"Slain is the craftsman, the one friend alone
Able to honor the man who creates.
I slew him--_I_, who am poet! O fates,
Grant that the envious blade slaying artists shall
make them undying!"






"AT THE GOLDEN GATE"

Before the golden gate she stands,
With drooping head, with idle hands
Loose-clasped, and bent beneath the weight
Of unseen woe. Too late, too late!
Those carved and fretted,
Starred, resetted
Panels shall not open ever
To her who seeks the perfect mate.

Only the tearless enter there:
Only the soul that, like a prayer,
No bolt can stay, no wall may bar,
Shall dream the dreams grief cannot mar.
No door of cedar,
Alas, shall lead her
Unto the stream that shows forever
Love's face like some reflected star!