The hearts of men
Follow her footsteps. He whose sinewy arms
Might burst through bars of steel like bands of straw,
Caught in the net of her unloosened hair,
A helpless prisoner lies and loves his chains.
Blow, ye soft winds, from sandal-shaded isle,
And bring the _mogra's_ breath and orange-bloom.
Fly, fleet-winged doves, to Ponce de Leon's spring,
And in your bills bring her the pearls of youth;
For lo the fingers of relentless Time
Weave threads of silver in among the gold,
And seam her face with pain and carking care,
Till, bent and bowed, the shriveled hands of Death
Reach from the welcome grave and draw her in.
FIDO
Hark, the storm is raging high;
Beat the breakers on the coast,
And the wintry waters cry
Like the wailing of a ghost.
On the rugged coast of Maine
Stands the frugal farmer's cot:
What if drive the sleet and rain?
John and Hannah heed it not.
On the hills the mad winds roar,
And the tall pines toss and groan;
Round the headland--down the shore--
Stormy spirits shriek and moan.
Inky darkness wraps the sky;
Not a glimpse of moon or star;
And the stormy-petrels cry
Out along the harbor-bar.
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