A VALENTINE

At last, dear love, the day is gone, The doors are barred—the lamps are lit, The couch beside the fire is drawn, The nook where thou wert wont to sit;

The book is open at the place, And half its leaves are still uncut, And yet without thy listening face, I cannot read, the book I shut,

And muse, and dream:—it is the day When lovers, silent all the year, Find tongues in floral tokens gay, To whisper all they long to hear.

Ah, many a time, and many a time I saw the question in thine eyes, Where is the silver-sounding rhyme, The simple household melodies,

The harp that trembled to thy touch; Hast thou forgot thine early lore? And know'st not that I love so much, That song contents my heart no more.

For thou hast made my life so sweet, With dainty gifts thy dear hands bring, Rich with thine affluence, and complete, I have no longing left to sing.

And yet, I have such vast desires, Such thirst for some great destiny, That all the poet's weaker fires Burn into prophecies for thee.

The circle of our home could make The boundaries of my world, but thine So splendid is,—for thy dear sake, I fain would push the bounds of mine.

For this I study as I may To walk with thee, the world of mind, To follow where thou lead'st the way, A step,—but just a step behind.

Thy hand in mine, thine earnest eyes Fixed ever on the radiant goal, Together shall we climb the skies, And mingle there, one perfect soul.

SNOW-DROPS

Dimly and dumbly under the ground, Groping the walls of their prison round, The roots of the aged and garrulous trees Are sending electrical messages From the under-world to the world without And quickening pulses that course in each Fettered and bound and frozen thing, Rootlets that tremble, and fibres that reach Are pushing inanimate fingers out, To ask further inarticulate speech For tidings of Spring

And the fine invisible sprite which dwells In cups and discs, in blossoms and bells, Fleeter than Ariel's wing hath flown Beyond this cloudy and frozen zone, To the summer land of the South, Beyond those rugged sentinels Which winter sets in the snow-capped hills, From the breath of whose cruel mouth, Sighing, the leaves in forest and wold, Shivered and died in the nights a'cold, Died and were buried under the snow, Long moons ago.

Now over the tropic's broad ellipse The sprite hath passed, as fleet and fast As the light of falling stars, that cast A sudden radiance and eclipse; And all the buds that are folded close As the inner leaves of an unblown rose, In bulb, or cone, or scale, or sheath, And sealed with the odorous gums that breathe Like the breath of the singing and sighing pine, When the dews are falling at evening time, Through cone, and sheath, and bulb, and scale— Tremble, and cry All hail!

And look where a rosier beam hath cleft The damp and fragrant-smelling earth, A handful of snow-drops peeping forth; As if King Winter had dropped and left— Stumbling and tripping the steep hills down— Had clutched his robe and dropped his crown: Or as if the very snow had power, Out of itself to fashion a flower; So vase-like, slender, and exquisite, Like an alabaster lamp alit,—

And shining with a sea-green light, As if it had but newly come Up from some subterranean palace, The haunt of fairy or of gnome, With its waxen taper still alight, And beaming in its leafy chalice, That lit the revellers down below, When the nights were long, and the moon was low You might have heard, far-off and sweet, The sound of the elfin revelries, Like a bugle strain blown over seas, And the patter and beat of dancing feet,— If you had been like me awake, What time the Great Bear seems to shake, Down through the trackless realms of air, Frost-lances from his shaggy hair; And all around—beneath—across, The round globe lies stabbed through with frost.

Now the touches of the sun, Like some potent alchemist, In heat and dews, in rain and mist, As in a subtle menstruum, Hath dissolved the icy charm, And laid on that cold breast of hers,— Nature's breast—that faintly stirs, With his fragrant kisses warm, Sweet as myrrh and cinnamon,— Snow-drops, spring's bright harbingers, First-born children of the sun.

Like a sudden burst of leaf and bloom, The sun shines redly through the gloom, And the wind with its many melodies Hath a murmurous sound like the noise of bees, Singing and humming,—blowing and growing, Of springing blade, and of fountain flowing; And night and silence under the ground Listen—and thrill—and move to the sound, And answer, Spring is coming!