The heavy fields of scentless asphodel,
The loveless lips with which men kiss in Hell.



Poem: Portia



(To Ellen Terry)

I marvel not Bassanio was so bold
To peril all he had upon the lead,
Or that proud Aragon bent low his head
Or that Morocco's fiery heart grew cold:
For in that gorgeous dress of beaten gold
Which is more golden than the golden sun
No woman Veronese looked upon
Was half so fair as thou whom I behold.
Yet fairer when with wisdom as your shield
The sober-suited lawyer's gown you donned,
And would not let the laws of Venice yield
Antonio's heart to that accursed Jew--
O Portia! take my heart: it is thy due:
I think I will not quarrel with the Bond.



Poem: Queen Henrietta Maria