"HER DELICATE FORM"
Her delicate form, her night of hair,
Took me, unaware.
They called her poet, and the word
Strangely I heard;
For that I thought: Can she
A poem write, and be?
FRANCESCA MIA
No verses I can bring her,
No song that I can sing her,
Can be so sweet, by half,
As the music of her laugh,
As the murmur of her voice,
As the sound of her violin.
These make my heart rejoice,
These me to heaven can win.
But something in her face,
Sad, wild, and full of grace—
A look in those dark eyes
That dream, and flash, and dance,
And with soft shadows fill—
These bring one long-loved glance,
Tender, and deep, and wise;
Then doth my heart stand still.
AGE, AND THE SCORNER
As I hobble, old and halt,
Daily, nightly,
By you, hectoring on the corner,
I know you for a graybeard scorner,
