Collected Works (Vol. II)

68 ALICE: AN ADULTERY THE ELEVENTH DAY. ‘‘ What win I ifI gain the thing I seek?”’ Rape of Lucrece. THERE is much sorcery in the word eleven. I took my lover’s image pale and clear, Fixed in my mind; I saw her standing near, Wooed her, conjured her by the power of heaven, Of my own mind, the Genii of the Seven, To come and live with me and be my dear, To love me in the spirit without fear ;— Leaving the body’s love to follow at even. Seemeth it not absurd? to use the thought, The utterly divine impersonal Mind of a man, the pure, the spiritual, To such a purpose rather less than nought, A woman’s love—considering that all Wise men assure us that it may be bought! THE TWELFTH DAY. ‘* T grant thou wert not married to my Muse And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlook The dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subjects.”’ The Sonnets. I LEARNT at last some sort of confidence, Called me the fool I was, knowing my skill Proven of old, all women’s native will To do all things soever that lack sense, Especially if evil : thoughts immense Like this I thought: plumes of my amorous quill I tickled her withal: then grave and still Waited secure: the silence grew intense. She read—and saw me but a beardless boy, Too young to fear, too gentle not to pity, Not overbold ; quite powerless to destroy Her life’s long peace, the ten-year-walléd city. Why be too cruel, check such baby joy? She said “I think the poem very pretty.” RED POPPY.? I HAVE no heart to sing. What offering may I bring, Alice, to thee? My great love's lifted wing Weakens, unwearying, And droops with me, Seeing the sun-kindled hair Close in the face more fair, The sweet soul shining there For God to see. Surely some angel shed Flowers for the maiden head, Ephemeral flowers ! I yearn, not comforted. My heart has vainly bled - Through age-long hours. To thee my spirit turns ; My bright soul aches and burns, As a dry valley yearns For spring and showers. Splendid, remote, a fane Alone and unprofane, I know thy breast. These bitter tears of pain Flood me, and fall again Not into rest. Me, whose sole purpose is To gain one gainless kiss, And make a bird’s my bliss, Shrined in that nest. 1 She had been married ten years. 2 The poem in question,