‘NOT love me? Even yet?’ half-dreaming, I
whispered and said.
Untarnished, truth-clear eyes; averted,
lovely head;
It was thus she had looked and had listened, how often,
before she was dead.


BOTTLE, coarse tumbler, a loaf of bread,
Cheap paper, lean long kitchen knife:
Nothing of story, sermon or text;
No question of why, or whither, or if;
Just workaday objects put in paint —
Bottle and tumbler, loaf and knife;
And absorbed, round-spectacled Chardin’s
Passion for life.


THIS little smiling Boy
Stretched out his hands to me,
Saying his name was Joy;
Saying all things that seem
Beautiful, wise and true
Never need fade while he
Drenches them through and through with witchery,
Told me that Love’s clear eyes
Pools were without the sky,
Earth without Paradise
Were he not nigh;
Even that Sorrow is
Him in a dark disguise;
And tears light-bright because
Sprung from his eyes.
Then went he singing on
Just like a child, and O
All his sweet converse done,
Where could I go?
What could I do
But seek him up and down —
Thicket and thorn and fell —
Till night in gloom came on Unpierceable?
And lo, unmoved yet pale
Stepped from the dark to me,
Voiced like the nightingale,
Masked, weeping, He.