Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning—

Love not! love not! ye hopeless sons of clay; Hope’s gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers— Things that are made to fade and fall away, Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours.

Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay.

We have been friends together In sunshine and in shade. Since first beneath the chestnut-tree In fancy we played But coldness dwells within thine heart A cloud is on thy brow.

I am listening for the voices Which I heard in days of old.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears.

O Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth To dim enchantments; melting heaven with earth, Leaving on craggy hills and running streams A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.