The Gentlest Lady

They say He was a serious child, And quiet in His ways; They say the gentlest lady smiled To hear the neighbors’ praise. The coffers of her heart would close Upon their smaliest word.

Fair Weather

This level reach of blue is not my sea; Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun, Whose quiet ripples meet obediently A marked and measured line, one after one. This is no sea

Braggart

The days will rally, wreathing Their crazy tarantelle; And you must go on breathing, But I’ll be safe in hell. Like January weather, The years will bite and smart, And pull your bones together

Ultimatum

I’m wearied of wearying love, my friend, Of worry and strain and doubt; Before we begin, let us view the end, And maybe I’ll do without. There’s never the pang that was worth the

Sonnet On An Alpine Night

My hand, a little raised, might press a star- Where I may look, the frosted peaks are spun, So shaped before Olympus was begun, Spanned each to each, now, by a silver bar. Thus

The Last Question

New love, new love, where are you to lead me? All along a narrow way that marks a crooked line. How are you to slake me, and how are you to feed me? With

The New Love

If it shine or if it rain, Little will I care or know. Days, like drops upon a pane, Slip, and join, and go. At my door’s another lad; Here’s his flower in my

Roundel

She’s passing fair; but so demure is she, So quiet is her gown, so smooth her hair, That few there are who note her and agree She’s passing fair. Yet when was ever beauty

One Perfect Rose

A single flow’r he sent me, since we met. All tenderly his messenger he chose; Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet – One perfect rose. I knew the language of the floweret; ‘My

Solace

There was a rose that faded young; I saw its shattered beauty hung Upon a broken stem. I heard them say, “What need to care With roses budding everywhere?” I did not answer them.

Fable

Oh, there once was a lady, and so I’ve been told, Whose lover grew weary, whose lover grew cold. “My child,” he remarked, “though our episode ends, In the manner of men, I suggest

Condolence

They hurried here, as soon as you had died, Their faces damp with haste and sympathy, And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee, And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.

Song Of One Of The Girls

Here in my heart I am Helen; I’m Aspasia and Hero, at least. I’m Judith, and Jael, and Madame de Stael; I’m Salome, moon of the East. Here in my soul I am Sappho;

Wail

Love has gone a-rocketing. That is not the worst; I could do without the thing, And not be the first. Joy has gone the way it came. That is nothing new; I could get
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