forms

Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream -by these

Three Queens with crowns of gold—and from them rose

A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind, that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one
comes,

Or hath come, since the making of the world.

Then murmur'd Arthur, 'Place me in the barge,'

And to the barge they came. There those three Queens

Put forth their hands, and took the King,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done

That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of

prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy fair with orchardlawns

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer

sea,

I know not but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time of year

The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn: Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,

'There now-that's nothing!' drew a little back,

And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,

That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue: And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd To sail with Arthur under looming shores, Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

bore

Portion'd in halves between us, that we

grew

The fable of the city where we dwelt.

Like poets, from the vanity of song?
Or have they any sense of why they sing?
And would they praise the heavens for
what they have?'

And I made answer, 'Were there nothing else

ground!

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd

Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air

Which brooded round about her :

'Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,

Were worth a hundred kisses press'd on lips

Less exquisite than thine.'

She look'd but all Suffused with blushes-neither self-pos

sess'd

Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that,

Divided in a graceful quiet-paused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound

Her looser hair in braid, and stirr'd her lips

For some sweet answer, tho' no answer came,

Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks.

I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho' I linger'd there Till every daisy slept, and Love's white

star

Beam'd thro' the thicken'd cedar in the dusk.

So home we went, and all the livelong way

And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the giving-such a noise of life

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice

Call'd to me from the years to come, and such

A length of bright horizon rimm'd the dark.

And all that night I heard the watchman peal

The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours.

The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good,
O'er the mute city stole with folded wings,
Distilling odours on me as they went
To greet their fairer sisters of the East.
Love at first sight, first-born, and heir
to all,
Henceforward

Made this night thus.
squall nor storm

Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt.

Light pretexts drew me; sometimes a

Dutch love

For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city rooms; or fruits and

cream

Served in the weeping elm; and more and

more

A word could bring the colour to my cheek;

A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew;

Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased.

of Art.

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,—the Master, Love,

A more ideal Artist he than all.'

pass'd;

Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the

shade;

And each in passing touch'd with some new grace

for joy,

Reading her perfect features in the gloom,

day,

Like one that never can be wholly known,