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I—SONNET

(AFTER THE ITALIAN)

I know not if I love her overmuch;
But this I know, that when unto her face
She lifts her hand, which rests there, still, a space,
Then slowly falls—'t is I who feel that touch.
And when she sudden shakes her head, with such
A look, I soon her secret meaning trace.
So when she runs I think 't is I who race.
Like a poor cripple who has lost his crutch
I am if she is gone; and when she goes,
I know not why, for that is a strange art—
As if myself should from myself depart.
I know not if I love her more than those
Who long her light have known; but for the rose
She covers in her hair, I'd give my heart.

II—SONNET

(AFTER THE ITALIAN)

I like her gentle hand that sometimes strays,
To find the place, through the same book with mine;
I like her feet; and O, those eyes divine!
And when we say farewell, perhaps she stays
Love-lingering—then hurries on her ways,
As if she thought, “To end my pain and thine.”
I like her voice better than new-made wine;
I like the mandolin whereon she plays.
5

And I like, too, the cloak I saw her wear,
And the red scarf that her white neck doth cover,
And well I like the door that she comes through;
I like the riband that doth bind her hair—
But then, in truth, I am that lady's lover,
And every new day there is something new.

III—“A BARREN STRETCH THAT SLANTS TO THE SALT SEA'S GRAY”

“A barren stretch that slants to the salt sea's gray,—
Rock-strewn, and scarred by fire, and rough with stubble,—
With here and there a bold, bright touch of color—
Berries and yellow leaves, that make the dolor
More dolorous still. Above, a sky of trouble.
But now a light is lifted in the air;
And tho' the sky is shadowed, fold on fold,
By clouds that have the lightnings in their hold,
That western gleam makes all the dim earth fair—
And the gray sea gold.

IV—HESITATION

(A PORTRAIT)

To-day I saw the picture of a man
Who, issuing from a wood, doth thrust apart
Strong-matted, thorny branches, whose keen smart
He heeds in nowise, if he only can
Win the red rose a maiden, like a fan,
Holds daintily. She, listening to her heart,
Hath looked another way. Ah, would she start,
And weep, and suffer sorrow, if he ran—
6

For utter love of her, forever back
Into the shadows, which thrice darker were
Because her whiteness made their black more black!
A little while he waits, lest he should err.
Awhile he wonders, secretly.—Alack!
He could so gladly die or live for her.

V—LOVE GROWN BOLD

This is her picture painted ere mine eyes
Her ever holy face had looked upon.
She sitteth in a silence of her own;
Behind her, on the ground, a red rose lies;
Her thinking brow is bent, nor doth arise
Her gaze from that shut book whose word unknown
Her firm hands hide from her; there all alone
She sitteth in thought-trouble, maidenwise.
And now her lover waiting wondereth
Whether the joy of joys is drawing near;
Shall his brave fingers like a tender breath
That shut book open for her, wide and clear?
From him who her sweet shadow worshipeth
Now will she take the rose, and hold it dear?
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