TO L. H. S.
To mould that lissome form undraped
Ere from its grace the sure young lines escaped!
Straight as the aloe's crested shoot
That blooms a golden month and dies,
She stayed an instant, with one foot
On tiptoe, poising statue-wise,
And stared, and mocked us with her eyes,—
While rippling to her hip's firm swell
The mestee hair, that so outvies
Europe's soft mesh, and holds right well
The Afric sheen, in one dark torrent fell.
Fi, Angélique! we heard them scream,—
What, could that child, in twice her years,
Change to their like from this fair dream!
Fi donc!—But she, as one who hears
And cares not, at her leisure nears
The pool, and toward her mates at play
Plunges,—and laughter filled our ears
As from La Source we turned away
And rode again into the glare of day.
TO L. H. S.
Love, these vagrant songs may woo you
Once again from winter's ruth,—
Once more quicken memories failing
Of those days when we went sailing,
Eager as when first I knew you,
Sailing after my lost youth.
My lost youth, for in my sight you
Had yourself forborne to change
Since that age when we, together,
Made such mock of wind and weather,
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