POEMS BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BARRETT.

1. She has laughed as softly as if she sighed; She has counted six and over, Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried— Oh, each a worthy lover! They "give her time;" for her soul must slip Where the world has set the grooving: She will lie to none with her fair red lip— But love seeks truer loving.

2. She trembles her fan in a sweetness dumb, As her thoughts were beyond her recalling; With a glance for one, and a glance for some, From her eyelids rising and falling! —Speaks common words with a blushful air; —Hears bold words, unreproving: But her silence says—what she never will swear— And love seeks better loving.

3. Go, lady! lean to the night-guitar, And drop a smile to the bringer; Then smile as sweetly, when he is far, At the voice of an in-door singer! Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes; Glance lightly, on their removing; And join new vows to old perjuries— But dare not call it loving!

4. Unless you can think, when the song is done, No other is soft in the rhythm; Unless you can feel, when left by One, That all men beside go with him; Unless you can know, when unpraised by his breath, That your beauty itself wants proving; Unless you can swear—"For life, for death!"— Oh, fear to call it loving!

5. Unless you can muse, in a crowd all day, On the absent face that fixed you; Unless you can love, as the angels may, With the breadth of heaven betwixt you; Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, Through behoving and unbehoving; Unless you can die when the dream is past— Oh, never call it loving!

1. Love me, sweet, with all thou art, Feeling, thinking, seeing,— Love me in the lightest part, Love me in full being.

2. Love me with thine open youth In its frank surrender; With the vowing of thy mouth, With its silence tender.

3. Love me with thine azure eyes, Made for earnest granting! Taking colour from the skies, Can heaven's truth be wanting?

4. Love me with their lids, that fall Snow-like at first meeting! Love me with thine heart, that all The neighbours then see beating.

5. Love me with thine hand stretched out Freely—open-minded! Love me with thy loitering foot,— Hearing one behind it.

6. Love me with thy voice, that turns Sudden faint above me! Love me with thy blush that burns When I murmur 'Love me!'

7. Love me with thy thinking soul— Break it to love-sighing; Love me with thy thoughts that roll On through living—dying.

8. Love me in thy gorgeous airs, When the world has crowned thee! Love me, kneeling at thy prayers, With the angels round thee.

9. Love me pure, as musers do, Up the woodlands shady! Love me gaily, fast, and true, As a winsome lady.

10. Through all hopes that keep us brave, Further off or nigher, Love me for the house and grave,— And for something higher.

11. Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, Woman's love no fable, I will love thee—half-a-year— As a man is able.

1. He listened at the porch that day To hear the wheel go on, and on, And then it stopped—ran back away— While through the door he brought the sun. But now my spinning is all done.

2. He sate beside me, with an oath That love ne'er ended, once begun; I smiled—believing for us both, What was the truth for only one. And now my spinning is all done.

3. My mother cursed me that I heard A young man's wooing as I spun. Thanks, cruel mother, for that word, For I have, since, a harder known! And now my spinning is all done.

4. I thought—O God!—my first-born's cry Both voices to my ear would drown! I listened in mine agony—— It was the silence made me groan! And now my spinning is all done.

5. Bury me 'twixt my mother's grave, Who cursed me on her death-bed lone, And my dead baby's—(God it save!) Who, not to bless me, would not moan. And now my spinning is all done.

6. A stone upon my heart and head, But no name written on the stone! Sweet neighbours! whisper low instead, "This sinner was a loving one— And now her spinning is all done."

7. And let the door ajar remain, In case that he should pass anon; And leave the wheel out very plain, That he, when passing in the sun, May see the spinning is all done.

1. O rose! who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But barren, and hard, and dry, as stubble-wheat, Kept seven years in a drawer—thy titles shame thee.

2. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedge-thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,— If breathing now,—unsweetened would forego thee.

3. The sun that used to light thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,— If shining now,—with not a hue would dight thee.

4. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined, because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,— If dropping now,—would darken where it met thee.

5. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet, Along the leaf's pure edges after heat,— If lighting now,—would coldly overrun thee.

6. The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,— If passing now,—would blindly overlook thee.

7. The heart doth recognise thee, Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete— Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

8. Yes and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold!—— Lie still upon this heart—which breaks below thee!

1. Three months ago, the stream did flow, The lilies bloomed along the edge; And we were lingering to and fro,— Where none will track thee in this snow, Along the stream, beside the hedge. Ah! sweet, be free to come and go; For if I do not hear thy foot, The frozen river is as mute,— The flowers have dried down to the root; And why, since these be changed since May, Shouldst thou change less than they?

2. And slow, slow as the winter snow, The tears have drifted to mine eyes; And my two cheeks, three months ago, Set blushing at thy praises so, Put paleness on for a disguise. Ah! sweet, be free to praise and go; For if my face is turned to pale, It was thine oath that first did fail,— It was thy love proved false and frail! And why, since these be changed, I trow, Should I change less than thou?

I am no trumpet, but a reed! No flattering breath shall from me lead A silver sound, a hollow sound! I will not ring, for priest or king, One blast that, in re-echoing, Would leave a bondsman faster bound.

I am no trumpet, but a reed,— A broken reed, the wind indeed Left flat upon a dismal shore! Yet if a little maid, or child, Should sigh within it, earnest-mild, This reed will answer evermore.

I am no trumpet, but a reed! Go, tell the fishers, as they spread Their nets along the river's edge,— I will not tear their nets at all, Nor pierce their hands—if they should fall: Then let them leave me in the sedge.

1. Nine years old! First years of any Seem the best of all that come!— Yet when I was nine, I said Unlike things!—I thought, instead, That the Greeks used just as many In besieging Ilium.

2. Nine green years had scarcely brought me To my childhood's haunted spring,— I had life, like flowers and bees, In betwixt the country trees, And the sun, the pleasure, taught me Which he teacheth every thing.

3. If the rain fell, there was sorrow;— Little head leant on the pane,— Little finger tracing down it The long trailing drops upon it,— And the "Rain, rain, come to-morrow," Said for charm against the rain.

4. And the charm was right Canidian, Though you meet it with a jeer! If I said it long enough, Then the rain hummed dimly off; And the thrush, with his pure Lydian, Was the loudest sound to hear.

5. And the sun and I together Went a-rushing out of doors! We, our tender spirits, drew Over hill and dale in view, Glimmering hither, glimmering thither, In the footsteps of the showers.

6. Underneath the chestnuts dripping, Through the grasses wet and fair, Straight I sought my garden-ground, With the laurel on the mound; And the pear-tree oversweeping A side-shadow of green air.

7. While hard by, there lay supinely A huge giant, wrought of spade! Arms and legs were stretched at length, In a passive giant strength,— And the meadow turf, cut finely, Round them laid and interlaid.

8. Call him Hector, son of Priam! Such his title and degree. With my rake I smoothed his brow, And his cheeks I weeded through: But a rhymer such as I am Scarce can sing his dignity.

9. Eyes of gentianella's azure, Staring, winking at the skies; Nose of gillyflowers and box; Scented grasses, put for locks— Which a little breeze, at pleasure, Set a-waving round his eyes.

10. Brazen helm of daffodillies, With a glitter for the light; Purple violets, for the mouth, Breathing perfumes west and south; And a sword of flashing lilies, Holden ready for the fight.

11. And a breastplate, made of daisies, Closely fitting, leaf by leaf; Periwinkles interlaced Drawn for belt about the waist; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief.

12. And who knows, (I sometimes wondered,) If the disembodied soul Of old Hector, once of Troy, Might not take a dreary joy Here to enter—if it thundered, Rolling up the thunder-roll?

13. Rolling this way, from Troy-ruin, To this body rude and rife, He might enter and take rest 'Neath the daisies of the breast— They, with tender roots, renewing His heroic heart to life.

14. Who could know? I sometimes started At a motion or a sound; Did his mouth speak—naming Troy, With an οτοτοτοτοι? Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted Make the daisies tremble round?

15. It was hard to answer, often! But the birds sang in the tree— But the little birds sang bold, In the pear-tree green and old; And my terror seemed to soften, Through the courage of their glee.

16. Oh, the birds, the trees, the ruddy And white blossoms, sleek with rain! Oh, my garden, rich with pansies! Oh, my childhood's bright romances! All revive, like Hector's body, And I see them stir again!

17. And despite life's changes—chances, And despite the deathbell's toll, They press on me in full seeming!— Help, some angel! stay this dreaming! As the birds sang in the branches, Sing God's patience through my soul!

18. That no dreamer, no neglecter, Of the present's work unsped, I may wake up and be doing, Life's heroic ends pursuing, Though my past is dead as Hector, And though Hector is twice dead.