'T was then thou stood'st, and with one hand didst shield
Thy sun-dazed eyes, and, flinging the other free,
Spurned from thee that white blossom utterly.
But, Love, the immortal cannot so be killed.
The generations shall behold thee stand
Against that western glow in grass dew-wet—
Lord of my life, and lady of the land.
Nor maid nor lover shall the world forget,
Nor that disdainful wafture of thy hand.
Thou scornful! sun and flower shall find thee yet.
XIV—SONG
I love her gentle forehead,
And I love her tender hair;
I love her cool, white arms,
And her neck where it is bare.
I love the smell of her garments;
I love the touch of her hands;
I love the sky above her,
And the very ground where she stands.
I love her doubting and anguish;
I love the love she withholds;
I love my love that loveth her
And anew her being molds.
XV—LISTENING TO MUSIC
When on that joyful sea
Where billow on billow breaks; where swift waves follow
Waves, and hollow calls to hollow;
