Part 6

Doubt me, my dim companion! Why, God would be content With but a fraction of the love Poured thee without a stint. The whole of me, forever, What more the woman can, -- Say quick, that I may dower thee With last delight I own!

It cannot be my spirit, For that was thine before; I ceded all of dust I knew, -- What opulence the more Had I, a humble maiden, Whose farthest of degree Was that she might, Some distant heaven, Dwell timidly with thee!

VI.

If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's land.

If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.

VII.

WITH A FLOWER.

I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too -- And angels know the rest.

I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.

VIII.

PROOF.

That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved I did not love enough.

That I shall love alway, I offer thee That love is life, And life hath immortality.

This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.

IX.

Have you got a brook in your little heart, Where bashful flowers blow, And blushing birds go down to drink, And shadows tremble so?

And nobody knows, so still it flows, That any brook is there; And yet your little draught of life Is daily drunken there.

Then look out for the little brook in March, When the rivers overflow, And the snows come hurrying from the hills, And the bridges often go.

And later, in August it may be, When the meadows parching lie, Beware, lest this little brook of life Some burning noon go dry!

TRANSPLANTED.

As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes, Until it puzzled came To continents of summer, To firmaments of sun, To strange, bright crowds of flowers, And birds of foreign tongue! I say, as if this little flower To Eden wandered in -- What then? Why, nothing, only, Your inference therefrom!

XI.

THE OUTLET.

My river runs to thee: Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

My river waits reply. Oh sea, look graciously!