"With those names, ye echoes of Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!)

Fire shall cry from my heart that burneth,— 'Dust he is and to dust returneth!'

"Yet to-day, thou master of Lilith,-
(Alas the hour!)

Wrap me round in the form I'll borrow
And let me tell thee of sweet to-morrow.

"In the planted garden eastward in Eden, (Sing Eden Bower!)

Where the river goes forth to water the garden, The springs shall dry and the soil shall harden.

"Yea, where the bride-sleep fell upon Adam, (Alas the hour!)

None shall hear when the storm-wind whistles Through roses choked among thørns and thistles.

"Yea, beside the east-gate of Eden,

(Sing Eden Bower!)

Where God joined them and none might sever, The sword turns this way and that for ever.

"What of Adam cast out of Eden?

(Alas the hour!)

Lo! with care like a shadow shaken,

He tills the hard earth whence he was taken.

"What of Eve too, cast out of Eden?

(Sing Eden Bower!)

Nay, but she, the bride of God's giving,
Must yet be mother of all men living.

"Lo, God's grace, by the grace of Lilith!
(Alas the hour!)

To Eve's womb, from our sweet to-morrow,
God shall greatly multiply sorrow.

"Fold me fast, O God-snake of Eden!
(Sing Eden Bower !)

What more prize than love to impel thee?
Grip and lip my limbs as I tell thee!

"Lo! two babes for Eve and for Adam !
(Alas the hour!)

Lo! sweet Snake, the travail and treasure,-
Two men-children born for their pleasure!

"The first is Cain and the second Abel :

(Sing Eden Bower!)

The soul of one shall be made thy brother,

And thy tongue shall lap the blood of the other." (Alas the hour!)

LOVE-LILY.

BETWEEN the hands, between the brows,
Between the lips of Love-Lily,
A spirit is born whose birth endows
My blood with fire to burn through me;
Who breathes upon my gazing eyes,

Who laughs and murmurs in mine ear,
At whose least touch my colour flies,

And whom my life grows faint to hear.

Within the voice, within the heart,
Within the mind of Love-Lily,

A spirit is born who lifts apart

His tremulous wings and looks at me; Who on my mouth his finger lays,

And shows, while whispering lutes confer,

That Eden of Love's watered ways

Whose winds and spirits worship her.

Brows, hands, and lips, heart, mind, and voice,
Kisses and words of Love-Lily,-

Oh! bid me with your joy rejoice
Till riotous longing rest in me!
Ah! let not hope be still distraught,
But find in her its gracious goal,

Whose speech Truth knows not from her thought
Nor Love her body from her soul.

SUNSET WINGS.

TO-NIGHT this sunset spreads two golden wings
Cleaving the western_sky;

Winged too with wind it is, and winnowings
Of birds; as if the day's last hour in rings
Of strenuous flight must die.

Sun-steeped in fire, the homeward pinions sway
Above the dovecote-tops;

And clouds of starlings, ere they rest with day,
Sink, clamorous like mill-waters, at wild play,
By turns in every copse:

Each tree heart-deep the wrangling rout receives,—
Save for the whirr within,

You could not tell the starlings from the leaves;
Then one great puff of wings, and the swarm heaves
Away with all its din.

Even thus Hope's hours, in ever-eddying flight,
To many a refuge tend;

With the first light she laughed, and the last light
Glows round her still; who natheless in the night
At length must make an end.

And now the mustering rooks innumerable

Together sail and soar,

While for the day's death, like a tolling knell,
Unto the heart they seem to cry, Farewell,
No more, farewell, no more!

Is Hope not plumed, as 'twere a fiery dart?
And oh! thou dying day,

Even as thou goest must she too depart,
And Sorrow fold such pinions on the heart
As will not fly away?

THE CLOUD CONFINES.

THE day is dark and the night

To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,

To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,--

"Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know,

That shall we know one day."

The Past is over and fled;

Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, But no word comes from the dead; Whether at all they be,

Or whether as bond or free,

Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go,

"Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know,

That shall we know one day."

What of the heart of hate

That beats in thy breast, O Time?—
Red strife from the furthest prime,

And anguish of fierce debate