The blank circumference of my pale loss.

My very heart has grown a timid mouse,
Peeping out, fearful, when the house is still.
Breathless I listen thro' the breathless dark,
And hear the cock counting the leaden hours,
And, in the pauses of his cry, the deep

Swings on the flat sand with a hollow clang;
And, pale and burning-eyed, I fall asleep
When, with wild hair, across the wrinkled wave
Stares the sick Dawn that brings thee not to me.

Ulysses, come! Ere traitors leave the mark Of spread wine-dripping fingers on the smooth And decent shoulders that now stoop for thee. I am not young nor happy as of old,

When, awed by thy male strength, my face grew dark At thy grave footfall, with a serious joy.

Much hope has dwelt within my heart so long

Its settled habit seems despair; but O!

Let amiable ocean smile around,

Green-sparkling on thy dripping homeward oars,

And thou come stately to mine arms, my soul
Shall drink such utter loveliness and joy,

Such loveliness and joy in that first flash
Of faces gloriously agonized

With doubtful recognition,--that the kiss
Wherewith I hunger round thee eager-arm'd,
Than a young bride's first kiss shall sweeter be,
And have more power to make thee young again
Than Helen's, when she stang the hip of Greece.
I am not young and beauteous as of old;

And much I fear that when we meet thy face
May startle darkly at the work of years,
And turn to hide a disappointed pang,

And then, with thy grave pride, subdue itself
Into such pity as is love stone-dead.

But thou, thou too, art old, dear lord—thy hair
Is threaded with the silver foam-thy heart
Is weary from the blows of cruel years;
And thou wilt need a tender woman's hand
To smooth the salt blood to a settled peace;
And more, the gathering strength of this thy son
To make thee young once more,—that you in him

May fight your noble battles o'er again,
And love again when he has learnt to love,
And follow him upward with a father's eye,
Until the mists close round him and he halts
Upon the cope of manhood, stooping down
To sow good deeds, and sweetness, on thy grave.

Return, return, Ulysses, ere I die!

Upon this desolate, desolate strand I wait,
Wearily stooping o'er the weary web-

An alabaster woman, whose fix'd eyes

Stare seaward, whether it be storm or calm.
And

ever, evermore, as in a dream,

I see thee gazing hither from thy ship

In sunset regions where the still seas rot,

And stretching out great arms whose shadows fall Gigantic on the glassy purple sea;

And ever, evermore, you come to me,

And evermore your coming far away
Aches on the burning heartstrings tentative,

And evermore you come not,—and I age.

XI.

SAPPHO:

ON THE LEUCADIAN ROCK.

1.

O SWEET, Sweet, sweet!

While the Moon, with her dove's eyes fair,

And her beautiful yellow-hair,

And the green Snake coil'd around her silvery feet, Walk'd dumbly up above in the jewell'd air

Waving her luminous wings,

To sit upon this crag above the sea

Clasp'd close, so close, to thee,

Pale with much yearning, while the murmurings

Of the great waters seem'd to waft to me

The name of Phaon,

To whisper Phaon, Phaon,

Phaon, Phaon, Phaon, with deep intoning,

Hushfully, hushfully moaning!

O bliss, bliss, bliss!

2.

Though the Moon look'd pale in the sky,
On thy passionate heart to lie,

To cling to thy burning lips with kiss on kiss, Faintly watching the butterfly stars swim by

In the track of that queenly Moon;

And in a dream, clasp'd close, so close, to thee,
To list and seem to be

A portion of the faint monotonous tune
Made for its mistress by the white-tooth'd sea,

That whisper'd Phaon,

Phaon, Phaon, Phaon,

Phaon, Phaon, Phaon, while Dian darkening

Stoop'd hushfully, hushfully, harkening!

O pain, pain, pain!

3.

While the Moon, in a sky as clear