To the lover who is loser?
Has she felt:--the mere revealing
Of the passion 's his accuser;
She conceals it; the concealing
Is her own love's self-abuser.
One hath said, no flower knoweth
Of the fragrance it revealeth;
Song, its soul that overfloweth,
Never nightingale's heart feeleth--
Such the love the spirit groweth,
Love unconscious if it healeth.
Handsels of anemones
The surrendered hours
Pour about the sweet Spring's knees--
Crowding babies of the breeze,
Her unstudied flowers.
When 't is dawn, bestowing Day
Strews with coins of golden
Every furlong of his way--
Like a Sultan gone to pray
At a Kaaba olden.
Warlock Night, when dips the dark,
Opens, tire on tire,
Windows of an heavenly ark,
Whence the stars swarm, spark on spark,
Butterflies of fire.
With the night, the day, the spring,--
Godly chords of beauty,--
We the instrument will string
Of our l