Whose nether edge, erelong, you see
The silvery chrism in turn anoint,
And then the tiniest rosy point
Touched doubtfully and timidly
Into the dark blue's chilly strip,
As some mute, wondering thing below,
Awakened by the thrilling glow,
Might, looking up, see Dian dip
One lucent foot's delaying tip
In Latmian fountains long ago.

Here is no startle of dreaming bird
Knew you what silence was before?
That sings in his sleep, or strives to
sing;

Nor noise of any living thing,
Here is no sough of branches stirred,
Such as one hears by night on shore;
Only, now and then, a sigh,
With fickle intervals between,
Such as Andromeda might have heard,
Sometimes far, and sometimes nigh,
And fancied the huge sea-beast unseen
Turning in sleep; it is the sea
That welters and wavers uneasily
Round the lonely reefs of Appledore.

THE WIND-HARP.

I TREASURE in secret some long, fine hair

Of tenderest brown, but so inwardly golden

I half used to fancy the sunshine there, So shy, so shifting, so waywardly rare, Was only caught for the moment and holden

While I could say Dearest! and kiss it, and then

In pity let go to the summer again.

I twisted this magic in gossamer strings Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow; Then called to the idle breeze that swings

All day in the pine-tops, and clings, and sings

Mid the musical leaves, and said, "O,

follow

The will of those tears that deepen my words,

And fly to my window to waken these chords."