AN INTERLUDE.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

ON the greenest growth of the May-time,

I'

I rode where the woods were wet,

Between the dawn and the day-time;

The spring was glad that we met.

There was something the season wanted,

Though the ways and the woods smelt sweet;

The breath at your lips that panted,

The pulse of the grass at your feet.

You came, and the sun came after,

And the green grew golden above; And the May-flowers lightened with laughter,

And the meadow-sweet shook with love.

AN INTERLUDE.

Your feet in the full-grown grasses

Moved soft as a weak wind blows; You passed me as April passes,

With face made out of a rose.

329

By the stream where the stems were slender, Your light foot paused at the sedge;

It might be to watch the tender

Light leaves in the spring-time hedge,

On boughs that the sweet month blanches
With flowery frost of May;

It might be a bird in the branches,

It might be a thorn in the way.

I waited to watch you linger,

With foot drawn back from the dew, Till a sunbeam straight like a finger

Struck sharp through the leaves at you.

330

AN INTERLUDE.

And a bird overhead sang " Follow,"
And a bird to the right sang "Here;"
And the arch of the leaves was hollow,

And the meaning of May was clear.

I saw where the sun's hand pointed,

I knew what the bird's note said;

By the dawn and the dewfall anointed,
You were queen by the gold on your head.

As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember
Recalls a regret of the sun,

I remember, forget, and remember
What love saw done and undone.

I remember the way we parted,

The day and the way we met;

You hoped we were both broken-hearted,
And knew we should both forget.

AN INTERLUDE.

And May with her world in flower

Seemed still to murmur and smile

As you murmured and smiled for an hour;
I saw you twice at the stile.

A hand like a white-wood blossom
You lifted, and waved, and passed,
With head hung down to the bosom,
And pale, as it seemed, to the last.

And the best and the worst of this is,
That neither is most to blame,

If you've forgotten my kisses,

And I've forgotten your name.

331

LILIAN.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

IRY, fairy Lilian,

Flitting, fairy Lilian,

When I ask her if she love me,

Claps her tiny hands above me,

Laughing all she can ;

She'll not tell me if she love me,

Cruel little Lilian.

When my passion seeks

Pleasance in love-sighs,

She, looking through and through me,

Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks: