Ah! we are dull and blind.
The riddle is too hard for us to guess
The why of joy or of unhappiness,
Chosen or left behind.

But everywhere a host
Of lonely lives shall read their type in thine:
Grapes which may never swell the tale of wine,
Left out to meet the frost.




EMBALMED.

This is the street and the dwelling,
Let me count the houses o'er;
Yes,--one, two, three from the corner,
And the house that I love makes four.

That is the very window
Where I used to see her head
Bent over book or needle,
With ivy garlanded.

And the very loop of the curtain,
And the very curve of the vine,
Were full of the grace and the meaning
Which was hers by some right divine.