She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen
Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,
Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,
And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.
And I have thought that Liberty, alone
Among the mountain stars, might look like her,
Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,
Kindling her torch on FREEDOM'S altar-stone.
For in her self, regal with riches of
Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born--
BOADICEA, meeting scorn with scorn,
And ERMENGARDE, returning love for love.
AN _Autumn_ NIGHT.
Some things are good on _Autumn_ nights,
When with the storm the forest fights,
And in the room the heaped hearth lights
Old-fashioned press and rafter:
Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,
A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,
And at your side a face petite,
With lips of laughter.
Upon the roof the rolling rain,
And tapping at the window-pane,
The wind that seems a witch's cane
That summons spells together:
A hand within your own awhile;
A mouth reflecting back your smile;
And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile
All thoughts of weather.
And, while the wind lulls, still to sit
And watch her fire-lit needles flit
A-knitting, and to feel her knit
Your very heartstrings in it:
Then, when the old clock ticks _'tis late_,
To rise, and at the door to wait,
Two words, or at the garden gate,
A kissing minute.