The tall house lowers grimly,
⁠Deformed by smoke and rain;
And the bleared sunshine dimly
⁠Blinks on the window-pane.

Though sore and numb her fingers,
⁠And slowly fades the light,
The girl nor rests nor lingers,
⁠But sews from morn till night.

Her bright young face is sunken,
⁠And fails her gentle breath;
Her fair young form is shrunken,
⁠To fit the robes of death.

And I think of the woodland shadows
⁠That she has never seen;
Of the wonder of song in the meadows,
⁠When all the world is green.

But now the close lips quiver,
⁠The nimble hands are slow, —
The voice she dreams of ever
⁠Rings in the room below.

The mad young poet is singing,
⁠With only a crust to eat;
But a fountain of light is springing
⁠Up from the narrow street.

And whether he sings in sorrow,
⁠Or whether he sings in glee,
He hopes that the world to-morrow
⁠Will list to his melody.

And I think though his heart were burning
⁠With words no man e'er said,
The world would be turning and turning
⁠If to-morrow he were dead.

Only, both late and early,
⁠The girl, as maidens will,
Dreams when the voice comes clearly
⁠Up to her window-sill.

A brave face has she found him,
⁠A manner frank and gay,
And long ago has crowned him
⁠With myrtle wreath or bay.

A good sword clanging loudly,
⁠A plume on waving hair,
A cloak that drapes him proudly,
⁠Such as the players wear.

So whether in glee or sadness
⁠He sings, he has won the prize,
When he brings the light of gladness
⁠To a dying maiden's eyes.

All love-adepts, all faithful hearts who wear
⁠In love's sweet prime — his hour of blossoming —
⁠The full, harmonious colors of his spring,
O think not when they fail ye shall go bare;

Take heart, his very mourning still is fair,
⁠Ay, tho' the world its hail of pity fling,
⁠Cutting as scorn, no meaner, earthlier thing,
Can match the royal robe of Love's despair!

Put on his weeds, then, ye who fear to sleep,
⁠Because ye fear to wake to grief new-blown;
Rise, bear sweet spices to the grave, and weep
⁠Love's balmy tears, there where by Love o'erthrown,
Death leaves but empty cerements in a heap,
⁠And Love for love still rolls away the stone.

 Fair friends of Love, who fear to take his pay,
⁠Counting his service loss, his joys too brief,
⁠Too much o'erweighted by his long-drawn grief,
Try his conclusions, ere ye say him nay.

What though his servants walk at close of day,
⁠And hold sad commune o'er some vanished chief,
⁠Not for love's death, but birth of high belief,
Their hearts still burn within them by the way.

They know their love is living, and take shame
⁠That they one moment sought him with the dead;
They feel their love immortal, by the flame
⁠That burns the brighter as it burns unfed.
So weeping, sing Love's praise, who could reframe
⁠The universe whence all but love had fled.

⁠⁠To feast in high state
⁠⁠Like a Persian, I hate;
Wreaths of linden I care not to braid.
⁠⁠Then cease, boy, to look
⁠⁠Through each leafy nook
For the summer's last rose ere it fade.

⁠⁠The myrtle alone
⁠⁠Has a charm all its own;
I forbid thee aught else to entwine.
⁠⁠It is fairest for thee,
⁠⁠It is sweetest for me,
While I quaff 'neath the close-arching vine.
Saint Léonard, December 29, 1876.