ON A PICTURE.

BY E. BURNE-JONES.

Sad swift return of old love unforgot,
And passion of sweet lips that may not meet,
And trembling eyes that, like to weary feet,
Press close unto the goal yet touch it not,
Ah! Love, what hinders unto these the lot
Of common lovers? Shall no hour complete
This sweetness half-begun, no new day greet
The old love freed of the old stain and blot?
At this last hour, O Death, within thy heart
Hast thou no pity? Shall the night be dumb
Nor ever from thy lips the low words come,
Giving once more the old sweet wanderings?
Shall yearning lips for ever stand apart
Shadowed beneath the darkness of thy wings?

J. W. C. C.

1872.

There was a time, Love, when I strove to tell
Our love but newly won: and tried to sing
In broken verse that scarcely found a wing
Some praise of all the beauty that doth dwell
Beneath long lashes: But then came the spell
Of love possessed, and I no more dared bring,—
Thy hand in mine,—the old verse offering
Lest any spoken word should sound ‘farewell.’
Song at the best is but a cry for love
Not love itself and ere our paths had met
We cried to one another through the maze
That men call life:—until the moon above—
Our steadfast moon of love that’s not yet set—
Had drawn our feet into the selfsame ways.

J. C. C.

July, 1878.