fool! would he try a flight farther and say— What was able to take his breath away, A face to lose youth for, to occupy age With the dream of, meet death with,-why, I'll not engage But that, half in a rapture and half in a rage, I should toss him the thing's self-"'Tis only a duplicate, A thing of no value! Take it, I supplicate!" MAY AND DEATH. I WISH that when you died last May, II. A foolish thought, and worse, perhaps ! III. So, for their sake, be May still May! Do all it did for me: I bid Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold. IV. Only, one little sight, one plant, Woods have in May, that starts up green Is spring's blood, spilt its leaves between,— V. That, they might spare; a certain wood Its drop comes from my heart, that's all. A FORGIVENESS. I AM indeed the personage you know. As for my wife,-what happened long ago- Am bound to answer. ("Son, a fit reply!" The monk half spoke, half ground through his clenched teeth, At the confession-grate I knelt beneath.) Thus then all happened, Father! Power and place I had as still I have. I ran life's race, With the whole world to see, as only strains His strength some athlete whose prodigious gains Work freely done should balance happiness Housed she who made home heaven, in heaven's behoof Worked for the world. Look, how the laborer's song One day, perhaps such song so knit the nerve |