Till storm, and sun, and night, vast with her stars,
Would seem an oft-told story,
And the old sorrow of heroic wars
Be faded of its glory;

Till, hearing, while June's roses blew their musk,
The noise of field and city,
The human struggle, sinking tired at dusk,
I felt no thrill of pity;

Till dawn should come without her old desire,
And day brood o'er her stages, --
O let me die, too frail for nature's hire,
And rest a million ages.




She Being Young



The home of love is her blue eyes,
Wherein all joy, all beauty lies,
More sweet than hopes of paradise,
She being young.

Speak of her with a miser's praise;
She craves no golden speech; her ways