A house is a house of brick and stone,
If once from its threshold love has flown;
But a house is a home, — oh precious word,
If love nests there like a singing bird!

Of two things one: with Chaucer let me ride,
And hear the Pilgrims' tales; or, that denied,
Let me with Petrarch in a dew-sprent grove
Ring endless changes on the bells of love.

Love came, one night, his wings all wet,
And put his face against the pane,
And shook his ringlets in the rain;
When soon I heard the sweetest noise,
Made 'twixt the wind, his wings and voice;
I heard it, and I hear it yet.

What could I do but ope the door,
And take him softly from the storm,
And rub his rosy body warm,
And hang to dry the slackened bow
And silver arrows, dripping so,
And make him happy as before?

I wist not what he was about:
He took an arrow dry and clean,

I

The pussy-willow and the hazel know,
The bluebird and the robin, what rings true;
I trust to such, and let the whiners go.
Bravo! bluff March; I swing my hat to you.

II

Bring, bluebird, from the blue above
The song Love's heavenly own;
See! hand in hand, come Spring and Love —
Or is it Love alone?

They flush with their love and fill their breasts with it
And say short words, not knowing what they say,
Their meetings have contents and covers,
Jewels and lids. . . .

They can count their love.

How different, O beloved stranger,
Have our meetings been,
When I may not say my love! —
Meetings of mountain and desert,
Open to the wind,
With snow far-off, like a cry,
And on edges of cactus
Red drops
Of the blood of silence.

The look in your eyes
Was as soft as the underside of soap in a soap-dish ...

And I left before you could love me.

O sweet and cool is the redstart's song
As it scatters the heat;
And sweet is the whisper of winds along
A child-crowded street;
Sweet is the music when lovers rejoice,
And Song may beguile —
But sweeter still is my true love's voice
And her blossoming smile.

O soft and swift are the feet of Spring
As she dances alone;
And soft is the scent of flowers that cling
To a sheltering stone.
Light as a butterfly that dips
Through a blue abyss, —
And softer still are my true love's lips
And her silken kiss.

(A Circle Dance)

Mambru went forth to battle.
Long live Love!
I listen for his coming feet.
The rose on the rosebush blossoms sweet.

He will come back by Easter.
Long live Love!
He will come back by Christmas-tide.
The rose on the bush has drooped and died.

Down the road a page is riding.
Long live Love!
" Oh, what are the tiding that you bear? "
The rose on the bush is budding fair.

Love that seeth best through tears,
Love by holy sorrow shriven,
Knows that length of living years
Could not give what Death has given.

What is fair, the seasons fret;
What is strong, like glass is shivered;
But immortal youth is set
On her brows from care delivered.

Blithe by fragrant ways she trod
Up the hill her loss leaves arid;
Where the summit touches God,
Slipped her sandals off and tarried.

Life full-blossomed into bliss,
Every hurt with love to heal it,
— Time, too poor for bettering this,

When it befortunes us, who love so dearly,
To hurt each other, let us haste to wring
This joy from our remorseful passioning, —
The wound is witness that we love sincerely.
So slight a weapon, word or silence merely,
Would scarce effect surprisal of a sting,
Were't not my word, thy silence, for we cling
One soul together. Life allots austerely
Unto the rose of love the thorny power
To tear the heart, but ah, love's anodyne!
The prick but proves the presence of the flower,
Our one white rose from gardens all divine.