118
POEMS.
TO A. C. L. B.
HY house hath gracious freedom, like the airOf open fields; its silence hath a speech
Of royal welcome to the friends who reach
Its threshold and its upper chambers bear,
Above their doors such spells, that, entering there
And laying off the dusty garments, each
Soul whispers to herself: "'T were like a breach
Of reverence in a temple could I dare
Here speak untruth, here wrong my inmost thought.
Here I grow strong and pure; here I may yield,
Without shamefacedness, the little brought
From out my poorer life, and stand revealed,
And glad, and trusting, in the sweet and rare
And tender presence which hath filled this air."
SNOW-DROPS IN ITALY.
LOYAL vestals in this land of sun,Your white cheeks flush not, and your virgin eyes
Vouchsafe no lifted look. In vain the skies
Are red and pale with passion; swift clouds run
And beckon; warm winds call; long days are done
And nights are spent, and still by no surprise,
No lure can ye be tempted!
O, where lies
The spell by which your gentleness can shun
