SHE is neither pink nor pale,       
    And she never will be all mine;       
She learned her hands in a fairy-tale,       
    And her mouth on a valentine.       

She has more hair than she needs;                5
    In the sun ’tis a woe to me!       
And her voice is a string of colored beads,       
    Or steps leading into the sea.       

She loves me all that she can,       
    And her ways to my ways resign;                10
But she was not made for any man,       
    And she never will be all mine..

HARD seeds of hate I planted       
    That should by now be grown,—       
Rough stalks, and from thick stamens       
    A poisonous pollen blown,       
And odors rank, unbreathable,                5
    From dark corollas thrown!       

At dawn from my damp garden       
    I shook the chilly dew;       
The thin boughs locked behind me       
    That sprang to let me through;                10
The blossoms slept,—I sought a place       
    Where nothing lovely grew.       

And there, when day was breaking,       
    I knelt and looked around:       
The light was near, the silence                15
    Was palpitant with sound;       
I drew my hate from out my breast       
    And thrust it in the ground.       

Oh, ye so fiercely tended,       
    Ye little seeds of hate!                20
I bent above your growing       
    Early and noon and late,       
Yet are ye drooped and pitiful,—       
    I cannot rear ye straight!       

The sun seeks out my garden,                25
    No nook is left in shade,       
No mist nor mold nor mildew       
    Endures on any blade,       
Sweet rain slants under every bough:       
    Ye falter, and ye fade.                30.

“Thou art not lovelier than lilacs,—no”

Sonnet I
THOU art not lovelier than lilacs,—no,       
    Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair       
    Than small white single poppies,—I can bear       
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though       
From left to right, not knowing where to go,                5
    I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there       
    Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear       
So has it been with mist,—with moonlight so.       

Like him who day by day unto his draught       
    Of delicate poison adds him one drop more                10
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,       
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed       
    Each hour more deeply than the hour before,       
I drink—and live—what has destroyed some men..

Sonnet II

TIME does not bring relief; you all have lied       
    Who told me time would ease me of my pain!       
    I miss him in the weeping of the rain;       
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;       
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,                5
    And last year’s leaves are smoke in every lane;       
    But last year’s bitter loving must remain       
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide!       

There are a hundred places where I fear       
    To go,—so with his memory they brim!                10
And entering with relief some quiet place       
Where never fell his foot or shone his face       
I say, “There is no memory of him here!”       
    And so stand stricken, so remembering him!.

Sonnet IV
  
NOT in this chamber only at my birth—       
    When the long hours of that mysterious night       
    Were over, and the morning was in sight—       
I cried, but in strange places, steppe and firth       
I have not seen, through alien grief and mirth;                5
    And never shall one room contain me quite       
    Who in so many rooms first saw the light,       
Child of all mothers, native of the earth.       

So is no warmth for me at any fire       
    To-day, when the world’s fire has burned so low;                10
I kneel, spending my breath in vain desire,       
At that cold hearth which one time roared so strong,       
And straighten back in weariness, and long       
    To gather up my little gods and go..

Sonnet V
  
IF I should learn, in some quite casual way,       
    That you were gone, not to return again—       
Read from the back-page of a paper, say,       
    Held by a neighbor in a subway train,       
How at the corner of this avenue                5
    And such a street (so are the papers filled)       
A hurrying man—who happened to be you—       
    At noon to-day had happened to be killed,       
I should not cry aloud—I could not cry       
    Aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—                10
I should but watch the station lights rush by       
    With a more careful interest on my face,       
Or raise my eyes and read with greater care       
Where to store furs and how to treat the hair..

Sonnet VI

THIS door you might not open, and you did;       
    So enter now, and see for what slight thing       
You are betrayed…. Here is no treasure hid,       
    No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring       
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain                5
    For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,       
But only what you see…. Look yet again—       
    An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.       
Yet this alone out of my life I kept       
    Unto myself, lest any know me quite;                10
And you did so profane me when you crept       
    Unto the threshold of this room to-night       
That I must never more behold your face.       
    This now is yours. I seek another place..