Tis Visible Silence, Still As The Hour-glass.

Deep In The Sun-searched Growths The Dragonfly Hangs Like A Blue Thread Loosened From The Sky.

I Plucked A Honeysuckle Where The Hedge On High Is Quick With Thorn, And Climbing For The Prize, Was Torn, And Fouled My Feet In Quag-water; And By The Thorns And By The Wind The Blossom That I Took Was Thinn'd, And Yet I Found It Sweet And Fair.

Love, Which Is Quickly Kindled In The Gentle Heart, Seized This Man For The Fair Form That Was Taken From Me, The Manner Still Hurts Me. Love Which Absolves No Beloved One From Loving, Seized Me So Strongly With His Charm That, As Thou Seest, It Does Not Leave Me Yet

So Spring Comes Merry Towards Me Here, But Earns No Answering Smile From Me, Whose Life Is Twin'd With The Dead Boughs That Winter Still Must Bind, And Whom Today The Spring No More Concerns. Behold, This Crocus Is A Withering Flame; This Snowdrop, Snow; This Apple-blossom's Part To Breed The Fruit That Breeds The Serpent's Art. Nay, For These Spring-flowers, Turn Thy Face From Them, Nor Stay Till On The Year's Last Lily-stem The White Cup Shrivels Round The Golden Heart.

Look In My Face; My Name Is Might-have-been; I Am Also Call'd No-more, Too-late, Farewell.