I deck myself with silks and jewelry,

I plume myself like any mated dove:

They praise my rustling show, and never see
My heart is breaking for a little love.
While sprouts green lavender

With rosemary and myrrh,

For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
And cry one to another full of ruth,

"Her heart is breaking for a little love."
Though other things have birth,

And leap and sing for mirth,

When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe"; Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove True best is last, true life is born of death,

O thou, heart-broken for a little love!

Then love shall fill thy girth,

And love make fat thy dearth,

When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."

LIFE AND DEATH.

L'

IFE is not sweet.

One day it will be sweet

To shut our eyes and die :

Nor feel the wild-flowers blow, nor birds dart by
With flitting butterfly,

Nor grass grow long above our heads and feet,
Nor hear the happy lark that soars sky high,
Nor sigh that spring is fleet and summer fleet,
Nor mark the waxing wheat,

Nor know who sits in our accustomed seat.

Life is not good. One day it will be good
To die, then live again;

To sleep meanwhile: so not to feel the wane
Of shrunk leaves dropping in the wood,

Nor hear the foamy lashing of the main,

Nor mark the blackened bean-fields, nor where stood

Rich ranks of golden grain,

Only dead refuse stubble clothe the plain :

Asleep from risk, asleep from pain.

BIRD OR BEAST?

ID any bird come flying

D'After Adam and Eve,

When the door was shut against them And they sat down to grieve?

I think not Eve's peacock
Splendid to see,

And I think not Adam's eagle;

But a dove may be.

Did any beast come pushing
Through the thorny hedge
Into the thorny, thistly world
Out from Eden's edge?

I think not a lion,

Though his strength is such :

But an innocent loving lamb

May have done as much.

If the dove preached from her bough And the lamb from his sod,

The lamb and the dove

Were preachers sent from God.

ΙΟ

EVE.

"W

HILE I sit at the door,
Sick to gaze within,

Mine eye weepeth sore

For sorrow and sin :

As a tree my sin stands

To darken all lands;

Death is the fruit it bore.

"How have Eden bowers grown
Without Adam to bend them!
How have Eden flowers blown,
Squandering their sweet breath,
Without me to tend them!
The Tree of Life was ours,
Tree twelvefold-fruited,
Most lofty tree that flowers,
Most deeply rooted:

I chose the Tree of Death.

"Hadst thou but said me nay,

Adam, my brother,

I might have pined away;
I, but none other :

God might have let thee stay
Safe in our garden,

By putting me away
Beyond all pardon.

"I, Eve, sad mother

Of all who must live,
I, not another,

Plucked bitterest fruit to give
My friend, husband, lover.
O wanton eyes run over!
Who but I should grieve? -
Cain hath slain his brother:
Of all who must die mother,
Miserable Eve!"

Thus she sat weeping,
Thus Eve, our mother,
Where one lay sleeping
Slain by his brother.
Greatest and least
Each piteous beast
To hear her voice
Forgot his joys

And set aside his feast.

The mouse paused in his walk
And dropped his wheaten stalk;
Grave cattle wagged their heads
In rumination;

The eagle gave a cry
From his cloud station;