378 POEMS 
Of wandering passion. Fearlessly and strong 
Did Shakespeare wail the expense of spirit’s 
wrong, 
And Burns the woe that poppied pleasures reap. 
Easier for human hearts to bear a pain 
Than to forego the rapture that they miss. 
Men may repent, but how can they forget ? 
Sin’s retribution dwells in longings vain, — 
Not in remorse, but in the wild regret 
And helpless yearning for disastrous bliss. 
MAB’S PONIES 
Far off among our pine-clad hills, 
When night is on the forest glade, 
Amid the shadowy rocks and rills 
There roams a tinkling cavalcade. 
We sometimes hear, half waked from sleep, 
A nearer hoof, a phantom neigh, 
Till breezes from Monadnock sweep 
And bear the magic sounds away. 
Their home is in the dusky woods ; 
Their tramp is on the midnight sod ; 
No eye descries their solitudes, 
The uplands where their feet have trod. 
