Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

Love is the only gold.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.

O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.