HER TEMPLE



Dear, think not that they will forget you:
--If craftsmanly art should be mine
I will build up a temple, and set you
Therein as its shrine.

They may say: "Why a woman such honour?"
--Be told, "O, so sweet was her fame,
That a man heaped this splendour upon her;
None now knows his name."



A TWO-YEARS' IDYLL



Yes; such it was;
Just those two seasons unsought,
Sweeping like summertide wind on our ways;
Moving, as straws,
Hearts quick as ours in those days;
Going like wind, too, and rated as nought
Save as the prelude to plays