Part 30

I gave myself to him, And took himself for pay. The solemn contract of a life Was ratified this way.

The wealth might disappoint, Myself a poorer prove Than this great purchaser suspect, The daily own of Love

Depreciate the vision; But, till the merchant buy, Still fable, in the isles of spice, The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 't is mutual risk, -- Some found it mutual gain; Sweet debt of Life, -- each night to owe, Insolvent, every noon.

THE LETTER.

"GOING to him! Happy letter! Tell him -- Tell him the page I didn't write; Tell him I only said the syntax, And left the verb and the pronoun out. Tell him just how the fingers hurried, Then how they waded, slow, slow, slow; And then you wished you had eyes in your pages, So you could see what moved them so.

"Tell him it wasn't a practised writer, You guessed, from the way the sentence toiled; You could hear the bodice tug, behind you, As if it held but the might of a child; You almost pitied it, you, it worked so. Tell him -- No, you may quibble there, For it would split his heart to know it, And then you and I were silenter.

"Tell him night finished before we finished, And the old clock kept neighing 'day!' And you got sleepy and begged to be ended -- What could it hinder so, to say? Tell him just how she sealed you, cautious, But if he ask where you are hid Until to-morrow, -- happy letter! Gesture, coquette, and shake your head!"

VI.

The way I read a letter 's this: 'T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next, For transport it be sure.

And then I go the furthest off To counteract a knock; Then draw my little letter forth And softly pick its lock.

Then, glancing narrow at the wall, And narrow at the floor, For firm conviction of a mouse Not exorcised before,

Peruse how infinite I am To -- no one that you know! And sigh for lack of heaven, -- but not The heaven the creeds bestow.

VII.

Wild nights! Wild nights! Were I with thee, Wild nights should be Our luxury!

Futile the winds To a heart in port, -- Done with the compass, Done with the chart.

Rowing in Eden! Ah! the sea! Might I but moor To-night in thee!

VIII.

AT HOME.

The night was wide, and furnished scant With but a single star, That often as a cloud it met Blew out itself for fear.

The wind pursued the little bush, And drove away the leaves November left; then clambered up And fretted in the eaves.

No squirrel went abroad; A dog's belated feet Like intermittent plush were heard Adown the empty street.

To feel if blinds be fast, And closer to the fire Her little rocking-chair to draw, And shiver for the poor,

The housewife's gentle task. "How pleasanter," said she Unto the sofa opposite, "The sleet than May -- no thee!"

IX.

POSSESSION.

Did the harebell loose her girdle To the lover bee, Would the bee the harebell hallow Much as formerly?

Did the paradise, persuaded, Yield her moat of pearl, Would the Eden be an Eden, Or the earl an earl?