  I AT THE PIANO I Love me and leave me; what love bids retrieve me? can June's fist grasp May? Leave me and love me; hopes eyed once above me like spring's sprouts decay; Fall as the snow falls, when summer leaves grow false—cards packed for storm's play! II Nay, say Decay's self be but last May's elf, wing shifted, eye sheathed— Changeling in April's crib rocked, who lets 'scape rills locked fast since frost breathed— Skin cast (think!) adder-like, now bloom bursts bladder-like,—bloom frost bequeathed? III Ah, how can fear sit and hear as love hears it grief's heart's cracked grate's screech? Chance lets the gate sway that opens on hate's way and shews on shame's beach Crouched like an imp sly change watch sweet love's shrimps lie, a toothful in each. IV Time feels his tooth slip on husks wet from Truth's lip, which drops them and grins— Shells where no throb stirs of life left in lobsters since joy thrilled their fins— Hues of the prawn's tail or comb that makes dawn stale, so red for our sins! V Years blind and deaf use the soul's joys as refuse, heart's peace as manure, Reared whence, next June's rose shall bloom where our moons rose last year, just as pure: Moons' ends match roses' ends: men by beasts' noses' ends mete sin's stink's cure. VI Leaves love last year smelt now feel dead love's tears melt—flies caught in time's mesh! Salt are the dews in which new time breeds new sin, brews blood and stews flesh; Next year may see dead more germs than this weeded and reared them afresh. VII Old times left perish, there's new time to cherish; life just shifts its tune; As, when the day dies, earth, half afraid, eyes the growth of the moon; Love me and save me, take me or waive me; death takes one so soon! II BY THE CLIFF I Is it daytime (guess), You that feed my soul To excess With that light in those eyes And those curls drawn like a scroll In that round grave guise? No or yes? II Oh, the end, I'd say! Such a foolish thing (Pure girls' play!) As a mere mute heart, Was it worth a kiss, a ring, This? for two must part— Not to-day. III Look, the whole sand crawls, Hums, a heaving hive, Scrapes and scrawls— Here just one thing's not alive, One that was at first— But life palls. IV Yes, my heart, I know, Just my heart's stone dead— Yes, just so. Sick with heat, those worms Drop down scorched and overfed— No more need of germs! Let them go. V Yes, but you now, look, You, the rouged stage female With a crook, Chalked Arcadian sham, You that made my soul's sleep's dream ail— Your soul fit to damn? Shut the book. III ON THE SANDS I There was nothing at all in the case (conceive) But love; being love, it was not (understand) Such a thing as the years let fall (believe) Like the rope's coil dropt from a fisherman's hand When the boat's hauled up—"by your leave!" II So—well! How that crab writhes—leg after leg Drawn, as a worm draws ring upon ring Gradually, not gladly! Chicken or egg, Is it more than the ransom (say) of a king (Take my meaning at least) that I beg? III Not so! You were ready to learn, I think, What the world said! "He loves you too well (suppose) For such leanings! These poets, their love's mere ink— Like a flower, their flame flashes—a rosebud, blows— Then it all drops down at a wink! IV "Ah, the instance! A curl of a blossomless vine The vinedresser passing it sickens to see And mutters 'Much hope (under God) of His wine From the branch and the bark of a barren tree Spring reared not, and winter lets pine— V "'His wine that should glorify (saith He) the cup That a man beholding (not tasting) might say "Pour out life at a draught, drain it dry, drink it up, Give this one thing, and huddle the rest away— Save the bitch, and be hanged to the pup!" VI "'Let it rot then!' which saying, he leaves it—we'll guess, Feels (if the sap move at all) thus much— Yearns, and would blossom, would quicken no less, Bud at an eye's glance, flower at a touch— 'Die, perhaps, would you not, for her?'—'Yes!' VII "Note the hitch there! That's piteous—so much being done, (He'll think some day, your lo
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