“my mother says I must not pass Too near that glass; She is afraid that I will see A little witch that looks like me, With a red, red mouth, to whisper low The very thing I should not know!” Alack for all your mother’s care! A bird of the air, A wistful wind, or (I suppose Sent by some hapless boy) a rose With breath too sweet, will whisper low The very thing you should not know!
Between the falling leaf and rose-bud’s breath; The bird’s forsaken nest and her new song (And this is all the time there is for Death); The worm and butterfly—it is not long!
“my mother says I must not pass Too near that glass; She is afraid that I will see A little witch that looks like me, With a red, red mouth, to whisper low The very thing I should not know!” Alack for all your mother’s care! A bird of the air, A wistful wind, or (I suppose...
Sweet world, if you will hear me now: I may not own a sounding Lyre And wear my name upon my brow Like some great jewel quick with fire. But let me, singing, sit apart, In tender quiet with a few, And keep my fame upon my heart, A little blush-rose wet with dew.
Between the falling leaf and rose-bud’s breath; The bird’s forsaken nest and her new song (And this is all the time there is for Death); The worm and butterfly—it is not long!
Almost afraid they led her in (A dwarf more piteous none could find): Withered as some weird leaf, and thin, The woman was—and wan and blind. Into his mirror with a smile— Not vain to be so fair, but glad— The South-born painter looked the while, With eyes than Christ’s alone less sad. “...
