Of all, save but the idol of his soul,
Seeks not his loving ardour to control.
Mark how he proudly treads the whitened deck!

"My bride, my bride, my lone soul's best beloved,
Come forth, come forth! Where art thou, Isobel?--
Pallid, and wan! Lord, hath it thus befell

This is but dust; where has the spirit roved?
O death-cold bride! for this, then, have I strove?
O phantom ship, O loveless wraith of Love!"





SURRENDER

A day of sunshine in a land of snow,
And a soft-curtained room, where ruddy flakes
Of fame fall free, in liquid light that slakes
The soft desire of one cold, paleface: lo,

Close-pressed sweet lips, and eyes of violet,
That are filled up as with a sudden fear--
A storm's prelude upon the expectant mere.
Yet deep behind what never they forget,

Who ever see in life's chance or mischance.
And he who saw, what could he do but say,