Mercy for these thine own, oh Prince, I cry!
Peace to thy vassal ’neath his darkened sky,
Peace to the pale nun, praying passionless,
And to all such as lowly live and die--
For to the poor all things are bitterness.
Kyrielle.
Nay, not for me the toil and strife
Of ’Change, of war, of public life--
Than go with Fame, I’d rather stay
With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.
A little garden?... Well, perchance,
If weedless flowers, self-raising plants
Would grow therein, where I might stray
With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.
Horses and dogs?... Yes, I’d not mind
Were I but ever sure to find
An hour of peace, at close of day
With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.
Travel?... Of course! The Frank might stare,
The Russian rave, the Turk despair;
I none the less would them survey
With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.
But homeward-longing ever, I
Still for our low-built house would sign,
Where I might peaceful be for aye
With books, and pipe and dear Edmée.
Old books and many, pipe not new,
Edmée all mine, forever, too,
I’d love them all till I were grey,
But best and dearest, dear Edmée!...
Rondeau.
Thy breast, dear Doris, ever be
All-hallowed, consecrate to me,
A rest where this my heart may go
Whatever tempests beat and blow;
A shelter that my soul may see
Though all the world speak grievously.
Warmed in its softness, dear, by thee,
My love shall sometime come to know
Thy breast.
And sometime, too, so reverently
Thou couldst not, Sweet, refuse my plea.
I’ll kiss the dimple that I know
Betwixt those little hills of snow
Waits, till my lips press passionately
Thy breast!...