And yet, mayhap, it hinted true.
Ere moonrise, Love, a hand was stretched
In mine, that gave me--you!

And so more dear to me has grown,
Than rarest tones swept from the lyre,
The minor-movement of that moan
In yonder singing wire.

Nor care I for the will of states.
Or aught besides, that smites that string,
Since then so close it knit our fates,
What time the bird took wing!



MOODS OF LOVE.


I.

IN ABSENCE.

My love for thee is like a winged seed
Blown from the heart of thy rare beauty's flower,
And deftly guided by some breezy power
To fall and rest, where I should never heed,
In deepest caves of memory. There, indeed,
With virtue rife of many a sunny hoar,--
Ev'n making cold neglect and darkness dower