THE WALL-FLOWER OF ROME.
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HER EYES.
HAT they are brown, no man will dare to sayHe knows. And yet I think that no man's look
Ever those depths of light and shade forsook,
Until their gentle pain warned him away.
Of all sweet things I know but one which may
Be likened to her eyes.
When, in deep nook
Of some green field, the water of a brook
Makes lingering, whirling eddy in its way,
Round soft drowned leaves; and in a flash of sun
They turn to gold, until the ripples run
Now brown, now yellow, changing as by some
Swift spell.
I know not with what body come
The saints. But this I know, my Paradise
Will mean the resurrection of her eyes.
THE WALL-FLOWER OF THE RUINS OF ROME.
GOLDEN-WINGED on guard at crumbled gateAnd fallen wall of emperors and kings,
Whose very names are now forgotten things,
Thou standest here, in faithfulness to wait
