T 



OPHELIA 



HERE runs a crisscross pattern of small leaves 



Espalier, in a fading summer air, 



And there Ophelia walks, an azure flower, 



Whom wind, and snowflakes, and the sudden rain 



Of love's wild skies have purified to heav'n. 



There is a beauty past all weeping now 



In that sweet crooked mouth, that vacant smUe ; 



Only a lonely grey in those mad eyes. 



Which never on earth shall leam their loneliness. 



And when 'mid startled birds she sings lament, 



Mocking in hope the long voice of the stream. 



It seems her heart's lute hath a broken string. 



Ivy she hath, that to old ruin clings ; 



And rosemary, that sees remembrance fade ; 



And pansies, deeper than the gloom of dreams ; 



But ah ! if utterable, would this earth 



Remain the base, unreal thing it is ? 



Better be out of sight of peering eyes ; 



Out — out of hearing of all useless words. 



Spoken of tedious tongues in heedless ears ! 



And lest, at last, the world should leam heart-secrets 



Lest that sweet wolf from some dim thicket steal ; 



Better the glassy horror of the stream ! 



WALTER DE LA MARE. 



THE GARDEN OF LOVE 



I WENT to the Garden of Love, 

 And saw what I never had seen : 

 A chapel was built in the midst. 

 Where I used to play on the green. 

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