A GUINEVERE.

Sullen gold down all the sky,

In the roses sultry musk;

Nightingales hid in the dusk

Yonder sob and sigh.

You are here; and I could weep,

Weep for joy and suffering.

“Where is he?” He'd have me sing;—

There he sits asleep.

Think not of him! he is dead

For the moment to us twain;

He were dead but for this pain

Drumming in my head.

“Am I happy?” Ask the fire

When it bursts its bounds and thrills

Some mad hours as it wills

If those hours tire.

He had gold. As for the rest —

Well you know how they were set,

Saying that I must forget,

And‘ twas for the best.

I forget! but let it go!—

Kiss me as you did of old.

There! your kisses are not cold!

Can you love me so,

Knowing what I am to him

Sitting in his gouty chair

On the breezy terrace where

Amber fire-flies swim?

“Yes?” — Your cheek a tear-drop wets,

But your kisses on my lip

Fall as warm as bees that sip

Sweets from violets.

See! the moon has risen white

As this bursten lily here

Rocking on the dusky mere

Like a silent light.

Let us walk. We soon must part —

All too soon! but he may miss!

Give me but another kiss;

It will heat my heart

And the bitter winter there.

So; we part, my Launcelot,

My true knight! and am I not

Your true Guinevere?

Oft they parted thus they tell

In that mystical romance.

Were they placed, think you, perchance,

For such love in hell?

No! it can not, can not be!

Love is God and God is love,

And they live and love above,

Guinevere and he!

I must go now. See! there fell,

Molten into purple light,

One wild star. Kiss me good-night;

And, once more, farewell!