Her very soul drawn to the glittering, green,
Smooth, lustrous, awful, lovely curve of peril;
While far below the bending sea of beryl
Thunder and tumult—whence a billowy spray
Enclouds the day.
II
What dream is hers? No dream hath wrought that spell!
The long waves rise and sink;
Pity that virgin soul on passion's brink,
Confronting Fate,—swift, unescapable,—
Fate, which of nature is the intent and core,
And dark and strong as the steep river's pour,
Cruel as love, and wild as love's first kiss!
Ah, God! the abyss!
THE CHILD-GARDEN
In the child-garden buds and blows
A blossom lovelier than the rose.
If all the flowers of all the earth
In one garden broke to birth,
Not the fairest of the fair
Could with this sweet bloom compare;
Nor would all their shining be
Peer to its lone bravery.
Fairer than the rose, I say?
Fairer than the sun-bright day
In whose rays all glories show,
All beauty is, all blossoms blow;
