The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist― A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed,

That wild morning, Barbara!

I searched in my despair,

Sunny noon and midnight air;

I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.

O many and
many a winter night I sat when you were gone,
My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone.
Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your

stone,

You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think

Of the precious golden link

I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?

Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and guitars, Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticebars,

The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed;

Wild and far my heart has ranged,

And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged;
But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked:
I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact—
Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract.
Still I love you, Barbara!

Yet, love, I am unblest;
With many doubts oppressed,

I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.

Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore, The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told you

more

Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore

Will you teach me, Barbara?

In vain, in vain, in vain!

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain; The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded

sea,

There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and thee, Barbara!

Alexander Smith [1830-1867]

SONG

WHEN I am dead, my dearest,

Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress-tree:
Be the green grass above me

With showers and dewdrops wet;

And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:

And dreaming through the twilight

That doth not rise nor set,

Haply I may remember

And haply may forget.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

TOO LATE

From "The Prince's Progress"

Too late for love, too late for joy,

Too late, too late!

You loitered on the road too long,

You trifled at the gate.

Too Late

The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;

The enchanted princess in her tower

Slept, died, behind the grate;

Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

Ten years ago, five years ago,

One year ago,

Even then you had arrived in time,

Though somewhat slow;

Then you had known her living face

Which now you cannot know;

The frozen fountain would have leaped,
The buds gone on to blow,

The warm south wind would have awaked
To melt the snow.

Is she fair now as she lies?

Once she was fair;

Meet queen for any kingly king,

With gold-dust on her hair.
Now there are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

We never saw her with a smile

Or with a frown;

Her bed seemed never soft to her,

Though tossed of down;

She little heeded what she wore

Kirtle, or wreath, or gown;

We think her white brows often ached

Beneath her crown,

Till silvery hairs showed in her locks

That used to be so brown.

1073

We never heard her speak in haste:

Her tones were sweet,

And modulated just so much

As it was meet;

Her heart sat silent through the noise
And concourse of the street;
There was no hurry in her hands,

No hurry in her feet;

There was no bliss drew nigh to her,
That she might run to greet.

You should have met her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:

But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?

Lo, we who love weep not to-day,

But crown her royal head.

Let be these poppies that we strew,

Your roses are too red:

Let be these poppies, not for you

Cut down and spread.

Christina Georgina Rossetti [1830-1894]

LINES

IN the merry hay-time we raked side by side,
In the harvest he whispered-Wilt thou be my bride?
And my girl-heart bounded-Forgive, God, the crime,
If I loved him more than Thee in the merry hay-time.

In the sad hay-time I sit on the grass,

The scythe whistles clear, the merry mowers pass;
But he comes never, for under the lime

Is a long, low hillock since the last hay-time.

HELEN

C. J. Paul [18

THE autumn seems to cry for thee,
Best lover of the autumn days!
Each scarlet-tipped and wine-red tree,

Each russet branch and branch of gold,

Gleams through its veil of shimmering haze,
And seeks thee as they sought of old:
For all the glory of their dress,
They wear a look of wistfulness.

In every wood I see thee stand,
The ruddy boughs above thy head,
And heaped in either slender hand

The frosted white and amber ferns,
The sumach's deep, resplendent red,
Which like a fiery feather burns,
And, over all, thy happy eyes,
Shining as clear as autumn skies.

I hear thy call upon the breeze,
Gay as the dancing wind, and sweet,
And, underneath the radiant trees,
O'er lichens gray and darkling moss,
Follow the trace of those light feet

Which never were at fault or loss,

But, by some forest instinct led,

Knew where to turn and how to tread.

Where art thou, comrade true and tried?
The woodlands call for thee in vain,

And sadly burns the autumn-tide
Before my eyes, made dim and blind
By blurring, puzzling mists of pain.
I look before, I look behind;
Beauty and loss seem everywhere,
And grief and glory fill the air.

Already, in these few short weeks,

A hundred things I leave unsaid,
Because there is no voice that speaks
In answer, and no listening ear,
No one to care now thou art dead!

And month by month, and year by year,

I shall but miss thee more, and go

With half my thought untold, I know.