1. BROODING.
A few more years,—and they will drag my bones,
And let them in a charnel-house be shed,
After my melodies have hushed their tones,
Mute as a grove, whence nightingales have fled.
Will someone then the empty skull upraise
Upon his trembling hand, with Hamlet's view
Amid the cradle of my dreams to gaze,
That has to nature paid its final due?
Will he mark out each divers track of thought,
The irk of love, and all the anguish there?
And will the pallid jawbone tell him aught
Of laurels that this brow was fain to wear?
And will he wonder where the soul may lag
That once urged on its wings to starward flight?
Pooh! He will mumble forth some pious tag,
And cast the livid skull away from sight!
"Confiteor" I. (1887).
2. AUTUMN SONNET.
We in our sentimental salad-days
Loved autumn, and the leafage drooping sere,
And the descent of misty greys
On gardens growing drear.
