A SONG 

 What if the rose should bloom, And the sunset deepen and fade, If we are penned in the gloom By close-barred shutters made? 

 What of the birds and the sun, And the moon-rise behind the trees, To the eyes and ears of one Who neither hears nor sees? 

 What of the world of love, Its fragrance, and light, and bloom, To the soul that cannot move Out of a loveless room? 

 Were it better the rose were dead In a black December frost, That no more skies were red, That lovers' ways were lost? 

 Ah no! The wood must shrink, Bar closely as you may, And between the shutters' chink Slips in the sunlight's ray. 

 So that the prisoner knows It is June in the world outside, And his heart is glad for the rose, Though to him it is denied. 

 For the love of lovely things Must quench all bitterness, And whilst the robin sings No heart is comfortless. 

 

 

 THE BALLAD OF A SEA-NYMPH 

 Where the water meets the sands All alone sat she, Wrung her hair with chilly hands That glimmered mistily. 

 Phosphorescent were the drips From her hair she wrung, And like moonlight on her lips Were the words she sung. 

 White she was, as white as foam 'Neath a moonlit sky, And the treasures of her home On her brow did lie. 

 There he found her, he, a man, Wandering by the sea, And desire through him ran— Misty-white was she. 

 There he wooed her, wooed her long, Till, within her eyes, Where were erst moonshine and song, Dawned in slow surprise 

 Mortal pain and mortal doubt, Shades of misery, And she turned her round about, Facing from the sea. 

 In his hand her hand she laid, As to land they turned, And her hand of sea-foam made 'Neath his fingers burned. 

 On they went then, he and she, Walking toward the East; And her sisters of the sea Their bewailing ceased 

 As it paled towards the dawn, From the light they fled; But 

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