*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54902 *** THE POEMS OF MADISON CAWEIN VOLUME II NEW WORLD IDYLLS AND POEMS OF LOVE [Illustration] Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping. Page 3 _One Day and Another_ THE POEMS OF MADISON CAWEIN _Volume II_ NEW WORLD IDYLLS AND POEMS OF LOVE _Illustrated_ WITH PHOTOGRAVURES AFTER PAINTINGS BY ERIC PAPE INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1887, 1888, 1889, 1890, 1891, 1892, 1893, 1894, 1896, 1898, 1899, 1901, 1902, 1905 and 1907, BY MADISON CAWEIN COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY COPELAND AND DAY; 1898, BY R. H RUSSELL; 1901, BY RICHARD G. BADGER AND COMPANY PRESS OF BRAUNWORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N. Y. WITH ENDURING FRIENDSHIP, LOVE AND LOYALTY TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY CONTENTS NEW WORLD IDYLLS PAGE BROTHERS, THE 246 DEAD MAN’S RUN 241 DEEP IN THE FOREST 196 EPIC OF SOUTH-FORK, AN 180 FEUD, THE 237 IDYLL OF THE STANDING-STONE, THE 161 LYNCHERS 239 MOSBY AT HAMILTON 235 NIELLO, A 192 ONE DAY AND ANOTHER 1 RAID, THE 244 RED LEAVES AND ROSES 116 SIREN SANDS 217 SOME SUMMER DAYS 171 WAR-TIME SILHOUETTES 224 WILD THORN AND LILY 122 WRECKAGE 209 POEMS OF LOVE AFTER DEATH 482 AMONG THE ACRES OF THE WOOD 343 AN AUTUMN NIGHT 519 ANDALIA AND THE SPRINGTIME 304 APART 356 APOCALYPSE 327 AT HER GRAVE 386 AT NINEVEH 476 AT PARTING 509 AT SUNSET 405 AT THE STILE 288 AT TWENTY-ONE 351 AT TWILIGHT 391 BLIND GOD, THE 357 BURDEN OF DESIRE, THE 274 CAN I FORGET? 328 CARA MIA 358 CARISSIMA MEA 517 CARMEN 473 CASTLE OF LOVE, THE 295 CAVERNS OF KAF, THE 431 CHORDS 382 CHRISTMAS CATCH, A 378 “COME TO THE HILLS” 512 CONCLUSION 529 CONFESSION, A 388 CONSECRATION 298 CONSTANCE 362 CONTRASTS 516 CREOLE SERENADE 321 DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW, THE 414 DAUGHTER OF THE STATES, A 521 DAY AND NIGHT 392 DEAD AND GONE 406 EPILOGUE 261 EVASION 513 FERN-SEED 290 FINALE 527 FLORIDIAN 374 FOREST POOL, THE 403 GERTRUDE 267 GLORY AND THE DREAM, THE 501 GHOST WEATHER 402 GYPSYING 278 HEART’S DESIRE, THE 395 HEART OF MY HEART 269 HELEN 365 HER EYES 354 HER VESPER SONG 499 HER VIOLIN 492 HER VIVIEN EYES 496 IDEAL DIVINATION 324 “IF I WERE HER LOVER” 337 IN A GARDEN 335 IN AUTUMN 488 INDIFFERENCE 401 IN MAY 503 IN JUNE 331 IN THE GARDEN OF GIRLS 511 KINSHIP 352 LAST DAYS 390 LORA OF THE VALES 313 LOST LOVE 283 LOVE 268 LOVE AND A DAY 369 LOVE IN A GARDEN 372 LYANNA 447 LYDIA 364 MARCH AND MAY 486 MARGERY 360 MASKS 469 MEETING IN SUMMER 494 MEMORIES 485 MESSENGERS 355 METAMORPHOSIS 350 MIGNON 367 MIRIAM 524 MY ROSE 329 NOCTURNE 348 NOËRA 340 OLD MAN DREAMS, THE 483 OLIVIA IN THE AUTUMN 306 ONE NIGHT 407 ORIENTAL ROMANCE 317 OUT OF THE DEPTHS 397 OVERSEAS 285 PASTORAL LOVE 302 PLEDGES 315 PORPHYROGENITA 292 PUPIL OF PAN, A 312 QUARREL, THE 522 REASONS 497 REED CALL FOR APRIL 490 RESTRAINT 330 ROMANTIC LOVE 300 SALAMANDER, THE 438 SENORITA 479 “SHE IS SO MUCH” 353 SINCE THEN 481 SIRENS, THE 346 SNOW AND FIRE 502 SONG FOR YULE, A 380 SPIRITS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS, THE 454 SPIRIT OF THE STAR, THE 417 SPIRIT OF THE VAN, THE 423 STROLLERS 271 SUCCUBA, THE 464 SUMMER SEA, THE 525 SYLVIA OF THE WOODLAND 308 THE PARTING 412 THE RIDE 507 THE TRYST 276 “THIS IS THE FACE OF HER” 399 THREE BIRDS 393 TOLLMAN’S DAUGHTER, THE 319 TRANSUBSTANTIATION 368 UNCERTAINTY 280 UNREQUITED 394 WATER WITCH, THE 459 “WERE I AN ARTIST” 505 “WHEN SHE DRAWS NEAR” 489 WHEN SHIPS PUT OUT TO SEA 376 WHY? 347 WILL O’ THE WISPS 333 WILL YOU FORGET? 515 WITNESSES 310 WORDS 345 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AH, GIRLHOOD, THROUGH THE ROSY HAZE COME LIKE A MOONBEAM SLIPPING. (See page 3) _Frontispiece_ PAGE WHERE THE WOODCOCK CALL. (See page 161) 160 SOMETHING DREW ME, UNRETURNING, FILLED ME WITH A FINER FLAME. (See page 419) 350 I LOOK INTO THY HEART AND THEN I KNOW THE WONDROUS POETRY OF THE LONG-AGO. (See page 497) 490 NEW WORLD IDYLLS _O lyrist of the lowly and the true, The song I sought for you Still bides unsung. What hope for me to find, Lost in the dædal mind, The living utterance with lovely tongue, To sing,--as once he sung, Rare Ariosto, of Knight-Errantry,-- How you in Poesy, Song’s Paladin, Knight of the Dream and Day, The shield of magic sway! Of that Atlantes’ power, sweet and terse, The skyey-builded verse! The shield that dazzles, brilliant with surprise, Our unanointed eyes.-- Oh, could I write as it were worthy you, Each word, a spark of dew,-- As once Ferdusi wrote in Persia,-- Would string each rosy spray Of each unfolding flower of my song; And Iran’s bulbul tongue Would sob its heart out o’er the fountain’s slab In gardens of Afrasiab._ ONE DAY AND ANOTHER _A Lyrical Eclogue_ PART I LATE SPRING The mottled moth at eventide Beats glimmering wings against the pane; The slow, sweet lily opens wide, White in the dusk like some dim stain; The garden dreams on every side And breathes faint scents of rain: Among the flowering stocks they stand; A crimson rose is in her hand. I _Outside her garden. He waits musing_: Herein the dearness of her is; The thirty perfect days of June Made one, in maiden loveliness Were not more sweet to clasp and kiss, With love not more in tune. Ah me! I think she is too true, Too spiritual for life’s rough way: So say her eyes,--her soul looks through,-- Two bluet blossoms, watchet-blue, Are not more pure than they. So kind, so beautiful is she, So soft and white, so fond and fair, Sometimes my heart fears she may be Not long for Earth, and secretly Sweet sister to the air. II _Dusk deepens. A whippoorwill calls._ The whippoorwills are calling where The golden west is graying; “’Tis time,” they say, “to meet him there-- Why are you still delaying? “He waits you where the old beech throws Its gnarly shadow over Wood violet and the bramble rose, Frail lady-fern and clover. “Where elder and the sumac peep Above your garden’s paling, Whereon, at noon, the lizards sleep, Like lichen on the railing. “Come! ere the early rising moon’s Gold floods the violet valleys; Where mists, like phantom picaroons Anchor their stealthy galleys. “Come! while the deepening amethyst Of dusk above is falling-- ’Tis time to tryst! ’tis time to tryst!” The whippoorwills are calling. They call you to these twilight ways With dewy odor dripping-- Ah, girlhood, through the rosy haze Come like a moonbeam slipping. III _He enters the garden, speaking dreamily_: There is a fading inward of the day, And all the pansy sunset clasps one star; The twilight acres, eastward, glimmer gray, While all the world to westward smoulders far. Now to your glass will you pass for the last time? Pass! humming some ballad, I know. Here where I wait it is late and is past time-- Late! and the moments are slow, are slow. There is a drawing downward of the night; The bridegroom Heaven bends down to kiss the moon: Above, the heights hang silver in her light; Below, the vales stretch purple, deep with June. There in the dew is it you hiding lawny? You? or a moth in the vines?-- You!--by your hand! where the band twinkles tawny! You!--by your ring, like a glow-worm that shines! IV _She approaches, laughing. She speaks_: You’d given up hope? _He_ Believe me! _She_ Why! is your love so poor? _He_ No. Yet you _might_ deceive me! _She_ As many a girl before.-- Ah, dear, you will forgive me? _He_ Say no more, sweet, say no more! _She_ Love trusts; and that’s enough, my dear. Trust wins through love; whereof, my dear, Love holds through trust: and love, my dear, Is--all my life and lore. _He_ Come, pay me or I’ll scold you.-- Give me the kiss you owe.-- You run when I would hold you? _She_ No! no! I say! now, no!-- How often have I told you, You must not use me so? _He_ More sweet the dusk for this is, For lips that meet in kisses.-- Come! come! why run from blisses As from a dreadful foe? V _She stands smiling at him, shyly, then speaks_: How many words in the asking! How easily I can grieve you!-- My “yes” in a “no” was a-masking, Nor thought, dear, to deceive you.-- A kiss?--the humming-bird happiness here In my heart consents.... But what are words, When the thought of two souls in speech accords? Affirmative, negative--what are they, dear? I wished to say “yes,” but somehow said “no.” The woman within me knew you would know, Knew that your heart would hear. _He speaks_: So many words in the doing!-- Therein you could not deceive me; Some things are sweeter for the pursuing: I knew what you meant, believe me.-- Bunched bells of the blush pomegranate, to fix At your throat.... Six drops of fire they are.... Will you look--where the moon and its following star Rise silvery over yon meadow ricks? While I hold--while I bend your head back, so.... For I know it is “yes” though you whisper “no,” And my kisses, sweet, are six. VI _Moths flutter around them. She speaks_: Look!--where the fiery Glow-worm in briery Banks of the moon-mellowed bowers Sparkles--how hazily Pinioned and airily Delicate, warily, Drowsily, lazily, Flutter the moths to the flowers. White as the dreamiest Bud of the creamiest Rose in the garden that dozes, See how they cling to them! Held in the heart of their Hearts, like a part of their Perfume, they swing to them Wings that are soft as a rose is. Dim as the forming of Dew in the warming of Moonlight, they light on the petals; All is revealed to them; All!--from the sunniest Tips to the honiest Heart, whence they yield to them Spice, through the darkness that settles. So to our tremulous Souls come the emulous Agents of love; through whose power All that is best in us, All that is beautiful, Selfless and dutiful, Is manifest in us, Even as the scent of a flower. VII _Taking her hand he says_: What makes you beautiful? Answer, now, answer!-- Is it that dutiful Souls are all beautiful? Is it romance or Beauty of spirit, Which souls, that merit, Of heaven inherit?-- Have you an answer? _She, roguishly_: What makes you lovable? Answer, now, answer!-- Is it not provable That man is lovable Just because chance, or Nature, makes woman Love him?--Her human Part’s to illumine.-- Have you an answer? VIII _Then, regarding him seriously, she continues_: Could I recall every joy that befell me There in the past with its anguish and bliss, Here in my heart it hath whispered to tell me,-- They were no joys like this. Were it not well if our love could forget them, Veiling the _Was_ with the dawn of the _Is_? Dead with the past we should never regret them, Being no joys like this. Now they are gone and the Present stands speechful, Ardent of word and of look and of kiss,-- What though we know that their eyes are beseechful!-- They were no joys like this. Were it not well to have more of the spirit, Living high Futures this earthly must miss? Less of the flesh, with the Past pining near it? Knowing no joys like this! IX _Leaving the garden for the lane. He, with lightness of heart_: We will leave reason, Sweet, for a season: Reason were treason Now that the nether Spaces are clad, oh, In silvery shadow-- We will be glad, oh, Glad as this weather! _She, responding to his mood_: Heart unto heart! where the moonlight is slanted, Let us believe that our souls are enchanted:-- I in the castle-keep; you are the airy Prince who comes seeking me; love is the fairy Bringing us two together. _He_ Starlight in masses Over us passes; And in the grass is Many a flower.-- Now will you tell me How ’d you enspell me? What once befell me There in your bower? _She_ Soul unto soul!--in the moon’s wizard glory, Let us believe we are parts in a story:-- I am a poem; a poet you hear it Whispered in star and in flower; a spirit, Love, puts my soul in your power. X _He, suddenly and very earnestly_: Perhaps we lived in the days Of the Khalif Haroun er Reshid; And loved, as the story says Did the Sultan’s favorite one And the Persian Emperor’s son, Ali ben Bekkar, he Of the Kisra dynasty. Do you know the story?--Well, _You_ were Haroun’s Sultana. When night on the palace fell, A slave, through a secret door,-- Low-arched on the Tigris’ shore,-- By a hidden winding stair Brought me to your bower there. Then there was laughter and mirth, And feasting and singing together, In a chamber of wonderful worth; In a chamber vaulted high On columns of ivory; Its dome, like the irised skies, Mooned over with peacock eyes; Its curtains and furniture, Damask and juniper. Ten slave girls--so many blooms-- Stand, holding tamarisk torches, Silk-clad from the Irak looms; Ten handmaidens serve the feast, Each maid like a star in the east; Ten lutanists, lutes a-tune, Wait, each like the Ramadan moon. For you, in a stuff of Merv Blue-clad, unveiled and jeweled, No metaphor made may serve: Scarved deep with your raven hair, The jewels like fireflies there-- Blossom and moon and star, The Lady Shemsennehar. The zone that girdles your waist Would ransom a Prince and Emeer; In your coronet’s gold enchased, And your bracelet’s twisted bar, Burn rubies of Istakhar; And pearls of the Jamshid race Hang looped on your bosom’s lace. You stand like the letter I; Dawn-faced, with eyes that sparkle Black stars in a rosy sky; Mouth, like a cloven peach, Sweet with your smiling speech; Cheeks, that the blood presumes To make pomegranate blooms. With roses of Rocknabad, Hyacinths of Bokhara,-- Creamily cool and clad In gauze,--girls scatter the floor From pillar to cedarn door. Then, a pomegranate bloom in each ear, Come the dancing-girls of Kashmeer. Kohl in their eyes, down the room,-- That opaline casting-bottles Have showered with rose-perfume,-- They glitter and drift and swoon To the dulcimer’s languishing tune; In the liquid light like stars And moons and nenuphars. Carbuncles, tragacanth-red, Smoulder in armlet and anklet: Gleaming on breast and on head, Bangles of coins, that are angled, Tinkle: and veils, that are spangled, Flutter from coiffure and wrist Like a star-bewildered mist. Each dancing-girl is a flower Of the Tuba from vales of El Liwa.-- How the bronzen censers glower! And scents of ambergris pour, And of myrrh, brought out of Lahore, And of musk of Khoten! how good Is the scent of the sandalwood! A lutanist smites her lute, Sings loves of Mejnoon and Leila:-- Her voice is an Houri flute;-- While the fragrant flambeaux wave, Barbaric, o’er free and slave, O’er fabrics and bezels of gems And roses in anadems. Sherbets in ewers of gold, Fruits in salvers carnelian; Flagons of grotesque mold, Made of a sapphire glass, Brimmed with wine of Shirâz; Shaddock and melon and grape On plate of an antique shape. Vases of frosted rose, Of alabaster graven, Filled with the mountain snows; Goblets of mother-of-pearl, One filigree silver-swirl; Vessels of gold foamed up With spray of spar on the cup. Then a slave bursts in with a cry: “The eunuchs! the Khalif’s eunuchs!-- With scimitars bared draw nigh! Wesif and Afif and he, Chief of the hideous three, Mesrour!--the Sultan ’s seen ’Mid a hundred weapons’ sheen!” Did we part when we heard this?--No! It seems that my soul remembers How I clasped and kissed you, so.... When they came they found us--dead, On the flowers our blood dyed red; Our lips together, and The dagger in my hand. XI _She, musingly_: How it was I can not tell, For I know not where nor why; But I know we loved too well In some world that does not lie East or west of where we dwell, And beneath no earthly sky. Was it in the golden ages?-- Or the iron?--that I heard,-- In the prophecy of sages,-- Haply, how had come a bird, Underneath whose wing were pages Of an unknown lover’s word. I forget. You may remember How the earthquake shook our ships; How our city, one huge ember, Blazed within the thick eclipse: When you found me--deep December Sealed my icy eyes and lips. I forget. No one may say That such things can not be true:-- Here a flower dies to-day, There, to-morrow, blooms anew.... Death is silent.--Tell me, pray, Why men doubt what God can do? XII _He, with conviction_: As to that, nothing to tell! You being all my belief, Doubt can not enter or dwell Here where your image is chief; Here where your name is a spell, Potent in joy and in grief. Is it the glamour of spring Working in us so we seem Aye to have loved? that we cling Even to some fancy or dream, Rainbowing everything, Here in our souls, with its gleam? See! how the synod is met There of the planets to preach us:-- Freed from the earth’s oubliette, See how the blossoms beseech us!-- Were it not well to forget Winter and death as they teach us? Dew and a bud and a star, All,--like a beautiful thought, Over man’s wisdom how far!-- God for some purpose hath wrought.-- Could we but know why they are, And that they end not in naught! Stars and the moon; and they roll Over our way that is white.-- Here shall we end the long stroll? Here shall I kiss you good night? Or, for a while, soul to soul, Linger and dream of delight? XIII _They reënter the garden. She speaks somewhat pensively_: Myths tell of walls and cities, lyred of love, That rose to music.--Were that power my own, Had I that harp, that magic barbiton, What had I builded for our lives thereof?-- In docile shadows under bluebell skies, A home upon the poppied edge of eve, Beneath pale peaks the splendors never leave, ’Mid lemon orchards whence the egret flies. Where, pitiless, the ruined hand of death Should never reach. No bud, no flower fade: Where all were perfect, pure and unafraid: And life serener than an angel’s breath. The days should move to music: song should tame The nights, attentive with their listening stars: And morn outrival eve in opal bars, Each preaching beauty with rose-tongues of flame. O home! O life! desired and to be! How shall we reach you?--Far the way and dim.-- Give me your hand, sweet! let us follow him, Love with the madness and the melody. XIV _He, observing the various dowers around them_: Violets and anemones The surrendered Hours Pour, as handsels, round the knees Of the Spring, who to the breeze Flings her myriad flowers. Like to coins, the sumptuous day Strews with blossoms golden Every furlong of his way,-- Like a Sultan gone to pray At a Kaaba olden. Warlock Night, with spark on spark, Clad in dim attire, Dots with stars the haloed dark,-- As a priest around the Ark Lights his lamps of fire. These are but the cosmic strings Of the harp of Beauty, Of that instrument which sings, In our souls, of love, that brings Peace and faith and duty. XV _She, seriously_: Duty?--Comfort of the sinner And the saint!--When grief and trial Weigh us, and within our inner Selves,--responsive to love’s viol,-- Hope’s soft voice grows thin and thinner. It is kin to self-denial. Self-denial! Through whose feeling We are gainer though we ’re loser; All the finer force revealing Of our natures. No accuser Is the conscience then, but healing Of the wound of which we ’re chooser. Who the loser, who the winner, If the ardor fail as preacher?-- None who loved was yet beginner, Though another’s love-beseecher: Love’s revealment ’s of the inner Life and God Himself is teacher. Heine said “no flower knoweth Of the fragrance it revealeth; Song, its heart that overfloweth, Never nightingale’s heart feeleth”-- Such is love the spirit groweth, Love unconscious if it healeth. XVI _He, looking smilingly into her eyes, after a pause, lightly_: An elf there is who stables the hot Red wasp that sucks on the apricot; An elf, who rowels his spiteful bay, Like a mote on a ray, away, away; An elf, who saddles the hornet lean And dins i’ the ear o’ the swinging bean; Who straddles, with cap cocked, all awry, The bottle-green back o’ the dragon-fly. And this is the elf who sips and sips From clover-horns whence the perfume drips; And, drunk with dew, in the glimmering gloam Awaits the wild-bee’s coming home; In ambush lies where none may see, And robs the caravan bumblebee: Gold bags of honey the bees must pay To the bandit elf of the fairy-way. Another ouphen the butterflies know, Who paints their wings with the hues that glow On blossoms: squeezing from tubes of dew Pansy colors of every hue On his bloom’s pied pallet, he paints the wings Of the butterflies, moths, and other things. This is the elf that the hollyhocks hear, Who dangles a brilliant in each one’s ear; Teases at noon the pane’s green fly, And lights at night the glow-worm’s eye. But the dearest elf, so the poets say, Is the elf who hides in an eye of gray; Who curls in a dimple or slips along The strings of a lute to a lover’s song; Who smiles in her smile and frowns in her frown, And dreams in the scent of her glove or gown; Hides and beckons, as all may note, In the bloom or the bow of a maiden’s throat. XVII _She, pensively, standing among the flowers_: Soft through the trees the night wind sighs, And swoons and dies. Above, the stars hang wanly white; Here, through the dark, A drizzled gold, the fireflies Rain mimic stars in spark on spark.-- ’Tis time to part, to say good night. Good night. From fern to flower the night-moths cross At drowsy loss. The moon drifts, veiled, through clouds of white; And pearly pale, In silvery blurs, through beds of moss, Their tiny moons the glow-worms trail.-- ’Tis time to part, to say good night. Good night. XVIII _He, at parting, as they proceed down the garden_: You say we can not marry, now That roses and the June are here? To your decision I must bow.-- Ah, well!--perhaps ’t is best, my dear. Let’s swear again each old love vow And love another year. Another year of love with you! Of dreams and days, of sun and rain! When field and forest bloom anew, And locust clusters pelt the lane, When all the song-birds wed and woo, I’ll not take “no” again. Oft shall I lie awake and mark The hours by no clanging clock, But, in the dim and dewy dark, Far crowing of some punctual cock; Then up, as early as the lark To meet you by our rock. The rock, where first we met at tryst; Where first I wooed and won your love.-- Remember how the moon and mist Made mystery of the heaven above As now to-night?--Where first I kissed Your lips, you trembling like a dove. So, then, we will not marry now That roses and the June are here, That warmth and fragrance weigh each bough? And, yet, your reason is not clear ... Ah, well! We ’ll swear anew each vow And wait another year. PART II EARLY SUMMER The cricket in the rose-bush hedge Sings by the vine-entangled gate; The slim moon slants a timid edge Of pearl through one low cloud of slate; Around dark door and window-ledge Like dreams the shadows wait. And through the summer dusk she goes, On her white breast a crimson rose. I _She delays, meditating. A rainy afternoon._ Gray skies and a foggy rain Dripping from streaming eaves; Over and over again Dull drop of the trickling leaves: And the woodward-winding lane, And the hill with its shocks of sheaves One scarce perceives. Shall I go in such wet weather By the lane or over the hill?-- Where the blossoming milkweed’s feather The diamonded rain-drops fill; Where, draggled and drenched together, The ox-eyes rank the rill By the old corn-mill. The creek by now is swollen, And its foaming cascades sound; And the lilies, smeared with pollen, In the dam look dull and drowned. ’Tis the path I oft have stolen To the bridge; that rambles round With willows bound. Through a bottom wild with berry, And packed with the ironweeds And elder,--washed and very Fragrant,--the fenced path leads Past oak and wilding cherry, Where the tall wild-lettuce seeds, To a place of reeds. The sun through the sad sky bleaches-- Is that a thrush that calls?-- A bird in the rain beseeches: And see! on the balsam’s balls, And leaves of the water-beeches-- One blister of wart-like galls-- No rain-drop falls. My shawl instead of a bonnet!... ’Though the woods be dripping yet, Through the wet to the rock I’ll run it!-- How sweet to meet in the wet!-- Our rock with the vine upon it,-- Each flower a fiery jet,-- Where oft we ’ve met. II _They meet. He speaks_: How fresh the purple clover Smells in its veil of rain! And where the leaves brim over How musky wild the lane! See, how the sodden acres, Forlorn of all their rakers, Their hay and harvest makers, Look green as spring again. Drops from the trumpet-flowers Rain on us as we pass; And every zephyr showers, From tilted leaf or grass, Clear beads of moisture, seeming Pale, pointed emeralds gleaming; Where, through the green boughs streaming, The daylight strikes like glass. _She speaks_: How dewy, clean and fragrant Look now the green and gold!-- And breezes, trailing vagrant, Spill all the spice they hold. The west begins to glimmer; And shadows, stretching slimmer, Make gray the ways; and dimmer Grow field and forest old. Beyond those rainy reaches Of woodland, far and lone, A whippoorwill beseeches; And now an owlet’s moan Drifts faint upon the hearing.-- These say the dusk is nearing. And, see, the heavens, clearing, Take on a tender tone. How feebly chirps the cricket! How thin the tree-toads cry! Blurred in the wild-rose thicket Gleams wet the firefly.-- This way toward home is nearest; Of weeds and briers clearest.... We ’ll meet to-morrow, dearest; Till then, dear heart, good-by. III _They meet again under the greenwood tree. He speaks_: Here at last! And do you know That again you ’ve kept me waiting? Wondering, anticipating That your “yes” meant “no.” Now you ’re here we ’ll have our day.... Let us take this daisied hollow, And beneath these beeches follow This wild strip of way To the stream; wherein are seen Stealing gar and darting minnow; Over which snake-feeders winnow Wings of black and green. Like a cactus flames the sun; And the mighty weaver, Even, Tenuous colored, there in heaven, His rich weft ’s begun.... How I love you! from the time-- You remember, do you not?-- When, within your orchard-plot, I was reading rhyme, As I told you. And ’t was thus:-- “By the blue Trinacrian sea, Far in pastoral Sicily With Theocritus”-- That I answered you who asked. But the curious part was this:-- That the whole thing was amiss; That the Greek but masked Tales of old Boccaccio: Tall Decameronian maids Strolled for me among the glades, Smiling, sweet and slow. And when you approached,--my book Dropped in wonder,--seemingly To myself I said, “’Tis she!” And arose to look In Lauretta’s eyes and--true! Found them yours.--You shook your head, Laughing at me, as you said, “Did I frighten you?” You had come for cherries; these Coatless then I climbed for while You still questioned with a smile, And still tried to tease. Ah, love, just two years have gone Since then.... I remember, you Wore a dress of billowy blue Muslin.--_Was_ it “lawn”?-- And your apron still I see-- All its whiteness cherry-stained-- Which you held; wherein I rained Ripeness from the tree. And I asked you--for, you know, To my eyes your serious eyes Said such deep philosophies-- If you ’d read Rousseau. You remember how a chance, Somewhat like to mine, one June Happened him at castle Toune, Over there in France? And a cherry dropping fair On your cheek, I, envying it, Cried--remembering Rousseau’s wit-- “Would my lips were there!” ... Here we are at last. We ’ll row Down the stream.--The west has narrowed To one streak of rose, deep-arrowed.-- There ’s our skiff below. IV _Entering the skiff, she speaks_: Waters flowing dark and bright In the sunlight or the moon, Fill my soul with such delight As some visible music might; As some slow, majestic tune Made material to the sight. Blossoms colored like the skies, Sunset-hued and tame or wild, Fill my soul with such surmise As the mind might realize If one’s thoughts, all undefiled, Should take form before the eyes. So to me do these appeal; So they sway me every hour: Letting all their beauty steal On my soul to make it feel Through a rivulet or flower, More than any words reveal. V _He speaks, rowing_: See, sweetheart, how the lilies lay Their lambent leaves about our way; Or, pollen-dusty, bob and float Their nenuphars around our boat.-- The middle of the stream is reached Three strokes from where our boat was beached. Look up. You scarce can see the sky, Through trees that lean, dark, dense and high; That, coiled with grape and trailing vine, Build vast a roof of shade and shine; A house of leaves, where shadows walk, And whispering winds and waters talk. There is no path. The saplings choke The trunks they spring from. There an oak, Floods from the Alleghanies bore, Lies rotting; and that sycamore, Which lays its bulk from shore to shore,-- Uprooted by the rain,--perchance May be the bridge to some romance: Its heart of punk, a spongy white, Glows, ghostly foxfire, in the night. Now opening through a willow fringe The waters creep, one tawny tinge Of sunset; and on either marge The cottonwoods make walls of shade, With breezy balsam pungent: large, The gradual hills loom; darkly fade The waters wherein herons wade, Or wing, like Faëry birds, from grass That mats the shore by which we pass. _She speaks_: On we pass; we rippling pass, On sunset waters still as glass. A vesper-sparrow flies above, Soft twittering, to its woodland love. A tufted-titmouse calls afar; And from the west, like some swift star, A glittering jay flies screaming. Slim The sand-snipes and kingfishers skim Before us; and some twilight thrush-- Who may discover where such sing?-- The silence rinses with a gush Of limpid music bubbling. _He speaks_: On we pass.--Now let us oar To yonder strip of ragged shore, Where, from a rock with lichens hoar, A ferny spring falls, babbling frore Through woodland mosses. Gliding by The sulphur-colored firefly Lights its pale lamp where mallows gloom, And wild-bean and wild-mustard bloom.-- Some hunter there within the woods Last fall encamped, those ashes say And campfire boughs.--The solitudes Grow dreamy with the death of day. VI _She sings_: Over the fields of millet A young bird tries its wings; And wild as a woodland rillet, Its first mad music rings rings-- Soul of my soul, where the meadows roll What is the song it sings? “Love, and a glad good-morrow, Heart where the rapture is! Good-morrow, good-morrow! Adieu to sorrow! Here is the road to bliss: Where all day long you may hearken my song, And kiss, kiss, kiss;” Over the fields of clover, Where the wild bee drones and sways, The wind, like a shepherd lover, Flutes on the fragrant ways-- Heart of my heart, where the blossoms part, What is the air he plays? “Love, and a song to follow, Soul with the face a-gleam! Come follow, come follow, O’er hill and through hollow, To the land o’ the bloom and beam: Where, under the flowers, you may listen for hours, And dream, dream, dream!” VII _He speaks, letting the boat drift_: Here the shores are irised; grasses Clump the water gray, that glasses Broken wood and deepened distance. Far the musical persistence Of a field-lark lingers low In the west’s rich tulip-glow. White before us flames one pointed Star; and Day hath Night anointed King; from out her azure ewer Pouring starry fire, truer Than pure gold. Star-crowned he stands With the starlight in his hands. Will the moon bleach through the ragged Tree-tops ere we reach yon jagged Rock that rises gradually, Pharos of our homeward valley?-- All the west is smouldering red; Embers are the stars o’erhead. At my soul some Protean elf is: You ’re Simætha; I am Delphis, You are Sappho and your Phaon, I.--We love.--There lies our way, on,-- Let us say,--Æolian seas, To the violet Lesbian leas. On we drift. I love you. Nearer Looms our Island. Rosier, clearer, The Leucadian cliff we follow, Where the temple of Apollo Shines--a pale and pillared fire.... Strike, oh, strike the Lydian lyre!-- Out of Hellas blows the breeze Singing to the Sapphic seas. VIII _Landing, he sings_: Night, night, ’t is night. The moon drifts low above us, And all its gold is tangled in the stream: Love, love, my love, and all the stars, that love us, The stars smile down and every star ’s a dream. In odorous purple, where the falling warble Of water cascades and the plunged foam glows, A columned ruin lifts its sculptured marble Friezed with the chiselled rebeck and the rose. _She sings_: Sleep, sleep, sweet sleep sleeps at the drifting tiller, And in our sail the Spirit of the Rain-- Love, love, my love, ah, bid thy heart be stiller, And, hark! the music of the singing main. What flowers are those that blow their balm unto us, From mouths of wild aroma, each a flame?-- Or is it Love that breathes? sweet Love who drew us, Who kissed our eyes and made us see the same? _He speaks_: Dreams; dreams we dream! no dream that we would banish! The temple and the nightingale _are_ there! Our love hath made them, nevermore to vanish, Real as yon moon, this wild-rose in your hair. Night, night, ’tis night!--and Love’s own star ’s before us, Its starred reflection in the starry stream.-- Yes, yes, ah yes! his presence shall watch o’er us, To-night, to-night, and every night we dream. IX _Homeward through flowers; she speaks_: Behold the offerings of the common hills! Whose lowly names have made them three times dear: One evening-primrose and an apron-full Of violets; and there, in multitudes, Dim-seen in moonlight, sweet cerulean wan, The bluet, making heaven of every dell With morn’s ambrosial blue: dew-dropping plumes Of the mauve beard’s-tongue; and the red-freaked cups Of blackberry-lilies all along the creek, Where, lulled, the freckled silence sleeps, and vague The water flows, when, at high noon, the cows Wade knee-deep, and the heat is honied with The drone of drowsy bees and dizzy flies. How bright the moon is on that fleur-de-lis; Blue, streaked with crystal like a summer day: And is it moonlight there? or is it flowers? White violets? lilies? or a daisy bed? And now the wind, with softest lullaby, Swings all their cradled heads and rocks-to-sleep Their fragrant faces and their golden eyes, Curtained, and frailly wimpled with the dew. Simple suggestions of a life most fair! Flowers, you speak of love and untaught faith, Whose habitation is within the soul, Not of the Earth, yet for the Earth indeed.... What is it halcyons my heart? makes calm, With calmness not of knowledge, all my soul This night of nights?--Is ’t love? or faith? or both?-- The lore of all the world is less than these Simple suggestions of a life most fair, And love most sweet that I have learned to know! X _He speaks, musingly_: Yes, I have known its being so; Long ago was I seeing so-- Beckoning on to a fairer land, Out of the flowers it waved its hand; Bidding me on to life and love, Life with the hope of the love thereof. What is the value of knowing it, If you are shy in showing it?-- Need of the earth unfolds the flower, Dewy sweet, at the proper hour; And, in the world of the human heart, Love is the flower’s counterpart. So when the soul is heedable, Then is the heart made readable.-- I in the book of your heart have read Words that are truer than truth hath said: Measures of love, the spirit’s song, Writ of your soul to haunt me long. Love can hear each laudable Thought of the loved made audible, Spoken in wonder, or joy, or pain, And reëcho it back again: Ever responsive, ever awake, Ever replying with ache for ache. XI _She speaks, dreamily_: Earth gives its flowers to us And heaven its stars. Indeed, _These_ are as lips that woo us, _Those_ are as lights that lead, With love that doth pursue us, With hope that still doth speed. Yet shall the flowers lie riven, And lips forget to kiss; The stars fade out of heaven, And lights lead us amiss-- As love for which we ’ve striven; As hope that promises. XII _He laughs, wishing to dispel her seriousness_: If love I have had of you, you had of me, Then doubtless our loving were over; One would be less than the other, you see; Since what you returned to your lover Were only his own; and-- XIII _She interrupts him, speaking impetuously_: But if I lose you, if you part with me, I will not love you less Loving so much now. If there is to be A parting and distress,-- What will avail to comfort or relieve The soul that’s anguished most?-- The knowledge that it once possessed, perceive, The love that it has lost. You must acknowledge, under sun and moon All that we feel is old; Let morning flutter from night’s brown cocoon Wide wings of flaxen gold; The moon burst through the darkness, soaring o’er, Like some great moth and white, These have been seen a myriad times before And with renewed delight.-- So ’tis with love;--how old yet new it is!-- This only should we heed,-- To once have known, to once have felt love’s bliss, Is to be rich indeed.-- Whether we win or lose, we lose or win, Within our gain or loss Some purpose lies, some end unseen of sin, Beyond our crown or cross. XIV _Nearing her home, he speaks_: True, true!--Perhaps it would be best To be that lone star in the west; Above the earth, within the skies, Yet shining here in your blue eyes. Or, haply, better here to blow A flower beneath your window low; That, brief of life and frail and fair, Finds yet a heaven in your hair. Or well, perhaps, to be the breeze That sighs its soul out to the trees; A voice, a breath of rain or drouth, That has its wild will with your mouth. These things I long to be. I long To be the burthen of some song You love to sing; a melody, Sure of sweet immortality. XV _At the gate. She speaks_: Sunday shall we ride together? Not the root-rough, rambling way Through the wood we went that day, In last summer’s sultry weather. Past the Methodist camp-meeting, Where religion helped the hymn Gather volume; and a slim Minister, with textful greeting, Welcomed us and still expounded.-- From the service on the hill We had passed three hills and still Loud, though far, the singing sounded. Nor that road through weed and berry Drowsy days led me and you To the old-time barbecue, Where the country-side made merry. Dusty vehicles together; Darkies with the horses near Tied to trees; the atmosphere Redolent of bark and leather, And of burgoo and of beef; there Roasting whole within the trench; Near which spread the long pine bench Under shading limb and leaf there. As we went the homeward journey You exclaimed, “They intermix Pleasure there and politics, Love and war: our modern tourney.” And the fiddles!--through the thickets, How they thumped the old quadrille! Scraping, droning on the hill, It was like a swarm of crickets.... Neither road! The shady quiet Of that path by beech and birch, Winding to the ruined church Near the stream that sparkles by it. Where the silent Sundays listen For the preacher--Love--we bring In our hearts to preach and sing Week-day shade to Sabbath glisten. XVI _He, at parting_: Yes, to-morrow. Early morn.-- When the House of Day uncloses Portals that the stars adorn,-- Whence Light’s golden presence throws his Flaming lilies, burning roses, At the wide wood’s world of wall, Spears of sparkle at each fall: Then together we will ride To the wood’s cathedral places; Where, like prayers, the wildflowers hide, Sabbath in their fairy faces; Where, in truest, untaught phrases, Worship in each rhythmic word, God is praised by many a bird. Look above you.--Pearly white, Star on star now crystallizes Out of darkness: Afric night Hangs them round her like devices Of strange jewels. Vapor rises, Glimmering, from each wood and dell.-- Till to-morrow, then, farewell. XVII _She tarries at the gate a moment, watching him disappear down the lane. He sings, and the sound of his singing grows fainter and fainter and at last dies away in the distance_: Say, my heart, O my heart, These be the eves for speaking! There is no wight will work us spite Beneath the sunset’s streaking. Yes, my sweet, O my sweet, Now is the time for telling! To walk together in starry weather Down lanes with elder smelling. O my heart, yes, my heart, Now is the time for saying! When lost in dreams each wildflower seems And every blossom praying. Lean, my sweet, listen, sweet,-- No sweeter time than this is,-- So says the rose, the moth that knows,-- To take sweet toll in kisses. PART III LATE SUMMER Heat lightning flickers in one cloud, As in a flower a firefly; Some rain-drops, that the rose-bush bowed, Jar through the leaves and dimly lie: Among the trees, now low, now loud, The whispering breezes sigh. The place is lone; the night is hushed; Upon the path a rose lies crushed. I _Musing, he strolls among the quiet lanes by farm and field_: Now rests the season in forgetfulness, Careless in beauty of maturity; The ripened roses round brown temples, she Fulfils completion in a dreamy guess. Now Time grants night the more and day the less: The gray decides; and brown, Dim golds and drabs in dulling green express Themselves and redden as the year goes down. Sadder the fields where, thrusting hoary high Their tasseled heads, the Lear-like corn-stocks die, And, Falstaff-like, buff-bellied pumpkins lie.-- Deeper to tenderness, Sadder the blue of hills that lounge along The lonesome west; sadder the song Of the wild red-bird in the leafage yellow.-- Deeper and dreamier, ay! Than woods or waters, leans the languid sky Above lone orchards where the cider-press Drips and the russets mellow. Nature grows liberal: from the beechen leaves The beech-nuts’ burrs their little pockets thrust, Bulged with the copper of the nuts that rust; Above the grass the spendthrift spider weaves A web of silver for which dawn designs Thrice twenty rows of pearls: beneath the oak, That rolls old roots in many gnarly lines,-- The polished acorns, from their saucers broke, Strew oval agates.--On sonorous pines The far wind organs; but the forest near Is silent; and the blue-white smoke Of burning brush, beyond that field of hay, Hangs like a pillar in the atmosphere; But now it shakes--it breaks and all the vines And tree-tops tremble;--see! the wind is here! Billowing and boisterous; and the smiling day Rejoices in its clamor. Earth and sky Resound with glory of its majesty, Impetuous splendor of its rushing by.-- But on those heights the forest still is still, Expectant of its coming.... Far away Each anxious tree upon each waiting hill Tingles anticipation, as in gray Surmise of rapture. Now the first gusts play, Like laughter low, about their rippling spines; And now the wildwood, one exultant sway, Shouts--and the light at each tumultuous pause, The light that glooms and shines, Seems hands in wild applause. How glows that garden! though the white mists keep The vagabonding flowers reminded of Decay that comes to slay in open love, When the full moon hangs cold and night is deep; Unheeding still, their cardinal colors leap And laugh encircled of the scythe of death,-- Like lovely children he prepares to reap,-- Staying his blade a breath To mark their beauty ere, with one last sweep, He lays them dead and turns away to weep.-- Let me admire,-- Before the sickle of the coming cold Shall mow them down,--their beauties manifold: How like to spurts of fire That scarlet salvia lifts its blooms, which heap Yon square of sunlight. And, as sparkles creep Through charring parchment, up that window’s screen The cypress dots with crimson all its green, The haunt of many bees. Cascading dark those porch-built lattices, The nightshade bleeds with berries; drops of blood, Hanging in clusters, ’mid the blue monk’s-hood. There, in that garden old, The bright-hued clumps of zinnias unfold Their formal flowers; and the marigold Lifts its pinched shred of orange sunset caught And elfed in petals. The nasturtium, All pungent leaved and acrid of perfume, Hangs up its goblin bonnet, fairy-brought From Gnomeland. There, predominant red, And arrogant, the dahlia lifts its head, Beside the balsam’s rose-stained horns of honey, Deep in the murmuring, sunny, Dry wildness of the weedy flower-bed; Where crickets and the weed-bugs, noon and night, Shrill dirges for the flowers that soon will die, And flowers already dead.-- I seem to hear the passing Summer sigh: A voice, that seems to weep, “Too soon, too soon the Beautiful passes by! And soon, amid her bowers, Will dripping Autumn mourn with all her flowers.”-- If I, perchance, might peep Beneath those leaves of podded hollyhocks, That the bland wind with odorous whispers rocks, I might behold her,--white And weary,--Summer, ’mid her flowers asleep, Her drowsy flowers asleep, The withered poppies knotted in her locks. II _He is reminded of another day with her_: The hips were reddening on this rose, Those haws were hung with fire, That day we went this way that goes Up hills of bough and brier. This hooked thorn caught her gown and seemed Imploring her to linger; Upon her hair a sun-ray streamed Like some baptizing finger. This false-foxglove, so golden now With yellow blooms, like bangles, Was bloomless then. But yonder bough,-- The sumac’s plume entangles,-- Was like an Indian’s painted face; And, like a squaw, attended That bush, in vague vermilion grace, With beads of berries splendid. And here we turned to mount that hill, Down which the wild brook tumbles; And, like to-day, that day was still, And mild winds swayed the umbels Of these wild-carrots, lawny gray: And there, deep-dappled o’er us, An orchard stretched; and in our way Dropped ripened fruit before us. With muffled thud the pippin fell, And at our feet rolled dusty; A hornet clinging to its bell, The pear lay bruised and rusty: The smell of pulpy peach and plum, From which the juice oozed yellow,-- Around which bees made sleepy hum,-- Made warm the air and mellow. And then we came where, many-hued, The wet wild morning-glory Hung its balloons in shadows dewed For dawning’s offertory: With bush and bramble, far away, Beneath us stretched the valley, Cleft of one creek, as clear as day, That rippled musically. The brown, the bronze, the green, the red Of weed and brier ran riot To walls of woods, whose pathways led To nooks of whispering quiet: Long waves of feathering goldenrod Ran through the gray in patches, As in a cloud the gold of God Burns, that the sunset catches. And there, above the blue hills rolled, Like some far conflagration, The sunset, flaming marigold, We watched in exultation: Then, turning homeward, she and I Went in love’s sweet derangement-- How different now seem earth and sky, Since this undreamed estrangement. III _He enters the woods. He sits down despondently_: Here where the day is dimmest, And silence company, Some might find sympathy For loss, or grief the grimmest, In each great-hearted tree-- Here where the day is dimmest-- But, ah, there ’s none for me! In leaves might find communion, Returning sigh for sigh, For love the heavens deny; The love that yearns for union, Yet parts and knows not why.-- In leaves might find communion-- But, ah, not I, not I! My eyes with tears are aching.-- Why has she written me? And will no longer see?-- My heart with grief is breaking, With grief that this should be.-- My eyes with tears are aching-- Why has she written me? IV _He proceeds in the direction of a stream_: Better is death than sleep, Better for tired eyes.-- Why do we weep and weep When near us the solace lies? There, in that stream, that, deep,-- Reflecting woods and skies,-- Could comfort all our sighs. The mystery of things, Of dreams, philosophies, To which the mortal clings, _That_ can unriddle these.-- What is ’t the water sings? What is ’t it promises?-- End to my miseries! V _He seats himself on a rock and gazes steadily into the stream_: And here alone I sit and it is so!-- O vales and hills! O valley-lands and knobs! What cure have you for woe? What balm that robs The brain of thought, the knowledge of its woe? None! none! ah me! that my sick heart may know!-- The wearying sameness!--yet this thing is so! This thing is so, and still the waters flow, The leaves drop slowly down; the daylight throbs With sun and wind, and yet this thing is so! There is no sympathy in heaven or earth For human sorrow! all we see is mirth, Or madness; cruelty or lust; Nature is heedless of her children’s grief; Man is to her no more than is a leaf, That buds and has its summer, that is brief, Then falls, and mixes with the common dust. Here, at this culvert’s mouth, The shadowy water, flowing toward the south, Seems deepest, stagnant-stayed.-- What is it yonder that makes me afraid? Of my own self afraid?--I do not know!-- What power draws me to the striate stream? What evil? or what dream? Me! dropping pebbles in the quiet wave, That echoes, strange as music in a cave, Hollow and thin; vibrating in the shade, As if ’t were tears that fell, and, falling, made A crystal sound, a shadow wail of woe, Wrung from the rocks and waters there below; An ailing phantom that will not be laid; Complaining ghosts of sobs that fill my breast,-- That will not forth,--and give my heart no rest. There, in the water, how the lank sword-grass Mats its long blades, each blade a crooked kris, Making a marsh; ’mid which the currents miss Their rock-born melodies. But there and there, one sees The wide-belled mallow, as within a glass, Long-pistiled, leaning o’er The root-contorted shore, As if its own pink image it would kiss. And there the tangled wild-potato vine Lifts beakered blossoms, each a cup of wine, As pale as moonlight is:-- No mandrake, curling convolutions up, Loops heavier blossoms, each a conical cup That swoons moon-nectar and a serpent’s hiss.-- And there tall gipsy lilies, all a-sway, Of coppery hue Streaked as with crimson dew, Mirror fierce faces in the deeps, O’er which they lean, bent in inverted view.-- And where the stream around those rushes creeps, The dragon-fly, in endless error, keeps Sewing the pale-gold gown of day With tangled stitches of a burning blue: Its brilliant body is a needle fine, A thread of azure ray, Black-pinioned, shuttling the shade and shine. But here before me where my pensive shade Looks up at me, the stale stream, stagnant, lies, Deep, dark, but clear and silent; streaked with hues Of ragweed pollen, and of spawny ooze, Through which the seeping bubbles, bursting, rise.-- All flowers here refuse To grow or blossom; beauties, too, are few, That haunt its depths: no glittering minnows braid Its sleepy crystal; and no gravels strew With colored orbs its bottom. Half afraid I shrink from my own eyes There in its cairngorm of reflected skies.-- I know not why, and yet it seems I see-- What is ’t I see there moving stealthily? I know not what!--But where the kildees wade, Slim in the foamy scum, From that direction hither doth it come, Whate’er it is, that makes my soul afraid. Nearer it draws to where those low rocks ail, Warm rocks, on which some water-snake hath clomb, Basking its spotted body, coiling numb, Brown in the brindled shade.-- At first it seemed a prism on the grail, A bubble’s prism, like the shadow made Of water-striders; then a trail, An angled sparkle in a webby veil Of duckweed, green as verdigris, it swayed Frog-like through deeps, to crouch, a flaccid, pale, Squat bulk below.... I gaze, and though I would, I can not go. Reflected trees and skies, And breeze-blown clouds that lounge at sunny loss, Seem in its stolid eyes, Its fishy gaze, that holds me in strange wise. Ghoul-like it seems to rise, And now to sink; its eldritch features fail, Then come again in rhythmic waviness, With arms like tentacles that seem to press Thro’ weed and water: limbs that writhe and fade, And clench, and twist, and toss, Root-like and gnarled, and cross and inter-cross Through flabby hair of smoky moss. How horrible to see this thing at night! Or when the sunset slants its brimstone light Above the pool! when, blue, in phantom flight, The will-o’-the-wisps, perhaps, above it reel. Then, haply, would it rise, a rotting green, Up, up, and gather me with arms of steel, Soft steel, and drag me where the wave is white, Beneath that boulder brown, that plants a keel Against the ripple there, a shoulder lean.-- No, no! I must away before ’tis night! Before the fireflies dot The dark with sulphur blurrings bright! Before, upon that height, The white wild-carrots vanish from the sight; And boneset blossoms, tossing there in clusters, Fade to a ridge, a streak of ghostly lustres: And, in that sunlit spot, Yon cedar tree is not! But a huge cap instead, that, half-asleep, Some giant dropped while driving home his sheep: And ’mid those fallow browns And russet grays, the fragrant peak Of yonder timothy stack, Is not a stack, but something hideous, black, That threatens and, grotesquely demon, frowns. I must away from here.-- Already dusk draws near. The owlet’s dolorous hoot Sounds quavering as a gnome’s wild flute; The toad, within the wet, Begins to tune its goblin flageolet: The slow sun sinks behind Those hills; and, like a withered cheek Of Quaker quiet, sorrow-burdened, there The spectral moon ’s defined Above those trees,--as in a wild-beast’s lair A golden woman, dead, with golden hair,-- Above that mass of fox-grape vines That, like a wrecked appentice, roofs those pines.-- Oh, I am faint and weak.-- I must away, away! Before the close of day!-- Already at my back I feel the woods grow black; And sense the evening wind, Guttural and gaunt and blind, Whining behind me like an unseen wolf. Deeper now seems the gulf Into whose deeps I gaze; From which, with madness and amaze, _That_ seems to rise, the horror there, With webby hands and mossy eyes and hair.-- Oh, will it pierce, With all its feelers fierce, Beyond the pool’s unhallowed water-streak?-- Yes; I must go, must go! Must leave this ghastly creek, This place of hideous fear! For everywhere I hear A dripping footstep near, A voice, like water, gurgling at my ear, Saying, “Come to me! come and rest below! Sleep and forget her and with her thy woe!”-- I try to fly.--I can not.--Yes, and no!-- What madness holds me!--God! that obscene, slow, Sure mastering chimera there, Perhaps, has fastened round my neck, Or in my matted hair, Some horrible feeler, dire, invisible!-- Off, off! thou hoop of Hell! Thou devil’s coil!... Back, back into thy cesspool! Off of me!-- See, how the waters thrash and boil! At last! at last! thank God! my soul is free! My mind is freed of that vile mesmerism That drew me to--what end? my God! what end? Haply ’twas merely fancy, that strange fiend: My fancy, and a prism Of sunset in the stream, a firefly fleck, That now, a lamp of golden fairy oil, Lights me my homeward way, the way I flee. No more I stare, magnetic-fixed; nor reck, Nor little care to foil The madness there! the murder there! that slips Back to its lair of slime, that seeps and drips, That sought in vain to fasten on my lips. VI _Taking a letter from his pocket, he hurries away_: What can it mean for me? what have I done to her? I, in our season of love as a sun to her: She, all my heaven of silvery, numberless Stars and its moon, shining golden and slumberless; Who on my life, that was thorny and lowery, Came--and made beautiful; smiled--and made flowery. She, to my heart and my soul a divinity! She, who--I dreamed!--seemed my spirit-affinity!-- What have I done to her? what have I done? What can she mean by this?--what have I said to her? I, who have idolized, worshiped, and pled to her; Sung with her, laughed with her, sorrowed and sighed for her; Lived for her only; and gladly had died for her! See! she has written me thus! she has written me-- Sooner would dagger or serpent had smitten me!-- Would you had shriveled ere ever you’d read of it, Eyes, that are wide to the grief and the dread of it!-- What have I said to her? what have I said? What shall I make of it? I who am trembling, Fearful of losing.--A moth, the dissembling Flame of a taper attracts with its guttering, Flattering on till its body lies fluttering, Scorched in the summer night.--Foolish, importunate, Why didst thou quit the cool flowers, unfortunate!-- Such has she been to me, making me such to her!-- Slaying me, saying I never was much to her!-- What shall I make of it? what can I make? Love, in thy everglades, moaning and motionless, Look, I have fallen; the evil is potionless: I, with no thought but the day that did lock us in, Set naked feet ’mid the cottonmouth-moccasin, Under the roses, the Cherokee, eying me:-- I,--in the heav’n with the egrets that, flying me, Winging like blooms from magnolias, rose slenderly, Pearl and pale pink: where the mocking-bird tenderly Sang, making vistas of mosses melodious, Wandered,--unheeding my steps,--in the odious Ooze and the venom. I followed the wiry Violet curve of thy star falling fiery-- So was I lost in night! thus am undone! Have I not told to her--living alone for her-- Purposed unfoldments of deeds I had sown for her Here in the soil of my soul? their variety Endless--and ever she answered with piety. See! it has come to this--all the tale’s suavity At the ninth chapter grows hateful with gravity; Cruel as death all our beautiful history-- Close it!--the final is more than a mystery.-- Yes; I will go to her; yes; and will speak. VII _After the final meeting; the day following_: I seem to see her still; to see That blue-hung room. Her perfume comes From lavender folds, draped dreamily,-- A-blossom with brocaded blooms,-- Some stuff of orient looms. I seem to hear her speak; and back, Where sleeps the sun on books and piles Of porcelain and bric-à-brac, A tall clock ticks above the tiles, Where Love’s framed profile smiles. I hear her say, “Ah, had I known!-- I suffer too for what has been-- For what must be.”--A wild ache shone In her sad gaze that seemed to lean On something far, unseen. And as in sleep my own self seems Outside my suffering self.--I flush ’Twixt facts and undetermined dreams, And stand, as silent as that hush Of lilac light and plush. Smiling, but suffering, I feel, Beneath that face, so sweet and sad, In those pale temples, thoughts, like steel, Pierce burningly.... I had gone mad Had I once thought her glad.-- Unconsciously, with eyes that yearn To look beyond the present far, For one faint future hope, I turn-- There, in her garden, one fierce star, A cactus, red as war, Vermilion as a storm-sunk sun, Flames torrid splendor,--brings to life A sunset; memory of one Rich eve she said she ’d be my wife; An eve with beauty rife. Again amid the heavy hues, Soft crimson, seal, and satiny gold Of flowers there, I stood ’mid dews With her; deep in her garden old, While sunset’s flame unrolled. And now!... It can not be! and yet To see ’tis so!--In heart and brain To know ’tis so!--While, warm and wet, I seem to smell those scents again, Verbena scents and rain. I turn, in hope she ’ll bid me stay. Again her cameo beauty mark Set in that smile.--She turns away. No farewell! no regret! no spark Of hope to cheer the dark! That sepia sketch--conceive it so-- A jaunty head with mouth and eyes Tragic beneath a rose-chapeau, Silk-masked, unmasking--it denies The look we half surmise, We know is there. ’Tis thus we read The true beneath the false; perceive The ache beneath the smile.--Indeed! Whose soul unmasks?... Not mine!--I grieve,-- Oh God!--but laugh and leave.... VIII _He walks aimlessly on_: Beyond those knotted apple-trees, That partly hide the old brick barn, Its tattered arms and tattered knees A scarecrow tosses to the breeze Among the shocks of corn. My heart is gray as is the day, In which the rain-wind drearily Makes all the rusty branches sway, And in the hollows, by each way, The dead leaves rustle wearily. And soon we ’ll hear the far wild-geese Honk in frost-bitten heavens under Arcturus; when my walks must cease, And by the fireside’s log-heaped peace I ’ll sit and nod and ponder.-- When every fall of this loud creek Is silent with the frost; and tented Brown acres of the corn stretch bleak And shaggy with the snows, that streak The hillsides, hollow-dented; I ’ll sit and dream of that glad morn We met by banks with elder snowing; That dusk we strolled through flower and thorn, By tasseled meads of cane and corn, To where the stream was flowing. Again I ’ll oar our boat among The dripping lilies of the river, To reach her hat, the grape-vine long Struck in the stream; we ’ll row to song; And then ... I ’ll wake and shiver. Why is it that my mind reverts To that sweet past? while full of parting The present is: so full of hurts And heartache, that what it asserts Adds only to the smarting. How often shall I sit and think Of that sweet past! through lowered lashes What-might-have-been trace link by link; Then watch it gradually sink And crumble into ashes. Outside I ’ll hear the sad wind weep Like some lone spirit, grieved, forsaken; Then, shuddering, to bed will creep, To lie awake, or, haply, sleep A sleep by visions shaken. By visions of the past, that draw The present in a hue that’s wanting; A scarecrow thing of sticks and straw,-- Like that just now I, passing, saw,-- Its empty tatters flaunting. IX _He compares the present day with a past one_: The sun a splintered splendor was In trees, whose waving branches blurred Its disc, that day we went together, ’Mid wild-bee hum and whirring buzz Of locusts, through the fields that purred With summer in the perfect weather. So sweet it was to look, and lean To her young face and feel the light Of eyes that met my own unsaddened! Her laugh that left lips more serene; Her speech that blossomed like the white Life-everlasting there and gladdened. Maturing summer, you were fraught With more of beauty then than now Parades the pageant of September: Where What-is-now contrasts in thought With What-was-once, that bloom and bough Can only help me to remember. X _He pauses before a deserted house by the wayside_: Through ironweeds and roses And scraggy beech and oak, Old porches it discloses Above the weeds and roses The drizzling raindrops soak. Neglected walks a-tangle With dodder-strangled grass; And every mildewed angle Heaped with dead leaves that spangle The paths that round it pass. The creatures there that bury Or hide within its rooms And spidered closets--very Dim with old webs--will hurry Out when the evening glooms. Owls roost on beam and basement; Bats haunt its hearth and porch; And, by each ruined casement, Flits, in the moon’s enlacement, The wisp, like some wild torch. There is a sense of frost here, And winds that sigh alway Of something that was lost here, Long, long ago was lost here, But what, they can not say. My foot, perhaps, would startle Some owl that mopes within; Some bat above its portal, That frights the daring mortal, And guards its cellared sin. The creaking road winds by it This side the dusty toll.-- Why do I stop to eye it? My heart can not deny it-- The house is like my soul. XI _He proceeds on his way_: I bear a burden--look not therein! Naught will you find save sorrow and sin; Sorrow and sin that wend with me Wherever I go. And misery, A gaunt companion, my wretched bride, Goes ever with me, side by side. Sick of myself and all the earth, I ask my soul now: Is life worth The little pleasure that we gain For all our sorrow and our pain? The love, to which we gave our best, That turns a mockery and a jest? XII _Among the twilight fields_: The things we love, the loveliest things we cherish, Pass from us soonest, vanish utterly. Dust are our deeds, and dust our dreams that perish Ere we can say _They be_! I have loved man and learned we are not brothers-- Within myself, perhaps, may lie the cause;-- Then set one woman high above all others, And found her full of flaws. Made unseen stars my keblahs of devotion; Aspired to knowledge, and remained a clod: With heart and soul, led on by blind emotion, The way to failure trod. Chance, say, or fate, that works through good and evil; Or destiny, that nothing may retard, That to some end, above life’s empty level, Perhaps withholds reward. PART IV LATE AUTUMN They who die young are blest.-- Should we not envy such?-- They are Earth’s happiest, God-loved and favored much!-- They who die young are blest. I _Sick and sad, propped with pillows, she sits at her window_: When the dog’s-tooth violet comes With April showers, And the wild-bee haunts and hums About the flowers, We shall never wend as when Love laughed leading us from men Over violet vale and glen, Where the red-bird sang for hours, And we heard the flicker drum. Now November heavens are gray: Autumn kills Every joy--like leaves of May In the rills.-- Here I sit and lean and listen To a voice that has arisen In my heart; with eyes that glisten Gazing at the happy hills, Fading dark blue, far away. II _She looks down upon the dying garden_: There rank death clutches at the flowers And drags them down and stamps in earth. At morn the thin, malignant hours, Shrill-voiced, among the wind-torn bowers, Clamor a bitter mirth-- Or is it heartbreak that, forlorn, Would so conceal itself in scorn. At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls, Like feeble age, once beautiful, From mildewed walks to mildewed walls, Down which the oozing moisture falls Upon the cold toadstool:-- Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps-- Or is it tears of love who weeps? At night a misty blur of moon Slips through the trees,--pale as a face Of melancholy marble hewn;-- And, like the phantom of some tune, Winds whisper in the place-- Or is it love come back again, Seeking its perished joy in vain? III _She muses upon the past_: When, in her cloudy chiton, Spring freed the frozen rills, And walked in rainbowed light on The blossom-blowing hills; Beyond the world’s horizon, That no such glory lies on, And no such hues bedizen, Love led us far from ills. When Summer came, a sickle Stuck in her sheaf of beams, And let the honey trickle From out her bee-hives’ seams; Within the violet-blotted Sweet book to us allotted,-- Whose lines are flower-dotted,-- Love read us many dreams. Then Autumn came,--a liar, A fair-faced heretic;-- In gypsy garb of fire, Throned on a harvest rick.-- Our lives, that fate had thwarted, Stood pale and broken-hearted,-- Though smiling when we parted,-- Where love to death lay sick. Now is the Winter waited, The tyrant hoar and old, With death and hunger mated, Who counts his crimes like gold.-- Once more, before forever We part--once more, then never!-- Once more before we sever, Must I his face behold! IV _She takes up a book and reads_: What little things are those That hold our happiness! A smile, a glance; a rose Dropped from her hair or dress; A word, a look, a touch,-- These are so much, so much. An air we can’t forget; A sunset’s gold that gleams; A spray of mignonette, Will fill the soul with dreams, More than all history says, Or romance of old days. For, of the human heart, Not brain, is memory; These things it makes a part Of its own entity; The joys, the pains whereof Are the very food of love. V _She lays down the book, and sits musing_: How true! how true!--but words are weak, In sympathy they give the soul, To music--music, that can speak All the heart’s pain and dole; All that the sad heart treasures most Of love that ’s lost, of love that ’s lost.-- I would not hear sweet music now. My heart would break to hear it now. So weary am I, and so fain To see his face, to feel his kiss Thrill rapture through my soul again!-- There is no hell like this!-- Ah, God! my God, were it not best To give me rest, to give me rest!-- Come, death, and breathe upon my brow. Sweet death, come kiss my mouth and brow. VI _She writes to her lover to come to her_: Dead lie the dreams we cherished, The dreams we loved so well; Like forest leaves they perished, Like autumn leaves they fell. Alas! that dreams so soon should pass! Alas! alas! The stream lies bleak and arid, That once went singing on; The flowers once that varied Its banks are dead and gone: Where these were once are thorns and thirst-- The place is curst. Come to me. I am lonely. Forget all that occurred. Come to me; if for only One last, sad, parting word: For one last word. Then let the pall Fall over all. The day and hour are suited For what I ’d say to you Of love that I uprooted.-- But I have suffered, too!-- Come to me; I would say good-by Before I die. VII _The wind rises; the trees are agitated_: Woods that beat the wind with frantic Gestures and sow darkly round Acorns gnarled and leaves that antic Wildly on the rustling ground, Is it tragic grief that saddens Through your souls this autumn day? Or the joy of death that gladdens In exultance of decay? Arrogant you lift defiant Boughs against the moaning blast, That, like some invisible giant, Wrapped in tumult, thunders past. Is it that in such insurgent Fury, tossed from tree to tree, You would quench the fiercely urgent Pangs of some old memory? As in toil and violent action, That still help them to forget, Mortals drown the dark distraction And insistence of regret. VIII _She sits musing in the gathering twilight_: Last night I slept till midnight; then woke, and, far away, A cock crowed; lonely and distant I heard a watch-dog bay: But lonelier yet the tedious old clock ticked on to’ards day. And what a day!--remember those morns of summer and spring, That bound our lives together! each morn a wedding-ring Of dew, aroma, and sparkle, and buds and birds a-wing. Clear morns, when I strolled my garden, awaiting him, the rose Expected too, with blushes,--the Giant-of-battle that grows A bank of radiance and fragrance, and the Maréchal-Niel that glows. Not in vain did I wait, departed summer, amid your phlox! ’Mid the powdery crystal and crimson of your hollow hollyhocks; Your fairy-bells and poppies, and the bee that in them rocks. Cool-clad ’mid the pendulous purple of the morning-glory vine, By the jewel-mine of the pansies and the snapdragons in line, I waited, and there he met me whose heart was one with mine. Around us bloomed my mealy-white dusty-millers gay, My lady-slippers, bashful of butterfly and ray; My gillyflowers, spicy, each one, as a day of May. Ah me! when I think of the handfuls of little gold coins, amass, My bachelor’s-buttons scattered over the garden grass, The marigolds that boasted their bits of burning brass; More bitter I feel the autumn tighten on spirit and heart; And regret those days, remembered as lost, that stand apart, A chapter holy and sacred, I read with eyes that smart. How warm was the breath of the garden when he met me there that day! How the burnished beetle and humming-bird flew past us, each a ray!-- The memory of those meetings still bears me far away: Again to the woods a-trysting by the water-mill I steal, Where the lilies tumble together, the madcap wind at heel; And meet him among the flowers, the rocks and the moss conceal: Or the wild-cat gray of the meadows that the black-eyed Susans dot, Fawn-eyed and leopard-yellow, that tangle a tawny spot Of languid panther beauty that dozes, summer-hot.... Ah! back again in the present! with the winds that pinch and twist The leaves in their peevish passion, and whirl wherever they list; With the autumn, hoary and nipping, whose mausolean mist Entombs the sun and the daylight: each morning shaggy with fog, That fits gray wigs on the cedars, and furs with frost each log; That velvets white the meadows, and marbles brook and bog.-- Alone at dawn--indifferent: alone at eve--I sigh: And wait, like the wind complaining: complain and know not why: But ailing and longing and pining because I can not die. How dull is that sunset! dreary and cold, and hard and dead! The ghost of those last August that, mulberry-rich and red, The wine of God’s own vintage, poured purple overhead. But now I sit with the sighing dead dreams of a dying year; Like the fallen leaves and the acorns, am worthless and feel as sere, With a soul that ’s sick of the body, whose heart is one big tear. As I stare from my window the daylight, like a bravo, its cloak puts on. The moon, like a cautious lanthorn, glitters, and then is gone.-- Will he come to-night? will he answer?--Ah, God! would it were dawn! IX _He enters. Taking her in his arms he speaks_: They said you were dying.-- You shall not die!... Why are you crying? Why do you sigh?-- Cease that sad sighing!-- Love, it is I. All is forgiven!-- Love is not poor; Though he was driven Once from your door, Back he has striven, To part nevermore! Will you remember When I forget Words, each an ember, That you regret, Now in November, Now we have met? What if love wept once! What though you knew! What if he crept once Pleading to you!-- _He_ never slept once, Nor was untrue. Often forgetful, Love may forget; Froward and fretful, Dear, he will fret; Ever regretful, He will regret. Life is completer Through his control; Lifted, made sweeter, Filled and made whole, Hearing love’s metre Sing in the soul. Flesh may not hear it, Being impure; But in the spirit, There we are sure; There we come near it, There we endure. So when to-morrow Ceases and we Quit this we borrow, Mortality, What chastens sorrow So it may see?-- (When friends are sighing; Round one, and one Nearer is lying, Nearer the sun, When one is dying And all is done? When there is weeping, Weary and deep,-- God’s be the keeping Of those who weep!-- When our loved, sleeping, Sleep their long sleep?--) Love! that is dearer Than we’re aware; Bringing us nearer, Nearer than prayer; Being the mirror That our souls share. Still you are weeping! Why do you weep?-- Are tears in keeping With joy so deep? Gladness so sweeping? Hearts so in keep? Speak to me, dearest! Say it is true! That I am nearest, Dearest to you.-- Smile, with those clearest Eyes of gray blue. X _She smiles on him through her tears; holding his hand she speaks_: They did not say I could not live beyond this weary night, But now I know that I shall die before the morning’s light. How weak I am!--but you ’ll forgive me when I tell you how I loved you--love you; and the pain it is to leave you now? We could not wed!--Alas! the flesh, that clothes the soul of me, Ordained at birth a sacrifice to this heredity, Denied, forbade.--Ah, you have seen the bright spots in my cheeks Glow hectic, as before comes night the west burns blood-red streaks? Consumption.--“But I promised you my hand?”--a thing forlorn Of life; diseased!--O God!--and so, far better so, forsworn!-- Oh, I was jealous of your love. But think: if I had died Ere babe of mine had come to be a solace at your side! Had it been little then--your grief, when Heaven had made us one In everything that’s good on earth and then the good undone? No! no! and had I had a child--what grief and agony To know _that_ blight born in him, too, against all help of me! Just when we cherished him the most, and youthful, sunny pride Sat on his curly front, to see him die ere we had died.-- Whose fault?--Ah, God!--not mine! but his, that ancestor who gave Escutcheon to our sorrowful house, a Death’s-head and a Grave. Beneath the pomp of those grim arms we live and may not move; Nor faith, nor truth, nor wealth avail to hurl them down, nor love! How could I tell you this?--not then! when all the world was spun Of morning colors for our love to walk and dance upon. I could not tell you how disease hid here a viper germ, Precedence slowly claiming and so slowly fixing firm. And when I broke my plighted troth and would not tell you why, I loved you, thinking, “time enough when I have come to die.” Draw off my rings and let my hands rest so ... the wretched cough Will interrupt my feeble speech and will not be put off ... Ah, anyhow, my anodyne is this: to know that you Are near and love me!--Kiss me now, as you were wont to do. And tell me you forgive me all; and say you will forget The sorrow of that breaking-off, the fever and the fret.-- Now set those roses near me here, and tell me death’s a lie-- Once it was hard for me to live ... now it is hard to die. PART V WINTER We, whom God sets a task, Striving, who ne’er attain, We are the curst!--who ask Death, and still ask in vain. We, whom God sets a task. I _In the silence of his room. After many days_: All, all are shadows. All must pass As writing in the sand or sea: Reflections in a looking-glass Are not less permanent than we. The days that mold us--what are they? That break us on their whirling wheel? What but the potters! we the clay They fashion and yet leave unreal. Linked through the ages, one and all, In long anthropomorphous chain, The human and the animal Inseparably must remain. Within us still the monstrous shape That shrieked in air and howled in slime, What are we?--partly man and ape-- The tools of fate, the toys of time! II _The bitterness of his bereavement speaks in him_: Vased in her bedroom window, white As her glad girlhood, never lost, I smelt the roses--and the night Outside was fog and frost. What though I claimed her dying there! God nor one angel understood Nor cared, who from sweet feet to hair Had changed to snow her blood. She had been mine so long, so long! Our harp of life was one in word-- Why did death thrust his hand among The chords and break one chord! What lily lilier than her face! More virgin than her lips I kissed! When morn, like God, with gold and grace, Broke massed in mist! broke massed in mist! III _Her dead face seems to rise up before him_: The face that I said farewell to, Pillowed a flower on flowers, Comes back, with its eyes to tell to My soul what my heart should quell to Calm, that is mine at hours. Dear, is your soul still daggered There by something amiss? Love--is _he_ ever laggard? Hope--is _her_ face still haggard? Tell me what it is! You, who are done with to-morrow! Done with these worldly skies! Done with our pain and sorrow! Done with the griefs we borrow! Joys that are born of sighs! Must we say “gone forever?” Or will it all come true? Does mine touch your thought ever? And, over the doubts that sever, Rise to the fact that ’s you? Love, in my flesh so fearful, Medicine me this pain!-- Love, with the eyes so tearful, How can my soul be cheerful, Seeing its joy is slain!... Gone!--’t was only a vision!-- Gone! like a thought, a gleam!-- Such to our indecision Utter no empty mission;-- Truth is in all we dream! IV _He sinks into deep thought_: There are shadows that compel us, There are powers that control: More than substance these can tell us, Speaking to the human soul. In the moonlight, when it glistened On my window, white of glow, Once I woke and, leaning, listened To a voice that sang below. Full of gladness, full of yearning, Strange with dreamy melody, Like a bird whose heart was burning, Wildly sweet it sang to me. I arose; and by the starlight, Pale beneath the summer sky, There I saw it, full of far light,-- My dead joy go singing by. In the darkness, when the glimmer Of the storm was on the pane, Once I sat and heard a dimmer Voice lamenting in the rain. Full of parting and unspoken Heartbreak, faint with agony, Like a bird whose heart was broken, Moaning low it cried to me. I arose; and in the darkness, Wan beneath the winter sky, There I saw it, cold to starkness,-- My dead love go wailing by. V _He arouses from his abstraction, buries his face in his hands and thinks_: So long it seems since last I saw her face, So long ago it seems, Like some sad soul in unconjectured space, Still seeking happiness through perished grace And unrealities, a little while Illusions lead me, ending in the smile Of Death, triumphant in a thorny place, Among Love’s ruined roses and dead dreams. Since she is gone, no more I feel the light,-- Since she has left all dark,-- Cleave, with its revelation, all the night. I wander blindly, on a crumbling height, Among the fragments and the wrecks and stones Of Life, where Hope, amid Life’s skulls and bones, With weary face, disheartened, wild and white, Trims her pale lamp with its expiring spark. Now she is dead, the Soul, naught can o’erawe,-- Now she is gone from me,-- Questions God’s justice that seems full of flaw, As is His world, where misery is law, And all men fools, too willing to be slaves.-- My House of Faith, built up on dust of graves, The wind of doubt sweeps down as made of straw, And all is night and I no longer see. VI _He looks from his window toward the sombre west_: Ridged and bleak the gray, forsaken Twilight at the night has guessed; And no star of dusk has taken Flame unshaken in the west. All day long the woodlands, dying, Moaned, and drippings as of grief Rained from barren boughs with sighing Death of flying twig and leaf. Ah, to live a life unbroken Of the flings and scorns of fate! Like that tree, with branches oaken, Strength’s unspoken intimate.-- Who can say that we have never Lived the life of plants and trees?-- Not so wide the lines that sever Us forever here from these. Colors, odors, that are cherished, Haply hint we once were flowers: Memory alone has perished In this garnished world that’s ours. Music,--that all things expresses, All for which we’ve sought and sinned,-- Haply in our treey tresses Once was guesses of the wind. But I dream!--The dusk, dark braiding Locks that lack both moon and star, Deepens; and, the darkness aiding, Earth seems fading, faint and far. And within me doubt keeps saying-- “What is wrong, and what is right? Hear the cursing! hear the praying! All are straying on in night.” VII _He turns from the window, takes up a book, and reads_: The soul, like Earth, hath silences Which speak not, yet are heard: The voices mute of memories Are louder than a word. Theirs is a speech which is not speech; A language that is bound To soul-vibrations, vague, that reach Deeper than any sound. No words are theirs. They speak through things, A visible utterance Of thoughts--like those some sunset brings, Or withered rose, perchance. The heavens that once, in purple and flame, Spake to two hearts as one, In after years may speak the same To one sad heart alone. Through it the vanished face and eyes Of her, the sweet and fair, Of her the lost, again shall rise To comfort his despair. And so the love that led him long From golden scene to scene, Within the sunset is a tongue That speaks of what has been.-- How loud it speaks of that dead day, The rose whose bloom is fled! Of her who died; who, clasped in clay, Lies numbered with the dead. The dead are dead; with them ’tis well Within their narrow room;-- No memories haunt their hearts who dwell Within the grave and tomb. But what of those--the dead who live! The living dead, whose lot Is still to love--ah, God forgive!-- To live and love, forgot! VIII _The storm is heard sounding wildly outside with wind and hail_: The night is wild with rain and sleet; Each loose-warped casement claps or groans: I hear the plangent woodland beat The tempest with long blatant moans, Like one who fears defeat. And sitting here beyond the storm, Alone within the lonely house, It seems that some mesmeric charm Holds all things--even the gnawing mouse Has ceased its faint alarm. And in the silence, stolen o’er Familiar objects, lo, I fear-- I fear--that, opening yon door, I ’ll find my dead self standing near, With face that once I wore. The stairway creaks with ghostly gusts: The flue moans; all its gorgon throat One wail of winds: ancestral dusts,-- Which yonder Indian war-gear coat With gray, whose quiver rusts,-- Are shaken down.--Or, can it be, That he who wore it in the dance, Or battle, now fills shadowy Its wampumed skins? and shakes his lance And spectral plume at me?-- Mere fancy!--Yet those curtains toss Mysteriously as if some dark Hand moved them.--And I would not cross The shadow there, that hearthstone’s spark, A glow-worm sunk in moss. Outside ’t were better!--Yes, I yearn To walk the waste where sway and dip Deep, dark December boughs--where burn Some late last leaves, that drip and drip No matter where you turn. Where sodden soil, you scarce have trod, Fills oozy footprints--but the blind Night there, though like the frown of God, Presents no fancies to the mind, Like those that have o’erawed.-- The months I count: how long it seems Since summer! summer, when with her, When on her porch, in rainy gleams We watched the flickering lightning stir In heavens gray as dreams. When all the west, a sheet of gold, Flared,--like some Titan’s opened forge,-- With storm; revealing, manifold, Vast peaks of clouds with crag and gorge, Where thunder-torrents rolled. Then came the wind: again, again Storm lit the instant earth--and how The forest rang with roaring rain!-- We could not read--where is it now?-- That tale of Charlemagne: That old romance! that tale, which we Were reading; till we heard the plunge Of distant thunder sullenly, And left to watch the lightning lunge, And storm-winds toss each tree. That summer!--How it built us there, Of sorcery and necromance, A mental-world, where all was fair; A land like one great pearl, a-trance With lilied light and air. Where every flower was a thought; And every bird, a melody; And every fragrance, zephyr brought, Was but the rainbowed drapery Of some sweet dream long sought. ’Mid which we reared our heart’s high home, Fair on the hills; with terraces, Vine-hung and wooded, o’er the foam Of undiscovered fairy seas, All violet in the gloam. O land of shadows! shadow-home, Within my world of memories! Around whose ruins sweeps the foam Of sorrow’s immemorial seas, To whose dark shores I come! How long in your wrecked halls, alone With ghosts of joys must I remain? Between the unknown and the known, Still hearing through the wind and rain My lost love moan and moan. IX _He sits by the slowly dying fire. The storm is heard with increased violence_: Wild weather. The lash of the sleet On the gusty casement, clapping-- The sound of the storm like a sheet My soul and senses wrapping. Wild weather. And how is she, Now the rush of the rain falls serried There on the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried? Wild weather. How black and deep Is the night where the mad winds scurry!-- Do I sleep? do I dream in my sleep That I hear her footsteps hurry? Hither they come like flowers-- And I see her raiment glisten, Like the robes of one of the hours Where the stars to the angels listen. Before me, behold, how she stands! With lips high thoughts have weighted, With testifying hands, And eyes with glory sated. I have spoken and I have kneeled: I have kissed her feet in wonder-- But, lo! her lips--they are sealed, God-sealed, and will not sunder. Though I sob, “Your stay was long! You are come,--but your feet were laggard!-- With mansuetude and song For the heart your death has daggered.” Never a word replies, Never, to all my weeping-- Only a sound of sighs, And of raiment past me sweeping.... I wake; and a clock tolls three-- And the night and the storm beat serried There on the turf and the tree Of the place where she is buried. RED LEAVES AND ROSES I And he had lived such loveless years That suffering had made him wise; And she had known no graver tears Than those of girlhood’s eyes. And he, perhaps, had loved before-- One, who had wedded, or had died;-- So life to him had been but poor In love for which he sighed. In years and heart she was so young Love paused and beckoned at the gate, And bade her hear his songs, unsung; She laughed that “love must wait.” He understood. She only knew Love’s hair was faded, face was gray-- Nor saw the rose his autumn blew There in her heedless way. II If he had come to her when May Danced down the wildwood,--every way Marked with white flow’rs, as if her gown Had torn and fallen,--it might be She had not met him with a frown, Nor used his love so bitterly. Or if he had but come when June Set stars and roses to one tune, And breathed in honeysuckle throats Clove-honey of her spicy mouth, His heart had found some loving notes In hers to cheer his life’s long drouth. He came when Fall made mad the sky, And on the hills leapt like a cry Of battle; when his youth was dead; To _her_, the young, the wild, the white; Whose symbol was the rose, blood-red, And his the red leaf pinched with blight. He might have known, since youth was flown, And autumn claimed him for its own; And winter neared with snow, wild whirled, His love to her would seem absurd; To youth like hers; whose lip had curled Yet heard him to his last sad word. Then laughed and--well, his heart denied The words he uttered then in pride; And he remembered how the gray Was his of autumn, ah! and hers, The rose-hued colors of the May, And May was all her universe. And then he left her: and, like blood, In her deep hair, the rose; whose bud Was badge to her: while unto him, His middle-age, must still remain The red-leaf, withering at the rim, As symbol of the all-in-vain. III “Such days as these,” she said, and bent Among her marigolds, all dew, And dripping zinnia stems, “were meant For spring not autumn; days we knew In childhood; _these_ endearing those; Much dearer since they have grown old: Days, once imperfect with the rose, Now perfect with the marigold.” “Such days as these,” he said, and gazed Long with unlifted eyes that held Sad autumn nights, “our hopes have raised In futures that are mist-enspelled. And so it is the fog blows in Days dearer for the death they paint With hues of life and joy,--as sin, At death, puts off all earthly taint.” IV Like deeds of hearts that have not kept Their riches, as a miser, when Sad souls have asked, with eyes that wept, Among the toiling tribes of men, The summer days gave Earth sweet alms In silver of white lilies, while Each night, with healing, outstretched palms Stood Christ-like with its starry smile. Will she remember him when dull Months drag their duller hours by? With feet that crush the beautiful And leave the beautiful to die? Or never see? nor sit with lost Dreams withered, ’mid hope’s empty husks, And wait, heart-counting-up the cost Of love’s illusions ’mid life’s dusks? V He is as one who, treading salty scurf Of lonely sea-sands, hears the roaring rocks Of some lost isle of misty crags and lochs; Who sees no sea, but, through a world of surf, Gray ghosts of gulls and screaming petrel flocks: When, from the deep’s white ruin and wild wreck, Above the fog, beneath the ghostly gull, The iron ribs of some storm-shattered hull Loom, packed with pirate treasure to the deck A century rotten: feels his wealth replete, When long-baulked ocean claims it; and one dull Wave flings, derisive at despondent feet, A skull, one doubloon rattling in the skull. VI And when full autumn sets the dahlia stems On fire with flowers, and the chill dew turns The maple trees, above geranium urns, To Emir tents, and strings with flawless gems The moon-flower and the wahoo-bush that burns; Calmly she sees the year grow sad and strange, And stands with one among the wilted walks Of the old garden of the gray, old grange, And feels no sorrow for the frost-maimed stalks Since--though the wailing autumn to her talks-- Youth marks swift spring on life’s far mountain-range. Or she will lean to her old harpsichord; A youthful face beside her; and the glow Of hickory on the hearth will balk the blow Of blustering rain that beats the casement hard; And sing of summer and so thwart the snow. “Haply, some day, she yet may sit alone,” He thinks, “within the shadow-saddened house, When round the gables stormy echoes moan, And in the closet gnaws the lonesome mouse; And Memory come stealing down the stair From dusty attics where is piled the Past-- Like so much rubbish that we hate to keep-- And turn the knob; and, framed in frosty hair, A grave, forgotten face look in at last, And she will know, and bow her head and weep.” WILD THORN AND LILY I That night, returning to the farm, we rode Before a storm. Uprolling from the west, Incessant with distending fire, loomed The multitudes of tempest: towering here A shadowy Shasta, there a cloudy Hood, Veined as with agonies, aurora-born, Of torrent gold; resplendent heaven to heaven, Far peak to peak, terrific spoke; the vast Sierras of the storm, within which beat The caverned thunder like a mighty stream: Vibrating on, with rushing wind and flame, Now th’ opening welkin shone, one livid sheet Of instantaneous gold, a giant’s forge, Wild-clanging; now, with streak on angled streak Of momentary light, a labyrinth Where shouting Darkness stalked with Titan torch: Again the firmament hung hewn with fire Whence leapt the thunder; and it seemed that hosts Of Heaven rushed to war with blazing shields And swords of splendor. And before the storm We galloped, while the frantic trees above Went wild with rain, through whose mad limbs and leaves Splashed black the first big drops. On, on we drove, And gained the gates, pillaring the avenue Of ancient beech, at whose far, flickering end, At last, beaconed the lights of home. And she? Was it the lightning that lent lividness And terror to her countenance? or fear Of her own heart? revulsion? memory? Did deep regret, that, now the thing _was_ done, That she was mine, a yearning to be free, Away from me, assail her? or, the thought, The knowledge, that she did not love the man Whom she had wedded? knowing better now That all her heart was Julien’s from the first, And would be Julien’s until the end. And did she now look backward on the past? Or forward--on the barrier that the church For all the future years had placed between The possible and impossible? God knows! Yet I had won her honestly with words Love, only, uttered out of its soul’s truth; Had won her--was it openly?--perhaps!-- Although engaged to Julien.--What else Had led us to elopement?--Well, ’t was done! The whole, mad, lovely, miserable affair Of love and youthful folly. Being done We must abide the reckoning. That is, _I_ would; and she?--she saw her duty there Beside her husband. And within myself, When we alighted from the carriage, thus,-- Beneath the porch,--my mind resolved the thing: “I am her husband now, and she my wife. Less than her husband, I, much less a man, Were I not able to regain and keep The love she gave me, that she thinks is his, That is not his. ’T is pity merely now That makes her pensive. I am pensive, too, For Julien, the poet and the friend; The dreamer and the lover.--But all ’s fair In love they say; and I,--well, willingly I’ll bear the burthen of the blame of all.” Scarce had we entered when high heaven oped Vast gates of bronze and doors of booming brass That dammed a deluge, and the deluge poured.-- I thought of him still; for I felt that she Was thinking too of Julien and his moods, That often swept his soul with storm like this, Yet oftener with sunlight than with storm; That soul of sun and tempest, ray and rain, My school-friend Julien! whom once she won To think she loved--I know not how. My play Was open as the morning, and as fair. His poverty and genius here, and here My wealth and--platitude; and I had won. But it was hard for him. I did not dream That it would end so. And when Gwendolyn Used every gentleness--and that is much-- I did not dream his poet’s temperament Were so affected of a love affair, A wrong or right; he, whose sole aim seemed song. I did not dream he ’d take it desperately, And end so tragically. Who ’d have thought His character, although so sensitive, Would fall into extremes of morbidness And melancholy! Had it now been I, Whose heart had lost in the great game of love, None would have wondered; for I am of those Whose vigorous iron does not bend, but break At one decisive blow: _his_ should have sprung-- Or so I think, not broken as it had-- Elastic as fine-tempered steel that bends And then resumes its usual usefulness. A pale smile strained the corners of her mouth When, from the porch, into the parlor’s blaze I led her. And her mother met us there, Her mother and her father. And I saw The slow reflection of their happiness Make glad her eyes, as their approval grew From half-severe rebukes, that were well meant, To open, glad avowal of their joy. She had done well, and we were soon forgiven.... But I resumed _his_ letter when alone: His letter written her three months before, When all was over, and we two were one, And well upon our way to Italy For six sweet months of honeymoon. His word, His letter, all of her, that came to me At Venice, that I opened in mistake, Amid a lot of papers sent from home. She had not read, and never should while I Had power to conceal until I ’d read. I would not let the dead scrawl mar or soil My late-won joy, my testament of love. No! I would read it, afterwards destroy. Thoughts made of music for a last farewell, When he knew all and asked her to perpend Expressions of past things her gift of love Had given speech to in the happy days. And so I read:-- II “The rhyme is mine, but yours The thought and all the music, springing from The rareness of the love that dawned on me A little while to make my sad life glad. Should I regret the sunset it refused, Since all my morn was richer than the world? Or that my day should stride without a change Of crimson, or of purple, or of gold, Into the barren blackness where the moon And all God’s stars lay dead? Should I complain, Upbraid or censure or one moment curse, _I_ with my morning? ’T is a memory That stains the midnight now: one wild-rose ray Laid like a finger pointing me the path I follow, and I go rejoicingly. Our love was very young (nor had it aged-- If we had lived long lifetimes--here in me), When one day, strolling in the sun, you spoke Words I perceived should hint a coming change: I made three stanzas of the thought, you see: But now ’t is like the sea-shell that suggests, And still associates us with the sea In its vague song and elfland workmanship. Yet it has lost a something that it had There by the far sand’s foaming; something rare, A different beauty like an element: I wonder on what life will do When love is loser of all love; When life still longs to love anew And has not love enough:-- I ’ll turn my heart into a ray, And wait--a day? I wonder on what love will hold When life is weary of all life; And life and love have both grown old With scars of sin and strife:-- I’ll change my soul into a flower, And wait--an hour? I wonder on why men forget The life that love made laugh; and why Weak women will remember yet The life that love made sigh:-- I’ll sing my thought into a song, And wait--how long? III “And once you questioned of our mocking-bird, And of the German nightingale, and I Knowing a sweeter bird than those sweet two, Made fast associates of birds and brooks And learned their numbers. Middle April made The path of lilac leading to your porch A rift of fallen Paradise; a blue So full of fragrance that the birds that built Among the lilacs thought that God was there, And of God’s goodness they would sing and sing, Till every throat seemed bursting with its song, Note on wild note, diviner each than each. And waiting by the gate, that reached the lane, For you, who gave sweet eloquence to all, The afternoon, the lilacs and the spring, My heart was singing and it sang of you: Two glow-worms are the jewels in Her ears; and underneath her chin A diamond like a firefly: There is no starlight in the sky When Gwendolyn stands in the maze Of woodbine, near the portico; For all the stars are in her gaze, The night and stars I know. A clinging dream of mist the lawn She wears; and like a bit of dawn Her fan with one red jewel pinned: Among the boughs there breathes no wind When Gwendolyn comes down the path Of lilacs from the portico; For all the breeze her coming hath, The beam and breeze I know. Two locust-blooms her hands; and slips Of eglantine her cheeks and lips; Her hair, a hyacinth of gloom: The balmy buds give no perfume When Gwendolyn draws near to me, The gate beyond the portico; For all aroma sweet is she, All fragrance that I know. Life, love, and faith are in her face, And in her presence all their grace: And my religion is a word, A wish of hers. No mocking-bird, When Gwendolyn laughs near, dare float One bubble from the portico; For all of song is in her throat, All music that I know. IV “The mocking-bird! and then weird fancy filled My soul with vision, and I saw a song Pursue a bird that was no bird--a voice Concealed in dim expressions of the spring,-- Who sits among the forests and the fields, With dark-blue eyes smiling to life the flowers,-- Where we strolled happy as the April hills: A sunbeam, all the day that fell Upon the fountain,-- Like laughter gurgling in the dell Below the mountain,-- Drank, with its sparkle, one by one, The water-words that, in the sun, Made melody,--the sun-rays tell,-- That never yet was done. A moon-ray, that had gone astray ’Mid wildwood alleys, Where Echo haunts the forest way Among the valleys, The livelong night upon the rocks Slept, hid among girl Echo’s locks, And stole her voice,--the moonbeams say,-- That mocks and only mocks. A shadow, that had made its seat Amid the roses And thorns--the bitter and the sweet That life discloses-- Mixed with the rose-balm and the dew And crimson thorns that pierced it through, Until its soul,--the shades repeat,-- Was portion of them, too. A Fairy found the beam of gold, And ray of glitter; The shadow, whose dim soul did hold Both sweet and bitter; And made a bird, that haunts the morn And night; that flits from flower to thorn, A voice of laughter,--it is told,-- Love, mockery, and scorn. V “Among the white haw-blossoms, where the creek Droned under drifts of dogwood and of haw, The red-bird, like a crimson blossom blown Against the snow-white bosom of the Spring, The chaste confusion of her lawny breast, Sang on, prophetic of serener days, As confident as June’s completer hours. And I stood listening like a hind, who hears A wood-nymph breathing in a forest flute Among gray beech-trees of myth-haunted ways: And when it ceased, the memory of the air Blew like a syrinx in my brain: I made A lyric of the notes that men might know: He flies with flirt and fluting-- As flies a falling star From flaming star-beds shooting shooting-- From where the roses are. Wings past and sings; and seven Notes, sweet as fragrance is,-- That turn to sylphs in heaven,-- Float round him full of bliss. He sings; each burning feather Thrills, throbbing at his throat; A song of glow-worm weather, And of a firefly boat: Of Elfland and a princess Who, born of a perfume, His music lulls,--where winces That rose’s cradled bloom. No bird is half so airy, No bird of dusk or dawn, O masking King of Fairy! O red-crowned Oberon. VI “Alas! the nightingale I never heard. Yet I, remembering how your voice would thrill Me with exalted expectation, felt The passion-throated nightingale would win Into my soul in some wild way like this, With reminiscences of dusks long dead, Presentiments of nights, that mate the flowers And the prompt stars, and marry them with song. Of such,--love whispered me when deep in dreams,-- I made my nightingale. It is a voice Heard in the April of our year of love: Between the stars and roses There lies a path no man may see, Where every breeze that blows is A wandering melody; Down which each bright star gazes Upon each rose that raises Its face up lovingly, As if with prayers and praises. The star and rose are wiser Than all but love beneath the skies; No hoard of any miser Is rich as these are wise: No bee may reach or rifle, No mist may cloud or stifle Their love that never dies, That knows nor trick nor trifle. There is a bird that carries Love-messages; and comes and goes Between each star that tarries, And every rose that blows: A bird that can not tire, Whose throat ’s a throbbing lyre, Whose song is now a rose, And now a starry fire. VII “O May-time woods! O May-time lanes and hours! And stars, that knew how often there at night Beside the path, where woodbine odors blew Between the drowsy eyelids of the dusk,-- When, like a great, white, pearly moth, the moon Hung, silvering long windows of your room,-- I stood among the shrubs! The dark house slept. I watched and waited for--I know not what-- Some tremor of your gown: a velvet leaf’s Unfolding to caresses of the spring: A rustle of your footsteps: or the dew That softly rolled, a syllable of love, In sweet avowal, from a rose’s lips Of odorous scarlet: or the whispered word Of something lovelier than new leaf or rose-- The word young lips half murmur in a dream: Serene with sleep, light visions load her eyes; And underneath her window blooms a quince. The night is a sultana who doth rise In slippered caution, to admit a prince, Love, who her eunuchs and her lord defies. Are these her dreams? or is it that the breeze Pelts me with petals of the quince, and lifts The Balm-of-Gilead buds? and seems to squeeze Aroma on aroma through sweet rifts Of Eden, dripping from the rainy trees? Along the path the buckeye trees begin To heap their hills of blossoms.--Oh, that they Were Romeo ladders, whereby I might win Her chamber’s sanctity,--where love must pray And guard her soul!--so stainless of all sin! There might I see the balsam scent erase Its sweet intrusion; and the starry night Conclude majestic pomp; the virgin grace Of every bud abashed before the white, Pure passion-flower of her sleeping face. VIII “And once, in early May, a sparrow sang Among the garden bushes; and you asked If the suave song stayed knocking at my heart. I smiled some answer, and, behold, that night Found that my heart had locked this fancy in: Rain, rain, and a ribbon of song Uncurled where the blossoms are sprinkled; The song-sparrow sings, and I long For, the silver-sweet throat, that has tinkled, To sing in the bloom and the rain, Sing again, and again, and again, Under my window-pane. Rain, rain, and the trickling tips Of the million pink blooms of the quinces; And I hear the song rill from the lips, The lute-haunted lips of my princess: O love! in the rain and the bloom, Sing again in the pelting perfume, Sweetheart, under my room. Rain, rain, and the dripping of drops From cups of the blossoms they load, or Tilt over with tipsiest tops: And eyes as of sun-beam and odor, There, under the bloom-blowing tree-- A face like a flower to see, Love is looking at me. IX “Once in the village I had heard a song, A melody which I wrote down for you, And which you sang. But, there among your hills, The dawns and sunsets and the serious stars Made trite its thought and words, that seemed as stale As musty parlors of the commonplace. I changed its words, and here and there its thought, But, though you praised, you never sang it more, And so I knew, like some poor poet, it Had fallen on disfavor, God knows why, With its high patron. Thus its metre ran: Look, happy eyes, and let me know The timid flower her love hath cherished Fades not before the fruit shall show, Seen in the clear truth of your glow Where naught of love hath perished. Lift, happy lips, and let me take The sacred secret of her spirit To mine in kisses, that shall make Mute marriage of our souls, and wake The heart’s sweet silence near it. X “And so I wrote another filled with birds, Deliberate twilight and eve’s punctual star; And made the music of that song obey The metre of my own and melody: Only to hear that you love me, Only to feel it is true; Stars and the gloaming above me, I in the gloaming with you. Staining through violet fire, A sunset of poppy and gold, Red as a heart with desire, Rich with a secret untold. Deep where the shadows are doubled, Deep where the blossoms are long, Listen!--deep love in the bubbled Breath of a mocking-bird’s song. You, who have made them the dearer, Drawing them near from afar!-- Stars and the heaven the nearer, Sweet, through the joy that you are. XI “Confronted with the certainty that I Had no approval for my love from you, No visible sign, but my own prompting hope’s, Conforming with my heart’s one wild desire, Who had not dreaded disappointment there! The shadow of a heart’s unformed denial, That should take form and soon confirm the doubt: The doubt that would content itself with this: If I might hold her by the hand,-- Her hands so full of soothing peace!-- Her heart would hear and understand My heart’s demand, And all her idling cease. If she would let my eyes look in Her eyes, whose deeps are full of truth, Her soul might see how mine would win Her, without sin, In all her happy youth. If I might kiss her mouth, and lead The kiss up to her eyes and hair, There is no prayer that so could plead,-- And find sure heed,-- My love’s divine despair. XII “And, uninstructed, smiled and wrote ‘despair,’ Enamoured, yet fearful of the shade that should Some day come stealing through my silent door To sit unbidden through the lonely hours.-- I cast the shudder off, and in the fields Found hope again, and beauty born of dreams: For it was summer, and all living things, The common flowers and the birds and bees, Became interpreters of love for me: Say that he can not tell her how he loves her-- Words, for such adoration, often fail,-- When but a bow of ribbon, glove that gloves her, Clothes her fair femininity in mail. So many ways and wisdoms to express what To th’ language of devotion is denied; Ambassadors to make the maiden guess what Before her heart’s high fortress long has sighed. A bird to sing his secret--she’ll perpend him: A bee to bid her soul to hear and see: A blossom, like a sweet appeal, to bend him, Before her there, upon a worshiping knee. XIII “So was my love confessed to you. I thought You loved me as love led me to believe: And so, no matter where I, dreaming, went Among the hills, the woods, and quiet fields, All had a poetry so intimate, So happy and so ready that, for me, ’Twas but to stoop and gather as I went, As one goes reaching roses in the June. Three withered wild ones that I gathered then I send you now. Their scent and bloom are dust: 1 What wild-flower shows perfection Such as thy face, no blemish mars? I leave to the selection Of all the wild-flower stars: To every wildwood bloom that blows, Wild phlox, wild daisy, and wild rose. What cascade hath suspicion O’ the marvel that thy whiteness is? I leave to the decision Of each proclaiming breeze: To winds that kiss the buds awake, And roll the ripple on the lake. What bird can sing the naming Of all the music that thou art? I leave to the proclaiming Of that within my heart: My heart, wherein, the whole day long, Sits adoration rapt in song. 2 What witch then hast thou met, Who wrought this amulet? This charm, that makes each look, love, Of thine a rose; Thy face an open book, love, Where beauty gleams and glows, And thought to music set. What fairy of the wood, To whom thou once wast good, Gave thee this gift?--Thy words, love, Should be pure gold; And all thy songs as bird’s, love, Sweet as the Mays of old With youth and love imbued. What elfin of the glade This white enchantment made, That filled thee with the essence Of all the Junes? That made thy soul, thy presence, Like to the moon’s Above a far cascade. What wizard of the cave Hath made my heart thy slave? That dreams of thee when sleeping, And, when awake, My anxious spirit keeping ’Neath spells I can not break, Sweet spells, whence naught can save. 3 Dear, (though given conclusion to), Songs,--no memory surrenders,-- Still their music breathe in you; Silence meditation renders Audible with notes it knew. Sweet, when all the flowers are dead, Perfumes,--that the heart remembers Made of them a marriage-bed,-- Shall not fail me in December’s Gloom, but from your face be shed. Dear, when night denies a star, Darkness will not suffer, seeing Song and fragrance are not far; Starlight of the summer being In the loveliness you are. XIV “Revealing distant vistas where I thought I saw your love stand as ’mid lily blooms, Long, angel goblets molded out of stars, Pouring aroma at your feet: and life Took fire with thoughts your soul must help you read: A song; and songs (who does not know?) Reveal no music but is thine. Thou singest, and the waters flow, The breezes blow, The sunbeams shine, And all the earth grows young, divine. Low laughter; and I look away; Whate’er the time of year, I dream I walk beneath sweet skies of May On ways where play Both gloom and gleam, And hear a bird and forest stream. A thought; and straight it seems to me, However dark, the stars arise, And rain down memories of thee,-- As, it may be, From Paradise One feels an angel-lover’s eyes. XV “But is it well to tell you what I felt When I beheld no change beyond the moods That gloomed or glistened in your raven eyes? When I sat singing ’neath one steadfast star Of morning with no phantoms of strange fears To slay the look or word that helped me sing: When song came easier than come buds in spring, That make the barren boughs one pomp of pearls: Oh, let the happy day go past, And let the night be short or long, When life and love are one at last, And hearts are full of song, ’Tis sweet midsummer of the dream, And all the dreams thou hast Are truer than they seem. And once I dreamt in autumn of Death with cadaverous eyes that gazed From out a shadow.... It was love Whose deathless eyes were raised From the deep darkness that unrolled Wild splendor; and, amazed, Thy soul I did behold. And then it seemed that some one said, The dead are nearer than dost know. And when they tell thee love is dead,-- Although it seems ’t is so,-- Still shalt thou feel in every beat And heart-throb of thy woe Love breathing, bitter-sweet. XVI “One evening when I came to talk with you, Impatience hurt me in your brief replies. And I who had refused,--because we dread Approaching horror of our lives made maimed,-- The inevitable, could not help but see Some change in you to’ards me.--That night I dreamed I wandered ’mid old ruins, where the snake And scorpion crawled in poison-spotted heat; Plague-bloated bulks of hideous vine and root Wrapped fallen fanes; and bristling cacti bloomed Blood-red and death-white on forgotten tombs. And from my soul went forth a bitter cry That pierced the silence that was packed with death And pale presentiment. And so I went, A white flame beckoning before my face, And in my ears sounds of primordial seas That boasted preadamic gods and men: A flame before me and, beyond, a voice: But, lo, the white flame when I reached for it Became thin ashes like a dead man’s dust; And when I thought I should behold the sea, Stagnation, turned to filth and rottenness, Rolled out a swamp: the voice became a stench. If we should pray together now For sunshine and for rain, And thou shouldst get fair weather now, And I the clouds again, Would ray and rain keep single, Or for the rainbow mingle? Dear, if this should be made to me, That I had asked for light, And God had given shade to me, And all to thee that’s bright, Wouldst thou go by with scorning, Refusing darkness morning? If all my life were winter, love, And all thy life were spring, And mine with frost should splinter, love, While thine with birds should sing, Wouldst thou walk past and glitter, Forgetful mine is bitter? XVII “Still on the anguish of a dying hope An infant hope was nourished; all in vain. For, at the last, although we parted friends, The friendship lay like sickness on my soul, That saw all gladness perish from the world With loss of thee; and, ’mid the future years, Love building high a sepulchre for hope. Ah, could you learn forgetfulness, And teach my heart how to forget; And I unlearn all fretfulness, And teach your soul that still will fret; The mornings of the world would burn Before us and we would not turn, For we would not regret. Did you but know what sorrow keeps, That drives the joy of life away, And I what each to-morrow keeps For us until it is to-day; No grief or change would then surprise Our lives with what our lives were wise, And nothing could betray. If you could be interior to My dreams that are all love’s desire; And I could be superior to Myself and such in you inspire; Long stairways would the years unroll To lift us upward, soul to soul, To what celestial fire! XVIII “There came no words of comfort from your lips. Not that I asked for pity! that had been As fire unto the scalded or dry bread Unto the famished fallen ’mid the sands! But all your actions said that I was wrong, But how, I know not and have ceased to care; Still standing like one stricken blind at noon, Who gropes and fumbles, feeling all grow strange That once was so familiar; cursing God Who locks him in with darkness and despair.-- Your judgment had been juster had it had A lesser love than mine to judge.--O love, Where lay the justice of thy judge in this?-- ‘If thou hadst praised thy God as long As thou hast praised a woman’s eyes, Perhaps thou hadst not suffered wrong, As now, and sat with sighs: But, through thy prayer and praise made strong, Perhaps thou hadst grown wise. ‘If thou hadst bade thy God be more Than I, thy life had not been sad; His love to thee had not been poor As mine. But thou wast mad, And cam’st, a beggar, to my door, And had more than I had. ‘If thou hadst taught me how to love, Nor played with love as monarchs play, My heart had learned right soon enough, From thine, love’s lowlier way. But all thy love stood far above, Nor touched my soul to sway.’ XIX “Thus did you write me, or in words like these, When all was over and your heart was led, Through pity, haply, thus to justify Yourself, that needed not to justify, Since all your reason lay in four small words, Enough to wreck my world and all my life, _You did not love_: what more is there to tell?-- Yet, haply, it was this: One soul, that still Demanded more than it could well return; And, searching inward, yet could never pierce Beyond its superficiality. You did not know; yet I had felt in me The rich fulfillment of a rare accord, And could not, though the longing lay like song And music on me, win your soul’s response. Were it well, lifting me Eyes that give heed, Down in your soul to see Thought, the affinity Of act and deed? Knowing what naught may tell Of heart and soul: Yet were the knowledge whole, And were it well? Were it well, giving true Love all enough, Still to discover new Depths of true love for you, Infinite love? Feeling what naught may tell Of heart and soul: Yet were the knowledge whole, And were it well? XX “What else but, laboring for some good, to lift Ourselves above the despotism of self, All egoism strangling strength and hope, To work and work, and, in the love of work, Which takes the place, in some, of love’s real self, To quench the flame that eats into the heart? Art, our intensest and our truest love, Immaculateness that has never led One of her lovers wrong, his love all soul! I followed beauty, and my ardor prayed Your memory would, feature and form and face, Be blotted out within me; rise no more To mar the labor that I owed to Art. I prayed, yea, to forget you, you I loved: I prayed; and, see!--how Heaven answered me: I have no song to tell thee The love that I would sing; The song that should enspell thee With words, and so compel thee That thou, with love, must wing Into my life to-morrow-- For all my songs are sorrow. My strength is not a giant To hold thee with strong hands, To make thee less defiant; Thy spirit more compliant With all my love demands: Alas! my love is meekness, And all my strength is weakness. What hope have I to hover-- When wings refuse to rise-- Within thy heart’s close cover, And there to play the lover, Concealed from mortal eyes? What hope! to give me boldness, When all thy looks are coldness? XXI “I prayed; and for a time felt strong as strength, And held both hands out to the loveliness That lured in the ideal. And I felt Compelling power upon me that would lift My face to heaven, now, to see the stars, Now bend it back to earth to see the flowers. I learned long lessons ’twixt a look and look: Breezes and linden blooms, Sunshine and showers; Rain, that the May perfumes, Cupped in the flowers: Clouds and the leaves that patter Raindrops that glint and glare-- Or be they gems that scatter? Sapphires the sylphides shake, When their loose fillets break, Out of their radiant hair? Now is my heart a lute! Now doth it pinion Song in love’s swift pursuit In thought’s dominion! Dreaming of all thou meanest, Thou, with uneager eyes, Nature! of worlds thou queenest, Whither thy mother hand Draws us from land to land, Far from the worldly wise! XXII “Thus would I scatter grain around my life, Gold grain of song, to lure them down to me, Cloud-colored doves of peace to fill my soul, And find them turn to ravens while they flew, Black ravens of despair that would not out. The old, dull, helpless aching at the heart, As if some scar had turned a wound again. While idle grief stared at the brutal past, Which held a loss that made the past more rich Than all Earth’s arts: that marveled how it came Such puny folly should usurp love’s high Proud pedestal of life that held your form, In Parian, sculptured by the hands of thought. And oft I shook myself,--for nightmares weighed Each sense,--and seemed to wake; yet evermore Beheld a death’s-head grinning at my eyes. So when the opening of the door doth thrill My soul with sudden knowledge death is come, Let me forget you or remember still, It will not matter then that life went ill, When death bends to me and my lips are dumb. Then I shall not remember: and shall leave No memory behind me, and no trace Of aught my life accomplished. Let none grieve. There is no heart my passing will bereave; And there are thousands who can fill my place. Who knocks?--The night camps on each hill and heath: And round my door are minions of the night: And like a weapon, riven from its sheath, The wind sweeps, and the tempest grinds its teeth Around me and my wild, hand-hollowed light. Who knocks?--the door is open!--And I see The Darkness threatening, with distorted fists Of cloudy terror, Courage on her knee: Shine far, O candle! for it so may be Love is bewildered in the night and mists.-- No wandering wisp art thou, that haunts the rain With pallid flicker, fading as it flies!-- The door is open!--Will he knock again?-- The door is open!--Shall it be in vain?-- Come in! delay not! thou, whose ways are wise! Who knocked has entered: let the darkness pass, The door be closed!--Now morning lights shall thrust It open; and the sunlight shine and mass Its splendor here where once but darkness was, And in its rays--motes and a little dust.” * * * * * XXIII And I had read, read to the bitter end; Half hearing lone surmises of the rain And trouble of the wind. At last I rose And went to Gwendolyn. She did not know The kiss I gave her had a shudder in it; Nor how the form of Julien rose between Me and her lips, a blood-stain o’er his heart. THE IDYLL OF THE STANDING-STONE I She knows its windings and its crooks; The wildflowers of its lovely woods; The crowfoot’s golden sisterhoods, That crowd its sunny nooks: The iris, whose blue blossoms seem Mab’s bonnets; and, each leaf a-gleam, The trillium’s fairy-books. He knows its shallows and its pools, Its stair-like beds of rock that go, Foaming, with waterfall and flow, Where dart the minnow schools; Its grassy banks that herons haunt, Or where the woodcock call; and gaunt The mushrooms lift their stools. She seeks the columbine and phlox, The bluebell, where the bushes fill The old stones of the ruined mill; She wades among the rocks: Her feet are rose-pearl in the stream; Her eyes are bluet-blue; a beam Lies on her nut-brown locks. He comes with fishing-reel and line To angle in the darker deeps, Where the reflected forest sleeps Of sycamore and pine: And now and then a shadow swoops Above him of a hawk that stoops From skies as clear as wine. And will he see, if they should meet, That she is fairer than each flower Her apron fills? and in that hour Feel life less incomplete?... He stops below: she walks above-- The brook floats down, as white as love, One blossom to his feet. And she?--should she behold the tan Of manly face and honest eyes, Would all her soul idealize Him? make him more than man?... She dropped one blossom when she heard Soft whistling--was it man or bird, Whose notes so sweetly ran? [Illustration: Where the woodcock call Page 161 _The Idyll of the Standing-Stone_] They knew before they came to meet; For some divulging influence Had touched them thro’ the starry lens God holds to bring in beat Two hearts--her heart one haunting wish, And his--forgetful of the fish, Her flower at his feet. II The sassafras twigs had just lit up The yellow stars of their fragrant candles, And the dogwood brimmed each blossom-cup With spring to its brown-tipped handles; When down the orchard, ’mid apple blooms-- Say, ho, the hum o’ the honey-bee!-- A glimpse of Spring in the sprinkled glooms? Or only a girl? with the warm perfumes Blown round her breezily. The maple, as red as the delicate flush Of an afterglow, was airy crimson; And the haw-tree, white in the wing-whipped hush, Gleamed cool as a cloud that the moonlight dims on; And under the oak, whose branches strung-- Say, heigh, the rap o’ the sapsuckér!-- Gray buds in tassels that sweetly swung, They stood and listened a bird that sung, As glad as the heart in her. Yellow the bloom of the rattle-weed, And white the bloom of the plum and cherry; And red as a stain the red-bud’s brede, And clover the color of sherry: And a wren sings there in the orchard drift,-- And, ho! the dew from the web that slips!-- And a thrush sings there in the woodland rift, Where he to his face her face doth lift, Her face with the willing lips. For a while they sat on the moss and grass, Where the forest bloomed a great wild garden;-- Then the beam from the hollow--it seemed to pass, And the ray on the hills to harden, When she rose to go, and his joy fell flat;-- And, heigh, the wasp i’ the pawpaw bell!-- As she waved her hand--why, it seemed at that ’Twas Spring’s own self he was gazing at, And the life of his life as well. III The teasel and the horsemint spread The hillsides, as with sunset sown, Blooming along the Standing-Stone That ripples in its rocky bed: There are no treasuries that hold Gold yellower than the marigold That crowds its mouth and head. ’T is harvest-time: a mower stands Among the morning wheat and whets His scythe, and for a space forgets The labor of the ripening lands; Then bends, and through the dewy grain His long scythe hisses, and again He swings it in his hands. And she beholds him where he mows On acres whence the water sends Faint music of reflecting bends And falls that interblend with flows: She stands among the old bee-gums,-- Where all the apiary hums,-- Like some sweet bramble-rose. She hears him whistling as he leans, And, reaping, sweeps the ripe wheat by; She sighs and smiles and knows not why:-- These are but simple country scenes: He whets his scythe again, and sees Her smiling near the hives of bees Beneath the flowering beans. The peacock-purple lizard creeps Along the rail; and deep the drone Of insects makes the country lone With summer where the water sleeps: She hears him singing as he swings His scythe; he thinks of other things-- Not toil, and, singing, reaps. IV Into the woods they went again, Over the wind-blown oats; Out of the acres of golden grain, In where the light was a violet stain, In where the lilies’ throats Were brimmed with the summer rain. Hung on a bough a reaper’s hook, Over the wind-blown oats; A girl’s glad laugh and a girl’s glad look, And the hush and ripple of tree and brook, And a wild bird’s silvery notes, And a kiss that a strong man took. Out of the woods the lovers went, Over the wind-waved wheat; She with a face, where love was blent, Like to an open testament; He, from his head to feet, Dazed with his hope that was eloquent. Here how oft had they come to tryst, Over the wind-waved wheat! Here how oft had they laughed and kissed! Talked and tarried where no one wist, Here where the woods are sweet, Dim and deep as a dewy mist. V Her pearls are blossoms-of-the-vale, Her only diamonds are the dews; Such jewels never can grow stale, Nor any value lose. Among the millet beards she stands: The languid wind lolls everywhere: There are wild roses in her hands, One wild rose in her hair. To-morrow, where the shade is warm, Among the unmown wheat she’ll stop, And from one daisy-loaded arm One ox-eyed daisy drop. She’ll meet his brown eyes, true and brave, With blue eyes, false yet dreamy sweet: He is her lover and her slave, Who mows among the wheat. * * * * * When buds broke on the apple trees She wore an apple-blossom dress, And laughed with him across the leas, And love was all a guess. When goose-plums ripened in the rain, Plum-colored was her gown of red; He kissed her in the creek-road lane-- She was his life, he said. When apples thumped the droughty land, A russet color was her gown: Another came, and--won her hand?-- Nay! carried off to town.... When grapes hung purple in the hot, None missed her and her simple dress, Save one, whom, haply, she forgot, Who loved her none the less. When snow made white each harvest sheaf, He sought her out amid her show; Her rubies, redder than the leaf That autumn forests sow. Not one regret her shame reveals; She smiles at him, then puts him by; He pleads; and she? she merely steels Her heart and--lives her lie. VI And he returned when poppies strewed Their golden blots o’er moss and leaf,-- Blond little Esaus of the wood, So fair of face, of life so brief.-- Did he forget?--Not he, in truth!-- “No month,” he thought, “holds so much grace, No month of spring, such grace and youth, As the sweet April of her face.” In fall the frail gerardia Hung hints of sunset and of dawn On root and rock, as if to draw Her lips, remind him of one gone:-- Of one unworthy, in pursuit Of butterflies, who does not dream A flower, broken by her foot, Sweeps, helpless, with her down the stream. SOME SUMMER DAYS I If you had seen her waiting there Among the tiger-lily blooms,-- That sowed their jewels everywhere Among the woodland gleams and glooms,-- You had confessed her very fair, And sweeter than the wood’s perfumes. A country girl with bare brown feet, She waits, while day slopes down the deeps: The afternoon is dead with heat, And all the weary shadow sleeps Like toil, arm-pillowed in the wheat, Beside the scythe with which he reaps. There is no sound more distant than The cow-bell on the vine-hung hill; No nearer than the locust’s span Of noise that makes the silence shrill: And now there comes a sun-browned man Through tiger-lilies of the rill. Long will they talk: till, in the end, The clear west glows, the east grows pale; Until the glow and pallor blend Like moonlight on a shifting sail; And then he ’ll clasp her; she will bend Her head, consenting. Day will fail: The west will flame, then fade away Through heavy orange, rose, and red, And leave the heavens violet gray Above a gypsy-lily bed: Then they will go; and he will say Such words to her as none has said. A million stars the night will win Above them; and one firefly Pulse like a tangled starbeam in The cedar dark against the sky: Then he will lift her dimpled chin And take the kiss she ’ll not deny. And when the moon, like the great book Of Judgment, golden with the light Of God, lies open o’er yon nook Of darkest wood and wildest height, Together they will cross the brook And reach the gate and kiss good night. II And now he wipes his hand along The beaded fire of his brow Hard toil has heated; and the strong Face flushes fuller health as now He fills his hay-fork to the prong, And, tossing it, again doth bow. And now he rests, and looks away Across the sun-fierce hills and meads No rolling cloud has cooled to-day; And from his face the brawny beads Drip; and he marks the heaps of hay, The fields of corn, the fields of weeds. At last he sees the tempest build Black battlements along the west, Black breastworks that are thunder filled; And bares his brow; and on his chest The sweat of toil is cooled; and stilled The pulse of toil within his breast. A strong wind brings the odorous death Of far hay-meadows, and the scent Is good within his nostrils’ breath: The mighty trees are bowed, that leant For no man, as when Power saith “Bow down!” and stalwart men are bent. He laughs, long-gazing as he goes Along the elder-sweetened lane: He feels the storm wind as it blows Across the sheaves of golden grain, And stops to pull one bramble-rose, And watch the swiftly coming rain. And there, ’mid locust trees, the farm Dreams in a martin-haunted place: He marks the far-off streaks of storm That, driven of the thunder, race: He sees his child upon her arm, And in the door his wife’s fair face. III Below the sunset’s range of rose, Below the heaven’s bending blue, Down woodways where the balsam blows, And milkweed tufts hang, gray of hue, A Jersey heifer stops and lows-- The cows come home by one, by two. There is no star yet: but the smell Of hay and pennyroyal mix With herb-aromas of the dell; And the root-hidden cricket clicks: Among the ironweeds a bell Clangs near the rail-fenced clover-ricks. She waits upon the slope beside The windlassed well the plum-trees shade, The well-curb that the goose-plums hide; Her light hand on the bucket laid, Unbonneted she waits, glad-eyed, Her dress as simple as her braid. She sees fawn-colored backs among The sumacs now; a tossing horn; A clashing bell of brass that rung: Long shadows lean upon the corn, And all the day dies scarlet-stung, The cloud in it a rosy thorn. Below the pleasant moon, that tips The tree-tops of the hillside, fly The evening bats; the twilight slips Some fireflies like spangles by; She meets him, and their happy lips Touch; and one star leaps in the sky. He takes her bucket, and they speak Of married hopes while in the grass The plum lies glowing as her cheek; The patient cows look back or pass; And in the west one golden streak Burns like a great cathedral glass. IV The skies are amber, blue, and green Before the coming of the sun; And all the deep hills sleep, serene As if enchanted; every one Is ribbed with morning mists that lean On woods through which vague whispers run. Birds wake: and on the vine-hung knobs, Above the brook, a twittering Confuses songs; one warbler robs Another of its note; a wing Beats by; and now a wild throat throbs Triumphant; all the woodlands sing. The sun is up: the hills are heaped With instant splendor; and the vales Surprised with shimmers that are steeped In purple where the thin mist trails; The water-fall, the rock it leaped, Are burning gold that foams and fails. He drives his horses to the plow Along the vineyard slopes, where bask Dew-heavy grapes, half-ripened now, In sun-shot shafts of shade: no mask Of joy he wears; his face and brow Glow as he enters on his task. Before him, soaring through the mist, The gray hawk wildly wings and screams; Its dewy back gleams, sunbeam-kissed, Above the wood that drips and dreams; He guides the plow with one strong fist; The soil rolls back in level seams. Packed to the right the sassafras Lifts leafy walls of spice that shade The blackberries, whose tendrils mass Big berries in the coolness made; And drop their ripeness on the grass Where trumpet-flowers fall and fade. White on the left the fence and trees That mark the garden; and the smoke, Uncurling in the early breeze, Tells of the roof beneath the oak; He turns his team, and, turning, sees The damp, dark soil his coulter broke. Bees hum; and o’er the berries poise Lean-bodied wasps; loud blackbirds turn Following the plow: there is a noise Of insect wings that buzz and burn;-- And now he hears his wife’s low voice, The song she sings to help her churn. V There are no clouds that drift around The moon’s pearl-kindled crystal, (white As some sky-summoned spirit wound In raiment lit with limbs of light), That have not softened like the sound Of harps when Heaven forgets to smite. The vales are deeper than the dark, And darker than the vales the woods That shadowy hill and meadow mark With broad, blurred lines, whereover broods Deep calm; and now a fox-hound’s bark Upon the quietude intrudes. And though the night is never still, Yet what we name its noises makes Its silence:--now a whippoorwill; A frog, whose hoarser tremor breaks The hush; then insect sounds that fill The night; an owl that hoots and wakes. They lean against the gate that leads Into the lane that lies between The yard and orchard; flowers and weeds Smell sweeter than the odors keen That day distils from hotness; beads Of dew make cool the gray and green. Their infant sleeps. They feel the peace Of something done that God has blessed, Still as the pulse that will not cease There in the cloud that lights the west: The peace of love that shall increase While soul to soul still gives its best. AN EPIC OF SOUTH-FORK I The wild brook gleams on the sand and ripples Over the rocks of the riffle; brimming Under the elms like a nymph who dripples, Dips and glimmers and shines in swimming: Under the linns and the ash-trees lodging, Loops of the limpid waters lie, Shaken of schools of the minnows, dodging The glancing wings of the dragon-fly. Lower, the loops are lines of laughter Over the stones and the crystal gravel; Afar they gloom, like a face seen after Mirth, where the waters slowly travel; Shadowy slow where the Fork is shaken Of the dropping bark of the sycamore, Where the water-snake, that the footsteps waken, Slides like a crooked root from shore. Peace of the forest; and silence, dimmer Than dreams. And now a wing that winnows The willow leaves, with their shadows slimmer In the shallow there than a school of minnows: Calm of the creek; and a huge tree twisted, Ringed, and turned to a tree of pearl; A gray-eyed man, who is farmer-fisted, And a dark-eyed, sinewy country girl. The brow of the man is gnarled and wrinkled With the weight of the words that have just been spoken; And the girl has smiled and her eyes have twinkled, Though the bonds and the bands of their love lie broken: She smiles, nor knows how the days have knotted Her to the heart of the man who says: “Let us follow the paths that we think allotted. I will go my ways and you your ways. “And the man between us is your decision. Worse or better he is your lover.-- Shall I say he ’s worse since the sweet Elysian Prize he wins where I discover Only the hell of the luckless chooser?-- Shall I say he ’s better than I, or more, Since he is winner and I am loser, His life ’s made rich and mine made poor?” “I tell you now as I oft and ever Have told,” she answered, the laughter dying Down in her eyes, “that his arms have never Held me!--no!--but you think me lying, And you are wrong. And I think it better To part forever than still to dwell With the sad distrust, like an evil tetter, On our lives forever, and so farewell.” And she turned away; and he watched her going, The girlish pride in her eyes a-smoulder: He saw her go, and his lips were glowing Fever that parched. And he stood, one shoulder Slouched to the tree; and he saw her stooping, There by the bank, with a reckless foot; Straighten; and tear from her breast his drooping Lilies and fasten the pleurisy-root. With its orange fire he saw her passing On and on; and the blood beat, burning His brain to madness; and seemingly massing The weight of the world on his heart in yearning ... Butterflies swarmed in the moist sand-alleys; A fairy fleet of Ionian sails They seemed with their wings, or of pirate galleys, Maroon and yellow, for Elfland gales. He watched her going; and harder, thicker The pulse of his breath and his heart’s hard throbbing.-- How should he know that her heart was sicker? How should he know that her soul was sobbing?-- She never looked back: and he saw her vanish In swirls of the startled butterflies, Like a storm of flowers; and he could not banish The thought he had lost his all through lies. II He heard the cocks crow out the lonely hours. How long the night! how far away the dawn! It seemed long months since he had seen the flowers, The leaves, the sunlight, and the bee-hived lawn; Had heard the thrush flute in the tangled showers. His burning eyes ached, staring at the black Stolidity of midnight. Would God send No cool relief unto his mind,--a rack Of inquisition,--tortures to unbend, That stretched him forward and now strained him back? Incomprehensible and undivulged, The thought that took him back, retraced their walks, Through woods, on which the sudden perfumes bulged, The bird-songs and the brilliant-blossomed stalks; And all the freedom which their talk indulged. Oh, strong appeal! And he would almost yield; When, firmly forward, he could feel her fault Oppose the error of a rock-like shield, And to resisting phalanxes cry halt-- And, lo! bright cohorts broken on the field. O mulct of morning! to the despot night Count down unminted gold, and let the day Walk free from dungeons of the dark; delight Herself on mountains of the violet ray, Clad in white maidenhood and morning white! A melancholy coast, plunged deep in dream And death and silence, stretched the drowsy dark, Wherein he heard a round-eyed screech-owl scream, In lamentation, and a watch-dog bark, Vague as oblivion, lost in night’s deep stream. And then hope moved him to divide the blinds To see if those bright sparkles were a star’s, Or but his feverish eyelids, which the mind’s Commotion weighed.--No hint of morning bars With glimmer heaven’s swart tapestry he finds. So he remained, impatient, till the first Exploring crevices of Aztec morn, Dim cracks of treasure, Eldorados burst: Then could he face his cowardice and scorn His jealousy that thus his life had cursed. Love knew no barriers now. And where he went Each woodland path was musical with birds; Each flow’r was richer, more divine of scent; For love sought love with such expressive words That dawn’s delivery was less eloquent. III Who is it hunts with his dog There where the heron is flying Gray through the feathering fog Over the Fork, where is lying, Bridge-like, a butternut log, There where the horsemint is drying? Who is it hunts in the brush, Under the linns and the beeches, Here where the water-falls rush, Dark, where the noon never reaches? Here where the Fork is one crush Of flags with a bloom like the peach’s? He is handsome and supple and tall, Blond-haired and vigorous-chested, Blue-eyed as the bud by the fall Where he listens,--his rifle half rested, Half leaned on the crumbling stone wall,-- Whose briers he lately has breasted. He waits; and the sun on the dew Of the cedars and leaves of the bushes Strikes glittering frostiness through ... If a covey of partridges flushes What good will a Winchester do, Or the dog to his feet that he crushes? Then a man breaks strong through the weeds Where the buck-bushes toss and the spires Of the white-blossomed cohosh; ’mid reeds Wild-carrots, and trammelling briers: It is he! to his loved one who speeds-- And the man in the bushes--he fires.... From leaves of the wind-shaken wood The dew of the dawn is still falling: He is gone from the place where he stood, Just there where the black crow is calling: There is blood on the weeds: is it blood On the face of the man who is crawling? Red blood or a smudge of the dawn?-- Now he lies with his gray eyes wide, staring, Stiff, still at the sun: he has drawn His limbs in a heap: and the faring Bee-martins light near or pass on, Not one of them knowing or caring. It is noon: and the wood-dove is deep In the calm of its cooing: and over The tops of the forest trees sweep The shadows of buzzards that hover: Wide-winged they sail on as asleep: And the bob-white is whistling from cover. It is dusk: and the heat, that made wilt The leaves and the wildflowers’ faces, Gives place to the dew-drops that tilt With coolness the weeds where are traces Of horror and darkness and guilt, That nothing can wash from those places. It is night: and the hoot-owlet mocks The dove of the day with wild weeping, The Fork is scarce heard on its rocks Where the man is so quietly sleeping: Through the woods snaps the bark of a fox; The lightning is fitfully leaping. IV All day, ’twixt hope and fear, She waited at the gate, Looking for him, more dear Now that he made her wait: Day went and night draws near: Stormy it grows and late. Still, still she waits: great limbs The winds rend from the ridge; Each swollen shallow swims Head-deep below the bridge; The drift, that breaks and brims Swirls lighter than the midge. The night grows wildly gray With lightning-litten rain; The forests sound and sway, An oak is rent in twain; The thunder rolls away Like some vast bolt and chain. The Fork is whirling wreck Of field and farm and wood; And many a foaming fleck Drives where the rock-fence stood;-- A torrent sweeps break-neck Above the washed-out blood. Night deepens: still she waits Expectant in despair: The Fork has reached the gates, The wood’s wreck everywhere. But when the storm abates, She thinks, he will be there. She sees the lightning rush Its blazing hells above; She hears the thunder crush Heaven as if earthquake-clove-- Loud in the tempest’s hush She calls with all her love. He comes, she feels; and stands The rushing waters o’er Her feet, and on her hands And hair the wild down-pour, The lightnings are wild brands To light him to her door. Night deepens: but she knows God will not fail to send Her love to soothe her woes, And one day’s errors mend.-- The wild stream foams and flows Booming in fall and bend. Again the lightnings light The night like some wild torch; The waters foam and fight; And one uprooted larch Sweeps down, with something white Wedged in it, by her porch. She stoops: the lurid rain Beats on her back and head-- Ay! he hath come again! With livid lips once red! A bullet in his brain The night hath brought him--dead! A NIELLO I It is not early spring and yet Of bloodroot blooms along the stream, And blotted banks of violet, My heart will dream. Is it because the wind-flower apes The beauty that was once her brow, That the white thought of it still shapes The April now? Because the wild-rose learned its blush From her fresh cheeks of maidenhood, Their thought makes June of barren brush And empty wood? And then I think how young she died-- Straight, barren death stalks down the trees, The hard-eyed hours by his side That kill and freeze. II When orchards are in bloom again My heart will bound, my blood will beat, To hear the red-bird so repeat, On boughs of rosy stain, His blithe, loud song,--like some far strain From out the past,--among the bloom,-- (Where bee, and wasp, and hornet boom)-- Fresh, redolent with rain. When orchards are in bloom once more, Invasions of lost dreams will draw My feet, like some insistent law, Through blossoms to her door: In dreams I’ll ask her, as before, To let me help her at the well; And fill her pail; and long to tell My love as once of yore. I shall not speak until we quit The farm-gate, leading to the lane And orchard, all in bloom again, ’Mid which the wood-doves sit And coo; and through whose blossoms flit The cat-birds crying while they fly: Then tenderly I’ll speak, and try To tell her all of it. And in my dream again she’ll place Her hand in mine, as oft before,-- When orchards are in bloom once more,-- With all her old-time grace: And we will tarry till a trace Of sunset dyes the heav’ns; and then-- We’ll part, and, parting, I again Will bend and kiss her face. And homeward, dreaming, I will go Along the cricket-chirring ways, While sunset, like one crimson blaze Of blossoms, lingers low: And my lost youth again I’ll know, And all her love, when spring is here-- Hers! hers! now dead this many a year Whose love still haunts me so. III I would not die when Springtime lifts The white world to her maiden mouth, And heaps its cradle with gay gifts, Breeze-blown from out the singing South: Too full of life and loves that cling, Too heedless of all mortal woe, The young, unsympathetic Spring, That death should never know. I would not die when Summer shakes Her daisied locks below her hips, And, naked as a star that takes A cloud, into the silence slips. Too rich is Summer; poor in needs; Wrapped in her own warm loveliness Her pomp goes by, and never heeds If one be more or less. But I would die when Autumn goes, The sad rain dripping from her hair, Through forests where the wild wind blows Death and the red wreck everywhere: Sweet as love’s last farewells and tears ’T would be to die, when heavens are gray, In the old autumn of my years, Like a dead leaf borne far away. DEEP IN THE FOREST I SPRING ON THE HILLS Ah, shall I follow, on the hills, The Spring, as wild wings follow? Where wild-plum trees make wan the hills, Crab-apple trees the hollow, Haunts of the bee and swallow? In red-bud brakes and flowery Acclivities of berry; In dogwood dingles, showery With dew, where wrens make merry? Or drifts of swarming cherry? In valleys of wild-strawberries, And of the clumped May-apple; Or cloud-like trees of hawberries, With which the south-winds grapple, That brook and pathway dapple? With eyes of far forgetfulness,-- Like some white wood-thing’s daughter, Whose feet are bee-like fretfulness,-- To see her run like water Through boughs that slipped or caught her. O Spring, to seek, yet find you not, To search and still continue; To glimpse, to touch, but bind you not, To lose and then to win you, All sweet evasion in you. In pearly, peach-blush distances You gleam; the woods are braided Of myths, of dream-existences;-- There, where the brook is shaded, Some splendor surely faded. O presence, like the primrose’s, Once more I feel your power! In rainy scents of dim roses I breathe you for an hour, Elusive as a flower. II THE WOOD SPIRIT Ah me! I still remember How flushed, before the shower, The dusk was; like a scarlet rose, Or blood-red poppy-flower. Now heaven is starred; the moonlight Lays blurs upon the grain-- You may not know it from white frost, The moonlight on the rain. And all the forest utters A restless moan in rest, For all the deep, dark shadow lies Like iron on its breast. I mark the moveless shadow, I mark the unreaped corn, Then something whispers overhead, “Come to me, mortal-born.” I sit alone and listen; The low leaves sound and sigh; The dew drips from the bearded grain, A mist slips from the sky.-- I hear her whisper, whisper, And breathe in some dim place; Her feet are easier than the dew, And than the mist her face. I may not clasp her ever, This spirit made for song, Who dwelleth in the young, young oak The old, old oaks among. Her limbs are molded moonlight; Her breasts are silver moons: She glimmers and she glitters where The purple shadow swoons. And since she knows I love her, She says my soul has died, And laughs and mocks me in the mist That haunts the forest-side. When winds run mad in woodlands And all the great boughs swing, I see her wild hair blow and blow Black as a raven’s wing. When winds are tamed and tethered And stars are keen as frost, I search and seek within the wood, There where my soul was lost. I seek her, and she flies me; I follow; and the whole Dim woodland echoes with her voice, Soft calling to my soul. III OWL ROOST The slope is a mass of vines: If you walk in the daylight there, A gleam as of twilight shines Through the vines massed everywhere: Each trunk, that a creeper twines, Is a column, strong to bear The dome of its leaves that wave, Cathedral-dim and grave. Black moss makes silent the feet: And, above, the fox-grapes lace So thick that the noonday heat Is chill as a murdered face: And the winds for miles repeat The fugue of a rolling bass: The deep leaves twinkle and turn But over no flower or fern. An angular spider weaves Great webs between the trees, Webs that are witches’ sieves: And honey-and bumblebees Go droning among the leaves, Like the fairies’ oboës: At dark the owlets croon To the stars and the sickle-moon. At dark I will not go There where the branches sigh; Where naught but the glow-worms glow, Each one like a demon’s eye: O’er which, like a battle-bow, With an arrow that it lets fly, The new-moon and one star Hang and glimmer afar. At dawn, if my mood be dim, And the day be a cloudless one, There where the sad winds hymn I ’ll walk, but its shade will shun; Its shade, where I feel the grim Horror of something done Here in the years long past, That the place conceals to the last. IV MOSS AND FERN Where rise the brakes of bramble there, Wrapped with the trailing rose, Through cane where waters ramble, there Where deep the green cress grows, Who knows? Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man, Hides Pan. Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles make A foothold for the mint, May bear,--where soft its trebles make Confession,--some vague hint-- (The print, Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran)-- Of Pan. Where, in the hollow of the hills Ferns deepen to the knees, What sounds are those above the hills, And now among the trees?-- No breeze!-- The syrinx, haply, none may scan, Of Pan. In woods where waters break upon The hush like some soft word; Where sun-shot shadows shake upon The moss, who has not heard-- No bird!-- The flute, as breezy as a fan, Of Pan? Far in, where mosses lay for us Still carpets, cool and plush; Where bloom and branch and ray for us Swoon in the noonday flush, The hush May sound the satyr hoof a span Of Pan. In woods where thrushes sing to us, And brooks dance sparkling heels; Where wild aromas cling to us, And all our worship kneels,-- Who steals Upon us, haunch and face of tan, But Pan? V WOODLAND WATERS Through leaves of the nodding trees, Where blossoms sway in the breeze, Pink bag-pipes made for the bees, Whose slogan is droning and drawling: Where the columbine scatters its bells, And the wild bleeding-heart its shells, O’er mosses and rocks of the dells The brook of the forest is falling. You can hear it under the hill When the wind in the wood is still, And, strokes of a fairy drill, Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer: By the solomon’s-seal it slips, Cohosh and the grass that drips-- Like the words of an Undine’s lips, Is the sound of its falls that stammer. I lie in the woods: and the scent Of the honeysuckle is blent With the sound: and a Sultan’s tent Is my dream, with the East enmeshéd:-- A slave-girl sings; and I hear The languor of lute-strings near, And a dancing-girl of Cashmere In the harem of good Er Reshid. From ripples of Irak lace She flashes the amorous grace Of her naked limbs and her face, While her golden anklets tinkle: Then over mosaic floors Open seraglio doors Of cedar: by twos, by fours,-- Like stars that tremble and twinkle,-- While the dulcimers sing, unseen, The handmaids come of the Queen ’Neath silvern lamps, one sheen Of jewels of Afrite treasure: And I see the Arabia rise Of the Nights that were rich and wise, Beautiful, dark, in the eyes Of Zubeideh, the Queen of Pleasure. VI THE THORN-TREE The night is sad with silver and the day is glad with gold, And the woodland silence listens to a legend never old, Of the Lady of the Fountain, whom the fairy people know, With her limbs of samite whiteness and her hair of golden glow, Whom the boyish South-wind seeks for and the girlish-stepping rain, Whom the sleepy leaves still whisper men shall never see again; She whose Vivien charms were mistress of the magic Merlin knew, That could change the dew to glow-worms and the glow-worms into dew. There’s a thorn-tree in the forest, and the fairies know the tree, With its branches gnarled and wrinkled as a face with sorcery; But the May-time brings it clusters of a rainy fragrant white, Like the bloom-bright brows of beauty or a hand of lifted light. And all day the silence whispers to the sun-ray of the morn How the bloom is lovely Vivien and how Merlin is the thorn: How she won the doting wizard with her naked loveliness Till he told her demon secrets that but made his magic less. How she charmed him and enchanted in the thorn-tree’s thorns to lie Forever with his passion that should never dim or die: And with wicked laughter looking on this thing that she had done, Like a visible aroma lingered sparkling in the sun; How she stooped to kiss the pathos of an elf-lock of his beard, All in mockery, at parting, and mock pity of his weird: But her magic had forgotten that “who bends to give a kiss Will bring down the curse upon them of the person whose it is”: So the silence tells the secret.--And at night the fairies see How the tossing bloom is Vivien, who is struggling to be free, In the thorny arms of Merlin, who, forever, is the tree. VII THE HAMADRYAD She stood among the longest ferns The valley held; and in her hand One blossom like the light that burns, Vermilion, o’er a sunset land; And round her hair a twisted band Of pink-pierced mountain-laurel blooms: And darker than dark pools, that stand Below the star-communing glooms, Her eyes beneath her hair’s perfumes. I saw the moon-pearl sandals on Her flower-white feet, that seemed too chaste To tread pure gold: and, like the dawn On splendid peaks that lord a waste Of solitude lost gods have graced, Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped, Bound with the cestused silver,--chased With acorn-cup and crown, and tipped With oak-leaves,--whence her chiton slipped. Limbs that the gods call loveliness!-- The grace and glory of all Greece Wrought in one marble form were less Than her perfection!--’Mid the trees I saw her; and time seemed to cease For me--And, lo! I lived my old Greek life again of classic ease, Barbarian as the myths that rolled Me back into the Age of Gold. WRECKAGE I Love and the drift of many dreams, Under the moon of a Florida night, Over the beach with its silvery seams White as a sail is white. Love that entered into two lives Out of the dreams that the nights have borne, Over the waves where the vapor drives, Mists that the stars have torn. Love that welded two hearts and hands There by the sea, ’neath the shell-white moon, Like to the stars and the mists and the sands Setting two lives in tune. Nights of love that one still keeps Sacred;--nights, that the faith of one Heartened there in the treacherous deeps, Under a tropic sun. II Parting he said to her: “Let us be true to them,-- All of our dreams, of the night, of the morning: What is our present, its hope, but a clew to them? What is our past but a dream and a warning? Have you considered the life that regretfully Foldeth weak arms to the fate it might master?-- Had I been true to my dreams, never fretfully Halted, my future and joy had been faster.” They had come down to the ocean that, bellowing, Boiled on the sand and the shells that were broken; All of the summer was fading and yellowing; Now they must part and their vows had been spoken. It had befallen that heaven was lowering; Over the sea, like the wraith of a wrecker, Clamored the gull; and the mist in the showering East seemed the ghost of a lofty three-decker. Infinite foam; and the boom of the hollowing Breakers that buried the rocks to their shoulders; Battle and boast of the deep in the wallowing World of the waves where the red sunset smoulders. Long was the leap of the foam on the thunderous Beach; and each end of the beach was a flying Fog of the spray: and she said, “Let it sunder us! Still we will love, for love is undying!” Yet, if it comes to the thing he has said to her?-- Wreckage and death?--the love she has given Turned into sorrow?--Oh, that was a dread to her! He, like a weed, by the waters far driven! Weeping, her bosom with shudders was shaken as She for a moment hard clung to her sailor, Kissed him and--parted. His boat had been taken; as Paler it grew the woman grew paler. III All day the rain drove, falling Upon the sombre sea; All day, his wet sail hauling, The sailor tacked a-lea; And through the wild rain calling, What was it?--was it he? At dusk the gull clanged, drifting Above the boiling brine; And, through the wan west sifting, Streamed one red sunset line; And in its wild light shifting, His far sail seemed to shine. All night the wind wailed, sighing Along the wreck-strewn coast; All night the surf, defying, Rolled thunder in and boast; All night she heard a crying-- The sea? or some lost ghost? IV The balm of the night and the glory, The music and scent of the sea, Are as song to her heart or a story Of the never-to-be. The stars and the night and the whiteness Of foam on the stretch of the sand; Faint foam that is tossed, like the brightness Of a mermaiden’s hand. No sail on the ocean; no sailor On shore, and the winds all asleep; And her face in the starlight far paler Than women who weep. A mist on the deep; and the ghostly White moon in the deep of the night; And a light that is neither; that mostly Is shadow not light. No sea-gull, that vanished with gleaming Of wings, in the swing of the spray; Perhaps it was only her dreaming, Or merely a ray Of moonlight; the glimmering essence Of all that is grayest and dim-- But never his face, or his presence That dripped in each limb. And she cried through the night, “Let perish! O God, let me die of despair! If he whom I love, whom I cherish, Is weltering there!” She seemed but a sea-mist made woman, And he but a sound of the sea Made man where nothing was human, And never would be. V Long he sailed the deep that glasses The face of God and His majesty; Passed the Horn and the Seas of Grasses, Drifting aimlessly. Time went by with its days that ever Burden the hearts of those who be Far away from their love; whom sever Leagues of the shapeless sea. Land at last, whose reefs rolled broken Foam of the balked waves everywhere; Land; one tangle of weeds and oaken Wreck and of rocks laid bare. Here and there the sand stretched livid Leagues of famine, one blinding glare; Crags, o’er which gaunt birds winged vivid, Harsh in the earthquake air. A little cloud in the sunset’s splendor; A little cloud that the sunset stains: Night, and a wisp of a moon that, slender, Dreams of the hurricanes. Winds that stride as with sounding sandals; Winds that the tempest has loosed from chains: Light that leaps like a spear he handles, Shaking his thunder-manes. Wrenching the world in wreck asunder, Black rebellion of hell and night; Wrath and roar of the rocks and thunder, Flame and the winds that fight ... Beating the drift and the hush together, Waves and winds that the morn makes white; Calm and peace of the tropic weather After the typhoon’s might. Clouds blow by and the storm’s forgotten. Savage coasts where the sea-cow feeds. Wash of weeds and the sea-weeds rotten. And a dead face in the weeds. None to know him or name him brother; Only the savage in feathers and beads; The South-Sea Islander, fitting another Barb in the shaft he speeds. Far away where the sea-gulls gather; Far away where the evening falls, Lone she stands where the wild waves lather, Rolling the sea in walls.-- Who shall tell her, the lonely tryster? Tell her of him on whom she calls?-- Suns that beat on his face and blister? Stars? or the sea that crawls? VI She dreamed that there, beside the ocean sitting, Alone she watched, when, at her feet, behold! Between the foam-ridge and the sea-gull’s flitting, His body rolled. All was not as it was before they parted; She dreamed he had remembered, she forgot; He ’d said he would forget her, angry-hearted, And yet could not. And then it seemed that, had she known, she surely Had given pity when she could not give Her love to him, who loved her madly, purely, And bade him live. And then she dreamed she looked upon the slanted Hulk of a wreck: and high above the wave, Worn of the wind and of the cactus planted, His nameless grave. SIREN SANDS I The rhododendrons bloom and shake Their petals wide and gleam and sway Among palmettoes, by the lake, Beyond the bay. Shores where we watched the eve reveal Her cloudy sanctuaries, while The bay lay lavaed into steel For mile on mile. We watched the purple coast confuse Soft outlines with the graying light; And towards the gulf a vessel lose Itself in night. We saw the sea-gulls dip and soar; The wild-fowl gather past the pier; And from rich skies, as from God’s door, Gold far and near. Two foreign seamen passed and we Heard mellow Spanish; like twin stars, Where they lounged smoking, we could see Their faint cigars. Night; and the heavens stained and strewn With stars the waters idealized, Until their light the rising moon Epitomized. Morn; and the pine-wood balms awake; Winds roll the dew-drop from the rose; The wide lake burns; and, on the lake, The ripple glows. Far coasts detach deep purple from The blue horizon, and the day Beholds the sunburnt sailor come And sail away. The bird that slept at dusk, at dawn Awakes again within the thorn.-- Sweet was the night to it, now gone; And sweet is morn. II Through halls of columned scarlet, Like some dark queen, the Dusk Trails skirts of myrrh and musk, Hung in each ear, a starlet Gleams,--gems the clouds’ gaunt Jinn Guard; and, beneath her chin, The moon, an opal tusk. There lies a ghostly glory Upon the sea and sand; A gleam, as of a hand, Stretched from the realms of story, Of rosy golden ray; Pointing the world the way To some far Fairyland. As fades the west’s vermilion Above the distant coasts, The stars come out in hosts; Within the night’s pavilion, As flower speaks to flower, Dim hour calls to hour, Pale with the past’s sweet ghosts. III Music that melts through moonlight, Faint on the summer breeze; Fireflies, moonlight, and foaming Susurrus of the seas. Music that drifts like perfume, And touches like a hand; Dreams and stars and the ocean, And we alone on the sand. Glimmers and vague reflections, And the white swirl of the foam; Pale on the purple a vessel, And a light that beckons home. And I seem to see the music, On a moonbeam bar that floats, For the music is moonlight magic, And the flies are its golden notes. And I seem to hear one singing Of a brown old coast and sea, Of lives that were filled with passion, And old-world tragedy. And I hear the harsh reef’s calling For a noble ship at sea, And the winds of the ocean singing A dirge for the dead to be. Till it seems that I am the pilot, And you are the mermaidén, Who lures him on to the wrecking And into her arms again. _Song_ Over the hills where the winds are waking All is lone as the soul of me; Over the hills where the stars are shaking, Breton hills by the sea. These were with me to tell me often How she pined in her Croisic home, Winds that sing and the stars that soften Over the miles of foam. Fishers’ nets and the sailor faces; Sad salt marshes and granite piers; Brown, loud coast where the long foam races-- And a parting full of tears. A gray sail’s ghost where the autumn lies on Wraiths of the mist and the squall-blown rain; Her dark girl eyes that search the horizon, Grave with a haunting pain. Stars may burn and the wild winds whistle Over the rocks where the sea-gulls rave-- My heart is bleak as the wind-worn thistle on her seaside grave. IV Sad as sad eyes that ache with tears The stars of night shine through the leaves; And shadowy as the Fates’ dim shears The weft that twilight weaves. The summer sunset marched long hosts Of gold adown one golden peak, That flamed and fell; and now gray ghosts Of mist the far west streak. They seem the shades of things that weep, Wan things the heavens would conceal; Blood-stained; that bear within them, deep, Red wounds that will not heal. Night comes, and with it storm, that slips Wild angles of the jagged light:-- I feel the wild rain on my lips,-- A wild girl is the Night. A moaning tremor sweeps the trees; And all the stars are packed with death:-- She holds me by the neck and knees, I feel her wild, wet breath. Hell and its hags drive on the rain:-- Night holds me by the hair and pleads; Her kisses fall like blows again; My brow is dewed with beads. The thunder plants wild beacons on Each volleying height.--My soul seems blown Far out to sea. The world is gone, And night and I alone. Tampa, Florida, February, 1893. WAR-TIME SILHOUETTES. I THE BATTLE The night had passed. The day had come, Bright-born, into a cloudless sky: We heard the rolling of the drum, And saw the war-flags fly. And noon had crowded upon morn Ere Conflict shook her red locks far, And blew her brazen battle-horn Upon the hills of War. Noon darkened into dusk--one blot Of nightmare lit with hell-born suns;-- We heard the scream of shell and shot And booming of the guns. On batteries of belching grape We saw the thundering cavalry Hurl headlong,--iron shape on shape,-- With shout and bugle-cry. When dusk had moaned and died, and night Came on, wind-swept and wild with rain, We slept, ’mid many a bivouac light, And vast fields heaped with slain. II IN HOSPITAL Wounded to death he lay and dreamed The drums of battle beat afar, And round the roaring trenches screamed The hell of war. Then woke; and, weeping, spoke one word To the kind nurse who bent above; Then in the whitewashed ward was heard A song of love. The song _she_ sang him when she gave The portrait that he kissed; then sighed, “Lay it beside me in the grave!” And smiled and died. III THE SOLDIER’S RETURN A brown wing beat the apple leaves and shook Some blossoms on her hair. Then, note on note, The bird’s wild music bubbled. In her book, Her old romance, she seemed to read. No look Betrayed the tumult in her trembling throat. The thrush sang on. A dreamy wind came down From one white cloud of afternoon and fanned The dropping petals on her book and gown, And touched her hair, whose braids of quiet brown Gently she smoothed with one white jeweled hand. Then, with her soul, it seemed, from feet to brow She felt him coming: ’t was his heart, his breath That stirred the blossom on the apple bough; His step the wood-thrush warbled to. And now Her cheek went crimson, now as white as death. Then on the dappled page his shadow--yes, Not unexpected, yet her haste assumed Fright’s startle; and low laughter did confess His presence there, soft with his soul’s caress And happy manhood, where the rambo bloomed. Quickly she rose and all her gladness sent Wild welcome to him. Her his unhurt arm Drew unresisted; and the soldier leant Fond lips to hers. She wept. And so they went Deep in the orchard towards the old brick farm. IV THE APPARITION A day of drought, foreboding rain and wind, As if stern heaven, feeling earth had sinned, Frowned all its hatred. When the evening came, Along the west, from bank on bank unthinned Of clouds, the storm unfurled its oriflamme. Then lightning signaled, and the thunder woke Its monster drums, and all God’s torrents broke.-- She saw the wild night when the dark pane flashed; Heard, where she stood, the disemboweled oak Roar into fragments when the welkin crashed. Long had she waited for a word. And, lo! Anticipation still would not say “No:” He has not written; he will come to her; At dawn!--to-night!--Her heart hath told her so; And so expectancy and love aver. She seems to hear his fingers on the pane-- The glass is blurred, she can not see for rain: Is _that_ his horse?--the wind is never still: And _that_ his cloak?--ah, surely that is plain!-- A torn vine tossing at the window-sill. She hurries forth to meet him; pale and wet, She sees his face; the war-soiled epaulet; A sabre-scar that bleeds from brow to cheek; And now he smiles, and now their lips have met, And now ... Dear heart, he fell at Cedar Creek! V WOUNDED It was in August that they brought her news Of his bad wounds; the leg that he must lose. And August passed, and when October raised Red rebel standards on the hills that blazed, They brought a haggard wreck; she scarce knew whose, Until they told her, standing stunned and dazed. A shattered shadow of the stalwart lad, The five-months husband, whom his country had Enlisted, strong for war; returning this, Whose broken countenance she feared to kiss, While health’s remembrance stood beside him sad, And grieved for that which was no longer his. They brought him on a litter; and the day Was bright and beautiful. It seemed that May In woodland rambles had forgot her path Of season, and, disrobing for a bath, By the autumnal waters of some bay, With her white nakedness had conquered Wrath. Far otherwise she wished it: wind and rain; The sky, one gray commiserative pain; Sleet, and the stormy drift of frantic leaves; To match the misery that each perceives Aches in her hand-clutched bosom, and is plain In eyes and mouth and all her form that grieves. Theirs, a mute meeting of the lips; she stooped And kissed him once: one long, dark side-lock drooped And brushed against the bandage of his breast; With feeble hands he held it and caressed; Then all his happiness in one look grouped, Saying, “Now I am home, I crave but rest.” Once it was love! but then the battle killed All that sweet nonsense of his youth, and filled His heart with sterner passion.--Ah, well! peace Must balm its pain with patience; whose surcease Means reconcilement; e’en as God hath willed, With war or peace who shapes His ends at ease.-- What else for these but, where their mortal lot Of weak existence drags rent ends, to knot The frail unravel up!--while love (afraid Time will increase the burthen on it laid), Seeks consolation, that consoleth not, In toil and prayer, waiting what none evade. VI THE MESSAGE Long shadows toward the east: and in the west A blaze of garnet sunset, wherein rolled One cloud like some great gnarly log of gold; Each gabled casement of the farm seemed dressed In ghosts of roses blossoming manifest. And she had brought his letter there to read, There on the porch, that faced the locust glade; To watch the summer sunset burn and fade, And breathe the twilight scent of wood and weed, Forget all care and her soul’s hunger feed. And on his face her fancy mused a while: “Dark hair, dark eyes.--And now he has a beard Dark as his hair.”--She smiled; yet almost feared It changed him so she could not reconcile Her heart to that which hid his lips and smile. Then tried to feature, but could only see The beardless man who bent to her and kissed Her and their child and left them to enlist: She heard his horse grind in the gravel: he Waved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee. Now all around her drowsed the hushful hum Of evening insects. And his letter spoke Of love and longings to her: nor awoke One echo of the bugle and the drum, But all their future in one kiss did sum. The stars were thick now; and the western blush Drained into darkness. With a dreamy sigh She rocked her chair.--It must have been the cry Of infancy that made her rise and rush To where their child slept, and to hug and hush. Then she returned. But now her ease was gone. She knew not what, she felt an unknown fear Press, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tear Scalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wan As helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn. With stony eyes she grieved against the skies, A slow, dull, aching agony that knew Few tears, and saw no answer shining to Her silent questions in the stars’ still eyes “Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.” They could have told her. Peace was far away, Beyond the field that belched black batteries All the red day. ’Mid picket silences, On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray, Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay. VII THE WOMAN ON THE HILL The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain, And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs, Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house, Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane. Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief; And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamed The sunset’s glare--a furious eye, which seemed Watching the moon rise like a yellow leaf. The rising moon, against which, like despair, High on the hill, a woman, darkly drawn, The wild leaves round her, stood; with features wan, And tattered dress and wind-distracted hair. As still as death, and looking, not through tears, For the young face of one she knows is lost, While in her heart the melancholy frost Gathers of all the unforgotten years. What if she heard to-night a hurrying hoof, Wild as the whirling of the withered leaf, Bring her a more immedicable grief, A shattered shape to live beneath her roof! The shadow of him who claimed her once as wife; Her lover!--no!--the wreck of all their past Brought back from battle!--Better to the last A broken heart than heartbreak all her life! MOSBY AT HAMILTON Down Loudon lanes, with swinging reins, And clash of spur and sabre, And bugling of the battle-horn, Six score and eight we rode that morn, Six score and eight of Southern born, All tried in war’s hot labor. Full in the sun, at Hamilton, We met the South’s invaders; Who, over fifteen hundred strong, ’Mid blazing homes had marched along All night, with Northern shout and song, To crush the rebel raiders. Down Loudon lanes, with streaming manes, We spurred in wild March weather; And all along our war-scarred way The graves of Southern heroes lay-- Our guide-posts to revenge that day, As we rode grim together. Old tales still tell some miracle Of Saints in holy writing-- But who shall say why hundreds fled Before the few that Mosby led, Unless it was that even the dead Fought with us then when fighting. While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears, Of troops at Harper’s Ferry; While Sheridan led on his Huns, And Richmond rocked to roaring guns, We felt the South still had some sons She would not scorn to bury. THE FEUD Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stone The murmuring ooze and trickle of a stream Through brambles, where the mountain spring lies lone,-- A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,-- And one wild road winds like a saffron seam. Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous note Dropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June; Here cat-and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wrote Their presence on the silence with a tune; And here the fox drank ’neath the mountain moon. Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,-- Impenetrable briers, deep and dense, And wiry bushes;--brush, that seemed to crush The struggling saplings with its tangle, whence Sprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence. A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterfly In orange and amber, like a floating flame; And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly, Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame, With an old rifle, down the mountain came. He listened, drinking from a flask he took Out of the ragged pocket of his coat; Then all around him cast a stealthy look; Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float, His fingers twitching at his hairy throat. The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland height Loomed, framed in splendors of the dolphin dusk. Around the road a horseman rode in sight; Young, tall, blond-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque, He in the thicket aimed--Quick, harsh, then husk, The echoes barked among the hills and made Repeated instants of the shot’s distress.-- Then silence--and the trampled bushes swayed:-- Then silence, packed with murder and the press Of distant hoofs that galloped riderless. LYNCHERS At the moon’s down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. The red-rock road of the underbrush, Where the woman came through the summer hush. The sumac high and the elder thick, Where we found the stone and the ragged stick. The trampled road of the thicket, full Of footprints down to the quarry pool. The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, Where we found her lying stark and dead. The scraggy wood; the negro hut, With its doors and windows locked and shut. A secret signal; a foot’s rough tramp; A knock at the door; a lifted lamp. An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; A voice that answers a voice that asks. A group of shadows; the moon’s red fleck; A running noose and a man’s bared neck. A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; The lonely night and a bat’s black wings. At the moon’s down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. DEAD MAN’S RUN He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood Clad in a homespun gown. “To ride this road is death for you! My father waits you there; My father and my brother, too-- You know the oath they swear.” He holds her by one berry-brown wrist, And by one berry-brown hand; And he hath laughed at her and kissed Her cheek the sun hath tanned. “The feud is to the death, sweetheart: But forward must I ride.”-- “And if you ride to death, sweetheart, My place is by your side.” Low hath he laughed again and kissed And helped her with his hand; And they have galloped into the mist That belts the autumn land. And they had passed by Devil’s Den, And come to Dead Man’s Run, When in the brush rose up two men, Each with a levelled gun. “Down! down! my sister!” cries the one;-- She gives the reins a twirl.-- The other shouts, “He shot my son! And now he steals my girl!” The rifles crack: she will not wail: He will not cease to ride: But, oh! her face is pale, is pale, And the red blood stains her side. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The road is rough to ride!”-- The road is rough by gulch and bluff, And her hair blows wild and wide. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The bank is steep to ride!”-- The bank is steep for a strong man’s leap, And her eyes are staring wide. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The Run is swift to ride!”-- The Run is swift with mountain drift, And she sways from side to side. Is it a wash of the yellow moss, Or drift of the autumn’s gold, The mountain torrent foams across For the dead pine’s roots to hold? Is it the bark of the sycamore, Or peel of the white birch-tree, The mountaineer on the other shore Hath followed and still can see? No mountain moss or leaves, wild rolled, No bark of birchen-gray!-- Young hair of gold and a face death-cold The wild stream sweeps away. THE RAID I Far in the forest, where the rude road winds Through twisted briers and weeds, stamped down and caked With mountain mire, the clashing boughs are raked Again with rain whose sobbing frenzy blinds. There is a noise of winds; a gasp and gulp Of swollen torrents; and the sodden smell Of woodland soil, dead trees--that long since fell Among the moss--red-rotted into pulp. Fogged by the rain, far up the mountain glen, Deep in a cave, an elfish wisp of light; And stealthy shadows stealing through the night With strong, set faces of determined men. II ’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase, Above vague peaks, the morning hesitates Ere, o’er the threshold of her golden gates, Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays. A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist, A cataract, reverberating, falls: Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls, Then soars away no bigger than a fist. Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,-- Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,-- Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns, The posse marches with its moonshiners. THE BROTHERS Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We ’ll take This unused lane where brambles make A wall of twilight, and the blond Brier-roses pelt the path and flake The margin waters of a pond. This is its fence--or that which was Its fence once--now, rock rolled from rock, One tangle of the vine and dock, Where bloom the wild petunias; And this its gate, the ragweeds block, Hot with the insects’ dusty buzz. Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled The weather-blistered paint, still rise; Gaunt things--that groan when some one tries The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, Snarl open:--on each post still lies Its carven panther with a shield. We enter; and between great rows Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; And at its glimmering end,--o’erflowed With quiet light,--the white front shows Of an old mansion, grand and broad, With grave, Colonial porticoes. Grown thick around it, dark and deep, The locust trees make one vast hush; Their brawny branches crowd and crush Its very casements, and o’ersweep Its rotting roofs: their tranquil rush Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. Still is it called The Locusts; though None lives here now. A tale ’s to tell Of some dark thing that here befell; A crime that happened years ago, When past its walls, with shot and shell, The war swept on and left it so. For one black night, within it, shame Made revel, while, all here about, With prayer or curse or battle-shout, Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: Then passed the conquering Northern rout, And left it silent and the same. Why should I speak of what has been? Or what dark part I played in all? Why ruin sits in porch and hall Where pride and gladness once were seen; And why beneath this lichened wall The grave of Margaret is green. Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate Was sadder far than his who won Her hand--my brother Hamilton-- Or mine, who learned to know too late; Who learned to know, when all was done, And naught I did could expiate. To expiate is still my lot!-- And, like the Ancient Mariner, To show to others how things were, And what I am, still helps me blot A little from that crime’s red blur, That on my life is branded hot. He was my only brother. She A sister of my brother’s friend. They met, and married in the end. And I remember well when he Brought her rejoicing home, the trend Of war moved towards us sullenly. And scarce a year of wedlock when Its red arms tore him from his bride. With lips by hers thrice sanctified He left to ride with Morgan’s men. And I--I never could decide-- Remained behind. It happened then. Long days went by. And, oft delayed, A letter came of loving word Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, Or by a pine-knot’s fitful aid, When in the saddle, armed and spurred And booted for some hurried raid. Then weeks went by. I do not know How long it was before there came, Blown from the North, the clarion fame Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, Had drawn a line of blood and flame From Tennessee to Ohio. Then letters ceased; and days went on. No word from him. The war rolled back, And in its turgid crimson track A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, All ominous and red and black, With news of our lost Hamilton. News hinting death or capture. Yet No word was sure; till one day,--fed By us,--some men rode up who said They’d been with Morgan and had met Disaster, and that he was dead, My brother.--I and Margaret Believed them. Grief was ours too: But mine was more for her than him: Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim: Grief, that became the avenue For love, who crowned the sombre brim Of death’s dark cup with rose-red hue. In sympathy,--unconsciously Though it be given,--I hold, doth dwell The germ of love that time shall swell To blossom. Sooner then in me-- When close relations so befell-- That love should spring from sympathy. Our similar tastes and mutual bents Combined to make us intimates From our first meeting. Different states Of interest then our temperaments Begot. Then friendship, that abates No love, whose soul it represents. These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o’er the hills’ far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft. And all in harmony with these Dim clemencies of dusk, afar Our talks and dreams went; while the star Of evening brightened through the trees: We spoke of home; the end of war; We dreamed of life and love and peace. How on our walks, in listening lanes Or confidences of the wood, We paused to hear the dove that cooed; Or gathered wildflowers, taking pains To find the fairest; or her hood Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. No echo of the drum or fife, No hint of conflict entered in Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin-- Indifference to a nation’s strife? What side might lose, what side might win, Both immaterial to our life. Into the past we did not look: Beyond what was we did not dream; While onward rolled the thunderous stream Of war, that, in its torrent, took One of our own. No crimson gleam Of its wild course around us shook. At last we knew. And when we learned How he had fallen, Margaret Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, Within my soul I half discerned A joy that mingled with regret, A grief that to relief was turned. As time went on and confidence Drew us more strongly each to each, Why did no intimation reach Its warning hand into the dense Soul-silence, and confuse the speech Of love’s unbroken eloquence! But, no! no hint to turn the poise, Or check the impulse of our youth; To chill it with the living truth As with the awe of God’s own voice; No hint, to make our hope uncouth; No word, to warn us from our choice. To me a wall seemed overthrown That social law had raised between; And o’er its ruin, broad and green A path went, I possessed alone; The sky above seemed all serene; The land around seemed all my own. What shall I say of Margaret To justify her part in this? That her young heart was never his? But had been mine since first we met? So would you say!--Enough it is That when he left she loved him yet. So passed the spring, and summer sped; And early autumn brought the day When she her hand in mine should lay, And I should take her hand and wed: And still no hint that might gainsay, No warning word of quick or dead. The day arrived; and with it born, A battle, sullying the East With boom of cannon, that increased, And throb of musket and of horn: Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased; And men with faces wild and worn, In fierce retreat, swept past; now groups; Now one by one: now sternly white, Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright Said all was lost: then sullen troops That, beaten, still kept up the fight.-- Then came the victors: shadowy loops Of men and horse, that left a crowd Of officers in hall and porch.... While through the land, around, the torch Circled, and many a fiery cloud Marked out the army’s iron march In furrows red that pillage plowed, Here were we wedded.... Ask the years How such could be, while over us A sword of wrath swung ominous, And on our cheeks its breath struck fierce!-- All I remember is--’t was thus; And Margaret’s eyes were wet with tears. No other cause my memory sees Save this, _that_ night was set; and when I found my home filled with armed men With whom were all my sympathies Of Union--why postpone it then? So argued conscience into peace. And then it was, when night had passed, There came to me an orderly With word of a Confederate spy Just taken; who, with head downcast, Had asked one favor, this: “That I Would see him ere he breathed his last.” I stand alone here. Heavily My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, The dead had still been dead! (for none Had yet believed his story) he, My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, Who in the spy confronted me. O you who never have been tried, How can you judge me!--In my place I saw him standing,--who can trace My heart-thoughts then!--I turned aside, A son of some unnatural race, And did not speak: and so he died.... In hospital or prison, when It was he lay; what had forbid His home return so long: amid What hardships he had suffered, then I dared not ask; and when I did, Long afterwards, inquire of men, No thing I learned. But this I feel-- He who had so returned to life Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,-- This makes my conscience hard to heal!-- He had escaped: he sought his wife; He sought his home that should conceal. And Margaret! Oh, pity her! A criminal I sought her side, Still thinking love was justified In all for her--whatever were The price: a brother thrice denied, Or thrice a brothers murderer. Since then long years have passed away. And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll ask How to the world I wore my mask Of honesty?--I can but say Beyond my powers it was a task; Before my time it turned me gray. And when at last the ceaseless hiss Of conscience drove, and I betrayed All to her, she knelt down and prayed: Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyss Was opened; and she seemed to fade Out of my life: I came to miss The sweet attentions of a bride: For each appealing heart’s caress In me her heart assumed a dress Of dull indifference; till denied To me was all responsiveness; And then I knew her love had died. Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, With wild reproach or even hate, Such would have helped me hope and wait Forgiveness and returned romance: But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gate She closed of silent tolerance. Yet, ’t was for love of her I lent My soul to crime.... I question me Often, if less entirely I’d loved her, then, in that event She had been justified to see The deed alone stand prominent. The deed alone! But love records In his own heart, I will aver, No depth I did not feel for her Beyond the plummet-reach of words: And though there may be worthier, No truer love this world affords Than mine was, though it could not rise Above itself. And so ’t was best, Perhaps, that she saw manifest The crime, so I,--as saw her eyes,-- Might see; and so, in soul confessed, Some life atonement might devise. Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, That, towards her end, she took my hands And said,--as one who understands,-- “Had I but seen!--But love that weeps Sees only as its loss commands.” And sighed.--Beneath this stone she sleeps. Yes; I have suffered for that sin: Yet in no instance would I shun What I should suffer. Many a one, Who heard my tale, has tried to win Me to believe that Hamilton It was not; and, though proven kin, This had not saved him. Still the stain Of the intention--had I erred And ’t was not he--had writ the word Red on my soul that branded Cain: For still my error had incurred The fact of guilt that would remain. * * * * * Ah, love at best is insecure, And lives with doubt and vain regret; And hope and faith, with faces set Upon the past, are never sure; And through their fever, grief, and fret The heart may fail that should endure. For in ourselves, however blend The passions that make heaven and hell, Is evil not accountable For most the good we comprehend? And through these two,--or ill, or well,-- Man must evolve his spiritual end. It is with deeds that we must ask Forgiveness: for, upon this earth, Life walks alone from very birth With death, hope tells us is a mask For life beyond of vaster worth, Where sin no more sets love a task. EPILOGUE _Would I could sing of joy I only Remember as without alloy: Of life full-filled, that once was lonely: Of love a treasure, not a toy: Of grief, regret but makes the keener, Of aspiration, failure mars-- These would I sing, and sit serener. Than song among the stars._ _Would I could sing of faith unbroken; Of heart-kept vows, and not of tears: Of promised faith and vows love-spoken, That have been kept through many years: Of truth, the false but leaves the truer; Of trust, the doubt makes doubly sure-- These would I sing, the noble doer Whose dauntless heart is pure._ _I would not sing of time made hateful; Of hope that only clings to hate: Of charity, that grows ungrateful; And pride that will not stand and wait.--_ _Of humbleness, care hath imparted; Of resignation, born of ills, These would I sing, and stand high-hearted As hope upon the hills._ _Once on a throne of gold and scarlet I touched a harp and felt it break; I dreamed I was a king--a varlet, A slave, who only slept to wake!-- Still on that harp my memory lingers, While on a tomb I lean and read, “Dust are our songs, and dust we singers, And dust are all who heed.”_ POEMS OF LOVE _What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the barriers of the world, Around whose tops the Northern Lights And tempests are unfurled!_ _Mine are the footpaths leading through Life’s lowly fields and woods,--with rifts, Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,-- By which the violet lifts_ _Its shy appeal; and, holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine, Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine._ _Where soft upon each flowering stock The butterfly spreads damask wings; And under grassy loam and rock The cottage cricket sings._ _Where overhead eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her bow, And, arrow-like, one white star by her Burns through the afterglow._ _I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic flower there, Whose touch unseals each mystery In water, earth, and air._ _That in the oak tree lets me hear Its heart’s deep speech, its soul’s dim words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The messages of birds._ _Why should I care, who live aloof Beyond the din of life and dust, While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust._ GERTRUDE When first I gazed on Gertrude’s face, Beheld her loveliness and grace; Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair, Her ways, more winsome than the spring’s; Her smile, like some sweet flower, that flings Its fragrance on the summer air; And when, like some wild-bird that sings, I heard her voice,--I did declare,-- And still declare!--there is no one, No girl beneath the moon or sun, So beautiful to look upon! And to my heart, as I know well, Nothing seems more desirable,-- Not Ophir gold, nor Orient pearls-- Than seems this jewel-girl of girls. LOVE For him, who loves, each mounting morn Breathes melody more sweet than birds’; And every wind-stirred flower and thorn Whispers melodious words:-- Would you believe that everything Through _her_ loved voice is made to sing? For her, the faultless skies of day Grow nearer in eternal blue, Where God is felt as wind and ray, And seen as fire and dew:-- Would you believe that all the skies Are Heaven only through _his_ eyes? For them, the dreams that haunt the night With mystic beauty and romance, Are presences of starry light, And moony radiance:-- Would you believe this love of theirs Could make for them a universe? HEART OF MY HEART I Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old,-- When we were children who would laugh and run, Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,-- Before came toil and care and years went ill, And one forgot and one remembered still; Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, Give me your hands and let me draw you near, Heart of my heart. II Stars are not truer than your soul is true; What need I more of heaven then than you? Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet-- What need I more to make my world complete? O woman nature, love that still endures, What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. Heart of my heart. STROLLERS I We have no castles, We have no vassals, We have no riches, no gems and no gold: Nothing to ponder; Nothing to squander-- Let us go wander As minstrels of old. II You with your lute, love; I with my flute, love, Let us make music by mountain and sea: You with your glances, I with my dances, Singing romances Of old chivalry. III “Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither! and hearken where happiness is! Never go borrow Care of to-morrow, Never go sorrow While life hath a kiss!” IV Let the day gladden, Or the night sadden, We will be merry in sunshine or snow: You with your rhyme, love, I with my chime, love, We will make Time, love, Dance as we go. V Nothing is ours; Only the flowers, Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above: Nothing to lie for, Nothing to sigh for, Nothing to die for While still we have love. VI “Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither! and hearken a word that is sooth:-- Care ye not any, If ye have many, Or not a penny, If still ye have youth!” THE BURDEN OF DESIRE I In some dim way I know thereof: A garden glows down in my heart, Wherein I meet and often part With many an ancient tale of love. A Romeo garden, banked with bloom, And trellised with the eglantine; In which a rose climbs to a room, A balcony one mass of vine, Dim, haunted of perfume. A balcony, whereon she gleams, The soft Desire of all Dreams, And smiles and bends like Juliet, Year after year, While to her side, all dewy wet, A rose stuck in his ear, Love climbs to draw her near. II And in another way I know, Down in my soul a graveyard lies, Wherein I meet, in ghostly wise, With many an ancient tale of woe. A graveyard of the Capulets, Deep-vaulted with ancestral gloom, Through whose dark yews the moonlight jets On many a wildly carven tomb, That mossy mildew frets. A graveyard where the Soul’s Desire Sleeps, pale-entombed; and, kneeling by her, Love, like that hapless Montague, Year after year, Weary and worn and wild of hue, Within her sepulchre, Falls bleeding on her bier. THE TRYST At dusk there fell a shower: The leaves were dripping yet: Each fern and rain-weighed flower Around was gleaming wet, When, through the evening glower, His feet towards her were set. The dust’s damp odor sifted Around him, cool with rain, Mixed with the musk that drifted From woodland and from plain, Where white her garden lifted Its pickets down the lane. And there she stood! ’mid scattered Clove-pink and pea and whorl Of honeysuckle,--flattered To sweetness wild,--a girl, O’er whom the clouds hung shattered In moonlit peaks of pearl. She made the night completer For him; and earth and air, In that small spot, far sweeter Than heaven or anywhere.-- Swift were his lips to greet her, Her lips love lifted there. GYPSYING Your heart ’s a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June, So let us go a-roving beneath the summer moon. Oh, was it in the sunlight, or was it in the rain, We met among the blossoms within the locust lane? All that I can remember ’s the bird that sang aboon, And with its music in our hearts we ’ll rove beneath the moon. A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we ’ll read the rune, While we two go a-roving beneath the summer moon. A love-word of the water we ’ll often stop to hear-- The echoed words and whispers of our own hearts, my dear. And all our paths shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon, And with their fragrance in our hearts we ’ll rove beneath the moon. It will not be forever; yet merry goes the tune While we two still are rovers beneath the summer moon. A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelight, When old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white: Where we can dream together above the logs and croon The songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon. UNCERTAINTY “_‘He cometh not,’ she said._”--Mariana. It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise So many sweet excuses, met With the old doubt in hope’s disguise. The panes were sweated with the dawn; Yet through their dimness, shriveled drawn, The aigret of one princess-feather, One monk’s-hood tuft with oilets wan, I glimpsed, dead in the slaying weather. This morning when my window’s chintz I drew, how gray the day was!--Since I saw him, yea, all days are gray!-- I gazed out on my dripping quince, Defruited, torn; then turned away To weep, but did not weep: but felt A colder anguish than did melt About the tearful-visaged Year!-- Then flung the lattice wide and smelt The autumn sorrow. Rotting near The rain-drenched sunflowers bent and bleached, Up which the frost-nipped gourd-vines reached And morning-glories, seeded o’er With ashen aiglets; whence beseeched One last bloom, frozen to the core. The podded hollyhocks--that Fall Had stripped of finery--by the wall Rustled their tatters; dripped and dripped, The fog thick on them: near them, all The tarnished, hag-like zinnias tipped. I felt the death and loved it: yea, To have it nearer, sought the gray, Chill, fading garth. Yet could not weep, But wandered in an aimless way, And yearned with weariness to sleep. Mine were the fog, the frosty stalks, The weak lights on the leafy walks, The shadows shivering with the cold; The breaking heart; the lonely talks; The last, dim, ruined marigold. But when, to-night, the moon swings low-- A great marsh-marigold of glow-- And all my garden with the sea Moans, then, through moon and mist, I know His ghost will come to comfort me. LOST LOVE I loved her madly. For--so wrought Young Love, divining Isles of Truth Large in the central seas of Youth-- “Love will win love,” I thought. Once when I brought a rare wild pink To place among her plants, the wise, Soft lifting of her speaking eyes Said more than thanks, I think.... She loved another.--Yes, I know All you would say of woman. You, Like other men, would comfort too.... But then I loved her so. She loved another.--Ah! too well I know the story of her soul!-- A weary tale the weary whole Of how she loved and fell. I loved her so!... Remembering now My mad grief then, I wonder why Grief never kills.... I could not die.-- She died--I know not how. Strange, is it not? For she was dear To me as life once.--A regret She is now; just to make eyes wet And bring a fullness here. Yet, had she lived as dead in shame As now in death, Love would have used Pride’s pitying pencil and abused The memory of her name. This helps me thank my God, who led My broken life in sunlight of This pure affection, that my love Lives through her being dead. OVERSEAS _Non numero horas nisi serenas._ When fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit From dreams to dreams. An old chateau sleeps ’mid the hills Of France: an avenue of sorbs Conceals it: drifts of daffodils Bloom by a ’scutcheoned gate with barbs Like iron bills. I pass the gate unquestioned, yet, I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make Dark pools of restless violet. Between high bramble banks a lake,-- As in a net. The tangled scales twist silver,--shines ... Gray, mossy turrets swell above A sea of leaves. And where the pines Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, My heart divines. I know her window, dimly seen From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: Her garden, with the nectarine Espaliered, and the peach-tree, wedged ’Twixt walls of green. Cool-babbling a fountain falls From gryphons’ mouths in porphyry; Carp haunt its waters; and white balls Of lilies dip it that the bee Sucks in and drawls. And butterflies, each with a face Of faëry on its wings, that seem Beheaded pansies, softly chase Each other down the gloom and gleam Trees interspace. And roses! roses, soft as vair, Round sylvan statues and the old Stone dial--Pompadours that wear Their royalty of purple and gold With queenly air.... Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe The perfume of her touch; her gloves, Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, Lie there beneath A bank of eglantines that heaps A rose-strewn shadow.--Naïve-eyed, With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; The romance by her, open wide, O’er which she weeps. AT THE STILE Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her, Over the stile when the sun was sinking; ’T was only Carrie; just Mary’s sister!-- And love hath a way of thinking. “Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry.” Over the stile one star hung yellow.-- “Just to the spring, my dearest Harry.”-- And Love is a heartless fellow. “Thou saidst me ‘yea’ in an April shower Under this tree with leaves a-quiver.”-- “I say thee nay now the cherry ’s in flower, And love is taker and giver.” “O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!”-- The light in her eyes grew trist and trister: “To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart, I never was aught but Mary’s sister. “Sweet Mary’s sister! just little Carrie!-- But what avail my words or weeping?-- Next month, perhaps, you two will marry-- And I in my grave be sleeping.” Alone she stands ’mid the meadow millet, Wan as the petals the wind is strewing: Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it-- And love hath a way of doing. FERN-SEED “_We have the receipt of fern-seed; we walk invisible._”--Henry IV. And you and I have met but thrice!-- Three times enough to make me love!-- I praised your hair once; then your glove; Your eyes; your gown--you were like ice. And yet this might suffice, my love, And yet this might suffice. I know now what it is I’ll do: I’ll search and find the ferns that grow, The fern-seed that the fairies know, And sprinkle fern-seed in my shoe, And haunt the steps of you, my dear, And haunt the steps of you. You ’ll see the poppy-pods dip here, The blow-ball of the thistle slip, And no wind breathing--but my lip Next to your anxious cheek and ear, To tell you I am near, my love, To tell you I am near. On wood-ways I will tread your gown-- You ’ll know it is no brier!--then I’ll whisper words of love again, And smile to see your quick face frown; And then I ’ll kiss it down, my dear, And then I ’ll kiss it down. You ’ll sit at home and read or knit, When suddenly the page is blotted-- My hands!--or all your needles knotted: And in your rage you ’ll cry a bit: But I--I ’ll laugh at it, my love, But I--I ’ll laugh at it. The secrets which you say at prayer I too will hear; or, when you sing, I too will sing, and whispering Bend down and kiss your eyes and hair, And you will know me there, my dear, And you will know me there. Would it were true what people say!-- Would I _could_ find that faëry seed! Then would I win your love, indeed, By being near you night and day:-- There is no other way, my love, There is no other way. PORPHYROGENITA I Was it when Kriemhild was queen That we rode by ways forgotten Through the Rhineland, dimly seen ’Neath a low moon white as cotton? I, a knight? or troubadour? Thou, a princess?--or a poor Damsel of the Royal Closes?-- For, I met thee--somewhere sure!... Was it ’mid Kriemhilda’s roses? II Or in Venice, by the sea?-- What romance grew up between us? Thou, a doge’s daughter?--She, Titian painted once as Venus?-- I, a gondolier whose barque Glided past thy palace dark?-- Near St. Mark’s? or Casa d’Oro?-- From thy casement didst thou hark To my barcarolle’s “_Te oro_”? III Klaia wast, of Egypt: yea, Languid as its sacred lily. Didst with me a year and day Love upon the Isle of Philæ? I, a priest of Isis?--Sweet, ’Neath the date-palms did we meet By a temple’s pillared marble? While, from its star-still retreat, Sank the nightingale’s wild warble? IV Have I dreamed that I, thy slave, From thy lattice, my sultana, Beckoning, thy white hand did wave, Dropped me once a rose? sweet manna Of thy kiss warm in its heart? That, through my Chaldæan art, With thy Khalif’s bags of treasure, From Damascus we did start, Fled to some far land of pleasure? V Was I one? another thou?-- Let it be. What of it, dearest?-- Haply ’tis the memory now Of these passions dead thou fearest?-- Nay! those loves are portions of, Evolutions of this love, Present love, where thou appearest To combine them all and prove. THE CASTLE OF LOVE _He speaks_ I Now listen! ’tis time that you knew it.-- Like the prince in the Asian tale, I wandered on deserts that panted With noon to a castle enchanted, That Afrits had built in a vale; A vale where the sunlight lay pale As moonlight. And round it and through it I searched and I searched. Like the tale, II No eunuch, black-browed as a Marid, Prevented me. Shadows it seemed Were the slaves there, with kohl and with henné In eyes and on fingers; and many The phantoms of beauty, that dreamed Where censers of ambergris steamed. And I came on a colonnade, quarried From silvery marble it seemed. III And here, in a court, wide, estraded, Rich tulips, like carbuncles, bloomed, And jonquils and roses:--and lories, And cockatoos, brilliant in glories Of plumes, like great blossoms illumed, Winged, splashed in a fountain perfumed: Kept captive by network of braided, Spun gold where stone galleries gloomed. IV From nipples of back-bending Peris Of gold, glowing auburn, in rays The odorous fountain sprang calling: I heard through the white water’s falling,-- As soft as the zephyr that plays With moonlight on bloom-haunted ways,-- A music; a sound, as if fairies Touched wind-harps whose chords were of rays. V I followed: through corridors paneled With sandal; through doorways deep-draped With stuffs of Chosroës, rich-garded With Indian gold; up the corded Stone stairway, bronze-dragoned, wing-shaped: Through moon-spangled hangings escaped-- ’Twixt pillars of juniper channeled-- To a room constellated and draped. VI As in legends of witchcraft: a vassal Of visions beholds naught yet hears Sweet voices that call and he follows,-- So me, like the fragrance of aloes, That chamber with song, it appears, Surrounded; the song of the spheres ... My soul found your soul such a castle-- Your love is the music it hears. CONSECRATION _She speaks._ Last night you told me, where we, parting, waited, Of love somehow I’d known before you told.-- Long, long ago, perhaps, this love was fated, For why was it made suddenly so old? Is it because the love we have and cherish Born with us seems, and as ourselves shall last? Part of our lives, we can not let it perish Out of our present’s future or its past? Yet, all was changed; and, still, I did not wonder That, robed in vaster splendor, broke the dawn: Nor marvel that, beside my feet and under, Each flower seemed fairer than the flower gone. The wild bird’s silvery warble seemed completer; A whiter magic filled the morn and noon, And night--each night!--seemed holier grown and sweeter With Babylonian witchcraft of the moon.-- Is love an emanation? whose ideal Communicates its beauty?--Is it moved Through some strange means to consecrate the real? Making the world the worthier to be loved? ROMANTIC LOVE I Is it not sweet to know?-- The moon hath told me so-- That in some lost romance, love, Long lost to us below, A knight with casque and lance, love, A thousand years ago, I kissed you from a trance, love?-- The moon hath told me so. II Or were it strange to wis?-- The stars have told me this-- That once a nightingale, love, Sang on an Isle of Greece; From whose melodious wail, love, Its song’s wild harmonies, Was born a spirit-woman-- Yourself! whom I, a human, Made mine!... So goes the tale, love!-- The stars have told me this. III Is it not quaint to tell?-- The flowers remember well-- How once a wild-rose blew, love, Dim in a haunted dell; To which a bee was true, love. The bee, so it befell, Was _I_: the rose was _you_, love!... The flowers remember well. IV To moon and flower and star We are not what we are.-- Sometimes, from o’er that sea, love, Whose golden sands are far,-- From shores of Destiny, love,-- The dreams that know no bar, Will waft a truth that glistens To Memory who listens, Reminding you and me, love, We are not what we are. PASTORAL LOVE The pied pinks tilt in the wind that worries-- Sing, Oh, the wind and the red o’ her cheek!-- And the slow sun creeps on the rye nor hurries-- And what shall a lover speak? The toad-flax brightens the flaxen hollows-- Sing, Ay, the bloom and her yellow hair!-- And the greenwood brook a wood-way follows-- And what shall a lover dare? The deep woods gleam that the sunlight sprinkles-- Sing, Hey, the day and her laughing eye!-- And a brown bird pipes and a wild fall tinkles-- And what may a maid reply? Hey, the hills when the evening settles! Oh, the heavens within her eyes! What will he ask ’mid the dropping petals? And what will she say with sighs?-- “Look, where the west is a blur of roses!”-- “There’s naught like the rose o’ the cheeks I see!”-- “Look, where the first star’s eye uncloses!”-- “But what of _your_ eyes, my destiny?” ANDALIA AND THE SPRINGTIME I Blow, winds, and waken her! You, who have taken her, Never forsaken her, Filled her with spring! My mad and merriest Part of the veriest Season and cheeriest: Blow, winds! and sing, Birds of the spring! that taught her Airs of the woods; this daughter Wild of the winds, that waft her Into my heart with laughter, Wild as a wildwood thing. II She, who is fraught with it, Thrilled with it, brought with it, Spring!--like a thought, with it Beautiful too! Now like a dream of it; Filled with the gleam of it; Now a bright beam of it, Piercing me through, Sweet, with her eyes that are often Laughter and languor; that soften Dreamily, drowsily, slowly, Then, on a sudden, are wholly Dancing as dew. III Face,--like the sweetest of Perfumes,--completest of Flowers God’s fleetest of Months ever bear!-- Listen, O lisper wind,-- Lighter and crisper wind,-- Have you a whisper, wind, Soft as her hair? Night and the stars did spin it; Darkness and brightness are in it: Let but a ray of it bind me, Wrap it around me and wind me, Blind as the blind are and blinder, Yet through my heart would I find her, Lost though I were. OLIVIA IN THE AUTUMN Not redder than her lips This weather! Not rosier two rose-hips Together! As she comes carolling Down wildwood ways, where sing The birds, and flowers swing In many a feather. Of her belovéd cheeks October Makes flame-flushed leaves, and speaks,-- Now sober, Now wild,--its happiness In gold, and on her dress Lays many a bright caress As if to robe her. The wild-birds praise her eyes Each hour; Above her bend the skies And shower Around her, there and here, Strays of the passing year, Azure and gold and sere Of weed and flower. The wood-winds kiss her hair And wonder What flower blossoms there: And, under Its deeps of acorn-brown, Her glory and her crown, The sunbeams lay them down, And dream and ponder. And I--I take her hands, Her lover; And kiss her where she stands; And over Our heads the soft winds call, And heav’n smiles down; and all The golden dreams of Fall Around us hover. SYLVIA OF THE WOODLAND I O you, who know our Mays that blow The bluets by the ways; The Indian-pink,--whose bloom you ’d think Was blood for some wild bee to drink,-- How--can you say--in their wise way Is it you ’re like our Mays?-- In gleam and gloom and wild perfume Of moods that run from shade to sun:-- While in you seems the light that dreams In thoughts of other days. II Meseems some song, for which I long, From you to me takes wing Each time you speak; a bird, whose beak Is in my heart; whose wildwood art Makes every beat say “Sweet, sweet, sweet,” And all its pulses sing. And when I gaze upon your face, I seem to look into a brook, That laughs through buds and leafing woods, Reflecting all the spring. III You spoke but now--and, lo! I vow, From haunts of hart and hind I seemed to hear Romance draw near, White hand in hand with Song, and stand, In some green aisle of wood, and smile, Beguiling soul and mind: You laugh--and, lo! I seem to go In Mirth’s young train; and bird-songs rain Around, above; and Joy and Love Come dancing down the wind. WITNESSES I You say I do not love you!--Tell me why, When I have gazed a little on your face, And then gone forth into the world of men, A beauty, neither of the earth nor sky, A glamour, that transforms each common place, Attends my spirit then? II You say I do not love you!--Yet, I know, When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon Your words a while, my heart has gone away Filled with strange music, very soft and low, A dim companion, touching with sweet tone The discords of the day. III You say I do not love you!--Yet, it seems, When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, A fragrance, wilder than the wood’s wild bloom, Companions dim my soul and fills, with dreams, The sad and sordid streets where people dwell, Dreams of spring’s wild perfume. A PUPIL OF PAN My love’s adorable and wise As heaven and the winds of spring: Go thou and gaze into her eyes-- Such scholars of the starry skies! --Canst marvel at the thing? My love is like a bud that blows With fragrant honey in its heart: Go, watch her smile--Wouldst not suppose She from some warm, white, serious rose Had learned the happy art? The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrung That strew her fancy’s golden floor: Go listen--For, the woods among, She met with Pan, when very young, Who taught her all his lore. LORA OF THE VALES Lora is her name that slips Soft as love between the lips: You must know she is so wise All she does is lift her eyes,-- Larkspur-blue as April skies,-- At her name--and that replies-- She ’s so wise, is Lora. Lora is her name whose sound Hedges all my heart around With the gold of happiness: When she speaks, you will confess, Music’s self her words express, Every vowel a caress-- She ’s so kind, is Lora. Lora is her name that brings Thoughts to me of morning things: Songs of birds; of bees that creep In the rumpled bluebells deep; Butterflies, that, half asleep, On some rose their vigil keep-- She ’s so young, is Lora. Lora, lean to mine your face; So; and round you let me lace One firm arm, and gently woo Your small mouth, as fresh as dew, Till it says your heart is true, True to me as mine to you, Sunny-hearted Lora! PLEDGES I What the May-apple or Woodland anemone-- Star-perfect as a star-- Says to the honey-bee: Or to the winds that woo, Filling their hearts with dew: What says the bluet’s blue To the sun’s ray--do you Know or do I?-- II Listen, and you may hear What the oxalis says Into the downy ear Of the pale moth that sways There on its heart and drinks: Or what the forest-pinks Say to the dew that winks, Butterfly-wing that blinks-- Glimmering by. III They say: “When April trod By in a blowing blush,-- Wise as a word of God Holding all Heaven a-hush,-- Singing a song of love, We, as she passed above, Sprang from the notes thereof, Filling with joy each grove, Beauty and mystery.” ORIENTAL ROMANCE I Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea, Last scion of that dynasty, Queen of a race forgotten long,-- With eyes of light and lips of song, From seaward groves of blowing lemon, She called me in her native tongue, Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen. II I was a king. Three moons we drove Across green gulfs, the crimson clove And cassia spiced, to claim her love. Packed was my barque with gums and gold; Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,-- Than her white breasts less white and cold;-- And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman. III From Bassora I came. We saw Her condor castle on a claw Of soaring precipice, o’erawe The surge and thunder of the spray: Like some great opal, far away It shone, with battlement and spire, Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire. IV Lamenting caverns, dark and deep, That catacombed the haunted steep, Led upward to her castle-keep ... Fair as the moon, whose light is shed In Ramadan, was she, who led My love unto her island bowers, To find her ... lying young and dead Among her maidens and her flowers. THE TOLLMAN’S DAUGHTER She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above, in twisted lengths, were rolled The sunset’s tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west’s cloud-pillared fires. And in the hush, no sound did mar, You almost heard, o’er hill and dell, Deep, bubbling over, star on star, The night’s blue cisterns slowly well. A crane, a shadowy crescent, crossed The sunset, winging ’thwart the west; While up the east her silver breast Of light the moon brought, white as frost. So have I painted her, you see, The tollman’s daughter.--What an arm And throat were hers! and what a form! --Art dreams of such divinity. What braids of night to smooth and kiss!-- There is no pigment anywhere A man might use to picture this-- The splendor of her raven hair. A face as beautiful and bright, As rosy fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes And eyebrowed black with penciled night. For her, I know, where’er she trod Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass, To catch her image, from the grass; That wildflowers bloomed along the sod, And whispered perfume when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hear her song, Or, heart-enamoured, tame though wild, Before her feet flew fluttering long: The brook went mad with melody, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst-- And I--she was my world, ah me! CREOLE SERENADE Under moss-draped oak and pine, Murmuring, falls the fountained stream; In its pool the lilies shine, Silvery, each a glimmering gleam. Roses bloom and roses die In the warm rose-scented dark, Where the firefly, like an eye, Winks and glows, a golden spark. Amber-belted through the night Drifts the alabaster moon, Like a big magnolia white On the fragrant heart of June. With a broken syrinx there, With bignonia overgrown, Is it Pan in hoof and hair?-- Or his image carved from stone? See! her casement’s jessamines part;-- Through their stars and swooning scent Like the moon she leans. O heart, ’T is another firmament! _Sings_: The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon odors; everywhere Wan heliotropes breathe drowsy musk Into the jasmine-heavy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk And spills its attar there. The orange at thy casement flings Star-censers oozing rich perfumes; The clematis, long-petaled, swings Deep clusters of dark purple blooms; With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings, Magnolias light the glooms. Awake, awake from sleep! Thy balmy hair, Unbounden, deep on deep, Like blossoms there,-- That dew and fragrance weep,-- Will fill the night with prayer. Awake, awake from sleep! And dreaming here it seems to me A dryad’s bosom grows confessed, Nude in the dark magnolia tree, That rustles with the murmurous West-- Or is it but some bloom I see, White as thy virgin breast? Through Southern heavens above are rolled A million feverish stars, that burst, Like gems, from out the caskets old Of night, with fires that throb and thirst: An oleander, showering gold, The heav’n seems, star-immersed. Unseal, unseal thine eyes!-- Too long her rod Queen Mab sways o’er their skies In realms of Nod!-- Their starry majesties Will fill the night with God. Unseal, unseal thine eyes! IDEAL DIVINATION How I have thought of her, Her I have never seen!-- Now from a raying air She, like the Magdalene, Flowers--a face serene, Radiant with raven hair. Now in a balsam scent Laughs from the stars that gleam; Naked and redolent, Bends to me breasts of beam, Eyes that were made to dream, Throat that the dimples dent. Would she were real, ah me! Would she were real and here! And no “impossible she”! But one to draw me near, Hold me and name me dear!-- But, that can never be! “Living, each learns to know Life is not worth its pain; Loving, each finds a woe Or, at the end, a chain: Fardled of hope we strain Whither no hope may know. “Life is too credulous Of time that beckons on. Memory still serves us thus-- Gauging each coming dawn By a day dead and gone, Day that ’s a part of us.” So says my soul, that ’s mocked Here of the flesh and held; Ever rebellion rocked, Fighting, forever quelled; Titan-like, fate-compelled, Yearning to rise, but locked Supine where torrents pour Hellward; on crags that, high, Scarred of the thunder, gore Heaven.... The vulture’s eye Swims, and the harpies’ cry Clangs through the ocean’s roar.... Then, like æolian light, Calling, it hears her lips: Scorched by her burning white Splendor of arms and hips, Slimy each horror slips Back to its native night.... Rul’st thou some brighter star? Inviolable queen Of what the destinies are? Thou, with thy light unseen Filling my life with sheen, Leading my soul afar! Thou, who oft leav’st thy skies, Comest in dreams to me, With amaranthine eyes, Asphodel shadowy Hair, and mysteriously Say’st to my heart, “Arise! “Be not afraid to dare All of life’s tyranny! I will reward thee there! There, where my love shall be Thine to eternity!-- Only be brave and bear!” APOCALYPSE Before I found her I had found Within my heart, as in a brook, Reflections of her: now a sound Of imaged beauty, now a look. So when I found her, gazing in Those Bibles of her eyes, above All earth, I saw no word of sin; Their holy chapters all were love. I read them through. I read and saw The soul impatient of the sod-- Her soul, that through her eyes did draw Mine--to the higher love of God. CAN I FORGET? Can I forget how Love once led the ways Of our two lives together, joining them; How every hour was his anadem, And every day a tablet in his praise! Can I forget how, in his garden’s place, Among the purple roses, stem to stem, We heard the rumor of his robe’s bright hem, And saw the aureate radiance of his face!-- Though I beheld my soul’s high dreams down-hurled, And Falsehood sit where Truth once towered white, And in Love’s place usurping Lust and Shame, Though flowers be dead within the winter world, Are flowers not there? and starless though the night, Are stars not there, eternal and the same? MY ROSE There was a rose in Eden once: it grows On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows More loveliness than old seraglios Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: More purity than ever yet had room In soul of nun or saint.--O human rose!-- Who art initial and sweet period of My heart’s divinest sentence; where I read Love, first and last, and in the pauses, love; Who art the dear ideal of each deed Through which my life is strong to attain its goal,-- Set in the mystic garden of my soul! RESTRAINT Dear heart and love! what happiness is it To watch the firelight’s varying shade and shine On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine-- As through clear windows--to behold them flit, In sumptuous chambers of thy mind’s chaste wit, Thy soul’s fair fancies! then to take in mine Thy hand, whose pressure brims my heart’s divine Hushed rapture as with music exquisite! When I remember how thy look and touch Sway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy, I dare not think to what fierce heaven might lead Thy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how much Sweet hell,--beyond all help of me,--might be, Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed! IN JUNE I Hotly burns the amaryllis, Starred with ruby red: Coolly stand the snowy lilies In the lily-bed: Emerald gleams the wild May-apple, ’Neath its parasol, And where gold the sunbeams dapple Woods, and thrushes call, Marion strolls with Moll, Singing, “Fol-de-rol; Fol-de, fol-de-rol. II “March was but a blustering liar; April, sad as night: May, a milkmaid from the byre, Full of love but light. June, sweet June!--ah! she’s My Lady, Fair and fine and tall, Strolling down the woodways shady-- June is best of all! She is like my Moll! Fol-de-rol-de-rol! She is like sweet Moll!” WILL O’ THE WISPS Beyond the barley meads and hay, What was the light that beckoned there? That made her young lips smile and say: “Oh, busk me in a gown of May, And knot red poppies in my hair.” Over the meadow and the wood What was the voice that filled her ears? That sent into pale cheeks the blood, Until each seemed a wild-brier bud Mowed down by mowing harvesters?... Beyond the orchard, down the hill, The water flows, the water swirls; And there they found her past all ill, Her pale dead face, sweet, smiling still, The cresses caught among her curls. At twilight in the willow glen What sound is that the silence hears, When deep the dusk is hushed again, And homeward from the fields strong men And women go, the harvesters? One seeks the place where she is laid, Where violets bloom from year to year-- “O sunny head! O bird-like maid! The orchard blossoms fall and fade And I am lonely, lonely here.” Two stars look down upon the vale; They seem to him the eyes of Ruth: The low moon rises very pale As if she, too, had heard the tale, All heartbreak, of a maid and youth. IN A GARDEN The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white, Drops down the summer night. No rose there is As sweet as this-- Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss. The lattice of thy casement twines With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie About the glimmering sky. No jasmine tress Can so caress Like thy white arms’ soft loveliness. About thy door magnolia blooms Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; A moon-magnolia is the dusk Closed in a dewy husk. However much, No bloom gives such Soft fragrance as thy bosom’s touch. The flowers blooming now will pass, And strew the grass, and strew the grass; The night, like some frail flower, dawn Will soon make gray and wan. Still, still above, The flower of True love shall live forever, Love. “IF I WERE HER LOVER” I If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The gate that leads to her door; Over the meadows, To wait, ’mid the shadows, The shadows that circle her door, For the heart of my heart and more. And there in the clover Close by her, Over and over I’d sigh her: “Your eyes are as brown As the Night’s, looking down On waters that sleep With the moon in their deep” ... If I were her lover to sigh her. II If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The lane that leads to her door; I’d wait, ’mid the thickets, Or there by the pickets, White pickets that fence in her door, For the life of my life and more. I’d lean in the clover-- The crisper For the dews that are over-- And whisper: “Your lips are as rare As the dewberries there, As ripe and as red, On the honey-dew fed” ... If I were her lover to whisper. III If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The pathway that leads to her door; And watch, in the twinkle Of stars that sprinkle The paradise over her door, For the soul of my soul and more. And there in the clover I’d reach her; And over and over I’d teach her-- A love without sighs, Of laughterful eyes, That reckoned each second The pause of a kiss, A kiss and ... that is If I were her lover to teach her. NOËRA Noëra, when sad fall Has grayed the fallow, Leaf-cramped the wood-brook’s brawl In pool and shallow; When, by the wood-side, tall Stands sere the mallow: Noëra, when gray gold And golden gray The crackling hollows fold By every way, Shall I thy face behold, Dear bit of May? When webs are cribs for dew, And gossamers Streak past you, silver-blue; When silence stirs One leaf, of rusty hue, Among the burrs: Noëra, thro’ the wood, Or thro’ the grain, Come, with the hoiden mood Of wind and rain Fresh in thy sunny blood, Sweetheart, again! Noëra, when the corn, Heaped on the fields, The asters’ stars adorn-- And purple shields Of ironweeds lie torn Among the wealds: Noëra, haply then, Thou being with me, Each ruined greenwood glen Will bud and be Spring’s with the spring again, The spring in thee. Thou of the breezy tread, Feet of the breeze: Thou of the sunbeam head, Heart like a bee’s: Face like a woodland-bred Anemone’s. Thou to October bring An April part! Come, make the wild-birds sing, The blossoms start! Noëra, with the spring Wild in thy heart! Come with our golden year; Come as its gold: With the same laughing, clear, Loved voice of old: In thy cool hair one dear Wild marigold. AMONG THE ACRES OF THE WOOD I “I know, I know; The way doth go Athwart a greenwood glade, oh! White bloom the wild-plums in that glade, White as the bosom of the maid Who, stooping, sits, and milks and sings Among the dew-dashed clover rings, When fades the flush, the henna blush, The orange-glow of sunset low, And all the winds are laid, oh!” II “I wot, I wot.-- And is it not Right o’er the viney hill?--” “Yea: where the wild-grapes mat and make Penthouses of each bramble-brake, And dangle plumes of fragrant blooms: Where threads of sunbeams string the glooms With beaded gold; and flowers unfold Their eyes of blue;--and all night through Sings, wildly shrill, one whippoorwill.” III “I ween, I ween, The path is green ’Neath beechen boughs that let Soft glimpses of the sapphire sky Gleam downward like a wood-nymph’s eye: At night one far and lambent star Shines o’er it, like a watching Lar, ’Mid branching buds a tangled bud Among the acres of the wood, Where blooms the wet wild violet And only we have, trysting, met.” WORDS I can not tell what I would tell thee, What I would say, what thou shouldst hear; Words of the soul that should compel thee, Words of the heart to draw thee near. For when thou smilest, thou, who fillest My life with joy, and I would speak, ’Tis then my lips and tongue are stillest, Knowing all language is too weak. Look in my eyes: read there confession: The truest love hath least of art: Nor needs it words for its expression When soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart. THE SIRENS Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold, And beckon naked beauty; luring me With arms and breasts and hips of godly mold, Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea! Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears! Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam, That, in my heart, like some strong hand appears To gently, firmly draw my vessel home. WHY? Why are the bright stars brighter after rain? Why is strong love the stronger after pain? Reply, reply! Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies? Why is fair love the fairest when it flies? Oh why! Oh why! Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead? Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd? Reply, reply! NOCTURNE A disc of violet blue, Rimmed with a thorn of fire, The new moon hangs in a sky of dew; And under the vines, where the sunset’s hue Is blent with blooms, first one, then two, Begins the crickets’ choir. Bright blurs of golden white, With points of pearly glimmer, The first stars wink in the web of night; And through the flowers the moths take flight, In the honeysuckle-colored light, Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer. Soft through the dim and dying eve, Sweet through the dusk and dew, Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave, Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave, Here in the pale and perfumed eve, Here where I wait for you. A great, dark, radiant rose, Dripping with starry glower, Is the night, whose bosom overflows With the balsam musk of the breeze that blows Into the heart, as each one knows, Of every nodding flower. A voice that sighs and sighs, Then whispers like a spirit, Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyes Of the primrose open, and, rocking, lies In the lily’s cradle, and soft unties The rose-bud’s crimson near it. Sweet through the deep and dreaming night, Soft through the dark and dew, Come, where the moments their magic write, Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight, Here in the hushed and haunted night, Here where I wait for you. METAMORPHOSIS Before Love’s lofty goddess--Life hath toiled To mold from burning dew and dewy fire-- Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled, Within the secret Temple of Desire; Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,-- They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!-- Their Deity is changed from fire to clay-- Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love. AT TWENTY-ONE The rosy hills of her high breasts, Whereon, like misty morning, rests The breathing lace; her auburn hair, Wherein, a star-point sparkling there, One jewel burns: her eyes, that keep Recorded dreams of love and sleep: Her mouth, with whose comparison The richest rose were poor and wan: Her throat, her form--what masterpiece Of man can picture half of these!-- She comes! a classic from the hand Of God! wherethrough I understand What Nature means and Art and Love, And all the immortal myths thereof. KINSHIP There is no flower of wood or lea, No April flower, as fair as she: O white anemone, who hast The wind’s wild grace, Know her a cousin of thy race, Into whose face A presence like the wind’s hath passed. There is no flower of wood or lea, No May-day flower, as fair as she: O bluebell, tender with the blue Of sapphire skies, Thy lineage hath kindred ties In her, whose eyes The heaven’s own qualities imbue. There is no flower of wood or lea, No June-time flower, as fair as she: Rose,--odorous with beauty of Her lips that pressed,-- Behold thy sister here confessed! Whose maiden breast Is fragrant with the dreams of love. “SHE IS SO MUCH” She is so much to me, to me, And, oh, I love her so, I look into my soul and see How comfort keeps me company In hopes she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know. So dear she is to me, so dear, And, oh, I love her so, I listen in my heart and hear The voice of gladness singing near In thoughts she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know. So much she is to me, so much, And, oh, I love her so, In heart and soul I feel the touch Of angel callers, that are such Dreams as she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know. HER EYES In her dark eyes dreams poetize; The soul sits lost in love: There is no thing in all the skies, To gladden all the world I prize, Like the deep love in her dark eyes, Or one sweet dream thereof. In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise, Her soul’s soft moods I see: Of hope and faith, that make life wise; And charity, whose food is sighs-- Not truer than her own true eyes Is truth’s divinity. In her dark eyes the knowledge lies Of an immortal sod, Her soul once trod in angel guise, Nor can forget its heavenly ties, Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyes Once gazed the eyes of God. MESSENGERS The wind, that gives the rose a kiss, With murmured music of the south, Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;-- The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,-- Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth. The brook, that mirrors skies and trees, And echoes in a grottoed place, Hath held a fairer thing than these;-- The brook, that mirrors skies and trees, Hath held the image of her face. O happy wind! O happy brook! What message from her do you bear?-- “We bear from her her kiss and look--” O happy wind! O happy brook!-- “That blessed us unaware.” APART I While sunset burns and stars are few, And roses scent the fading light; And, like a slim urn, dripping dew, A spirit carries through the night, The pearl-pale moon hangs new,-- I think of you, of you. II While waters flow, and soft winds woo The golden-hearted bud with sighs; And, like a flower an angel threw, Out of the momentary skies A star falls, burning blue,-- I dream of you, of you. III While love believes and hearts are true, So let me think, so let me dream; The thought and dream so wedded to Your face, that, far apart, I seem To see each thing you do, And be with you, with you. THE BLIND GOD I know not if she be unkind; If she have faults, I do not care. Search through the world--where will you find A face like hers, a form, a mind?-- I love her to despair! If she be cruel, cruelty Is a great virtue, I will swear: If she be proud, then pride must be Better than all humility.-- I love her to despair! Why speak to me of that or this? All you may say weighs not a hair! To me, naught but perfection is In her, whose lips I may not kiss!-- I love her to despair! CARA MIA I Sweet lips, where kisses sleep, Soft eyes, so filled with dreams, Waken, oh waken! Open your blossoms deep, Sweet lips, where kisses sleep: Unfold your brightest beams, Soft eyes, so filled with dreams: Waken, oh, waken! II Sweet lips, that give perfume, Soft eyes, that kindle light, Come, let me kiss you!-- To every flower in bloom, Sweet lips, you lend perfume! In every star at night, Soft eyes, you kindle light!-- Come, let me kiss you! III Who would not love to rest? Who would not love to lie? Who would not love them? Of such sweet flowers caressed, Who would not love to rest? With such stars in their sky, Who would not love to lie? Who would not love them? MARGERY I When spring is here and Margery Goes walking in the woods with me, She is so white, she is so shy, The little leaves clap hands and cry-- “Perdie; So white is she, so shy is she, Ah me! The maiden May hath just passed by!” II When summer ’s here and Margery Goes walking in the fields with me, She is so pure, she is so fair, The wildflowers eye her and declare-- “Perdie! So pure is she, so fair is she, Just see, Where our sweet cousin takes the air!” III Why is it that my Margery Hears nothing that these say to me? She is so good, she is so true, My heart it maketh such ado, Perdie! So good is she, so true is she, You see, She can not hear the other two. CONSTANCE Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again-- O bird, whose song says, “Have no care,” Should I not care when Constance there,-- My Constance with the bashful gaze, Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,-- If I declare my love, just says Some careless thing as if in mock? Like--“Past the orchard, in the lane, Hark! how the red-bird sings again!” There, while the red-bird sings his best, His listening mate sits on the nest-- O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,” How can it be with me, come, tell? When Constance, with averted eyes,-- Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,-- If I talk marriage, just replies With some such quaint irrelevancy, As, “While the red-bird sings his best, His loving mate sits on the nest.” What shall I say? what can I do? Would such replies mean aught to you, O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”? Have I not reason to be sad When Constance, with demurest glance, Her face all poppied with distress, If I reproach her, pouts, perchance, And answers thus in waywardness?-- “What shall I say? what can I do? My meaning should be plain to you!” LYDIA When Autumn’s here and days are short, Let Lydia laugh and, hey! Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart, And blossoms strew the way. When Summer ’s here and days are long, Let Lydia sigh and, ho! December’s fields I walk among, And shiver in the snow. No matter what the seasons are, My Lydia is so dear, My heart admits no calendar Of Earth when she is near. HELEN Heaped in raven loops and masses Over temples smooth and fair, Have you marked it, as she passes, Night and starlight mingled there,-- Braided strands of midnight air,-- Helen’s hair? Deep with dreams and moony mazes Of the thought that in them lies, Have you seen them, as she raises Them in question or surprise,-- Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,-- Helen’s eyes? Fresh as dew and honied wafters Of a music sweet that slips, Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’s Song and sunshine to their tips,-- Blossoms whence the perfume drips,-- Helen’s lips? He who sees her needs must love her: But, beware, whoe’er thou art! Lest like me thou shouldst discover Nature overlooked one part, In this masterpiece of art-- Helen’s heart. MIGNON Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose, A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, shows Within its rosy curve white pearls, White rows of pearls, Is Mignon’s mouth that smiles at me. Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems, Two azure gems that gleam and glow, Soft sapphires set in ivory: Or like twin violets, whose stems Bloom blue beneath the covering snow, The lidded snow, Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me. O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes! O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!-- Within which lies all ecstasy Of tears and kisses and of sighs:-- O mouth, O eyes, and O desire, O love’s desire, Have mercy on the soul of me! TRANSUBSTANTIATION I A sunbeam and a drop of dew Lay on a red rose in the South: God took the three and made her mouth, Her sweet, small mouth, So red of hue,-- The burning baptism of His kiss Still fills my heart with heavenly bliss. II A dream of truth and love come true Slept on a star in daybreak skies: God mingled these and made her eyes, Her dear, clear eyes, So gray of hue,-- The high communion of His gaze Still fills my soul with deep amaze. LOVE AND A DAY I In girandoles of gladioles The day had kindled flame; And Heaven a door of gold and pearl Unclosed, whence Morning,--like a girl, A red rose twisted in a curl,-- Down sapphire stairways came. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All on a summer’s morning?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo. If she be milking, follow, O! And in the clover hollow, O! While through the dew the bells clang clear, Just whisper it into her ear, All on a summer’s morning.” II Of honey and heat and weed and wheat The day had made perfume; And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed-- A sunflower withering at her waist-- Within a crystal room. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All in the summer nooning?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo. If she be ’mid the rakers, O! Among the harvest acres, O! While every breeze brings scents of hay, Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’ All in the summer nooning.” III With song and sigh and cricket cry The day had mingled rest; And Heaven a casement opened wide Of opal, whence, like some young bride, The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed, A moonflower on her breast. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All in the summer gloaming?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo, Go meet her at the trysting, O! And ’spite of her resisting, O! Beneath the stars and afterglow, Just clasp her close and kiss her--so, All in the summer gloaming.” LOVE IN A GARDEN I Between the rose’s and the canna’s crimson, Beneath thy window in the night I stand; The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on The white moonflowers; each a spirit hand That points the path to mystic Shadowland. Awaken, sweet and fair! And add to night thy grace! Suffer its loveliness to share The white moon of thy face, The dark cloud of thy hair. Awaken, sweet and fair! II A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,-- Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;-- And in the August-lily’s cone of crystal A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome, Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam. Approach! the moment flies! O sweetheart of the South! Come! mingle with night’s mysteries The red rose of thy mouth, The dark stars of thine eyes.-- Approach! the moment flies! III Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence, The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird; And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence, The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard-- As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word. How long, my love, my bliss! How long must I await With night--that all impatience is-- Thy greeting at the gate, And at the gate thy kiss? How long, my love, my bliss! FLORIDIAN I The cactus and the aloe bloom Beneath the window of your room; That window where, at evenfall, Beneath the twilight’s first pale star, You linger, tall and spiritual, And hearken my guitar. It is the hour When every flower Is wooed of moth or bee-- Would, would you were the flower, dear, And I the moth to draw you near, To draw you near to me, My dear, To draw you near to me! II The jasmine and bignonia spill Their balm about your windowsill; That sill where, when magnolia-white, In foliage mists, the moon hangs far, You lean with bright deep eyes of night, And hearken my guitar. It is the hour When from each flower The wind woos essences-- Would, would you were the flower, love, And I the wind to breathe above, To breathe above and kiss, My love, To breathe above and kiss! WHEN SHIPS PUT OUT TO SEA I It’s “Sweet, good-by,” when pennants fly And ships put out to sea; It ’s a loving kiss, and a tear or two In an eye of brown or an eye of blue:-- And you’ll remember me, Sweetheart, And you’ll remember me. II It’s “Friend or foe?” when signals blow And ships sight ships at sea; It’s “Clear for action! and man the guns!” As the battle nears and the battle runs;-- And you’ll remember me, Sweetheart, And you’ll remember me. III It’s deck to deck, and wrath and wreck, When ships meet ships at sea; It’s scream of shot and shriek of shell, And hull and turret a roaring hell;-- And you’ll remember me, Sweetheart, And you’ll remember me. IV It’s doom and death, and pause a breath, When ships go down at sea; It’s hate is over and love begins, And war is cruel whoever wins;-- And you’ll remember me, Sweetheart, And you’ll remember me. A CHRISTMAS CATCH When roads are mired with ice and snow, And the air of morn is crisp with rime; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And bells ring in the Christmas-time:-- It’s--Saddle, my Heart! and ride away To the sweet-faced girl with eyes of gray! Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring-- A man’s strong love and a wedding-ring-- It’s--Saddle, my Heart, and ride! When vanes veer north and storm-winds blow, And the sun at noon is a blur o’erhead; When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And the Christmas service is sung and said:-- It’s--Come, O my Heart, and wait a while, Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle, For the gifts that the church now gives to you-- A woman’s hand and a heart that’s true. It’s--Come, O my Heart, and wait! When rooms gleam warm with the fire’s glow, And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane: When the holly hangs by the mistletoe, And Christmas revels begin again:-- It’s--Home, O my Heart, and love, at last! And her happy breast to your own held fast: A song to sing and a tale to tell, A good-night kiss and all is well. It’s--Home, O my Heart, and love! A SONG FOR YULE I Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way, And bells peal out, _’Tis Christmas Day_! The world is better then by half, For joy, for joy: In a little while you will see it laugh-- For a song’s to sing and a glass to quaff, My boy; my boy. So here ’s to the man who never says nay!-- Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas Day! II Sing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow, And homes are hung with mistletoe: Old Earth is not half bad, I wis-- What cheer! what cheer! How it ever seemed sad the wonder is-- With a gift to give and a girl to kiss, My dear; my dear. So here ’s to the girl who never says no! Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe! III No thing in the world to the heart seems wrong When the soul of a man walks out with song; Wherever they go, glad hand in hand, And glove in glove, The round of the land is rainbow-spanned, And the meaning of life they understand Is love; is love. Let the heart be open, the soul be strong, And life will be glad as a Christmas song. CHORDS I When love delays, when love delays and joy Steals like a shadow o’er the happy hills; When hope is gone; and no to-morrow fills The promise of to-day; still I employ My soul with thoughts of thee, Who ’rt not for me, for me! When love delays, when love delays and song Aches at wild lips, unutterable, as the sound Of ocean strives, within the shell’s mouth bound; And hope is gone for ever, slain of wrong; Still in my heart one word Keeps calling like a bird. When love delays, when love delays and sleep Seals tired eyelids,--like the sound of foam, Heard ’mid familiar flowers far from home,-- When hope lies dead; in dreams, in dreams I keep Feeling thy lips’ sweet touch,-- And, oh! it is too much! When love delays, when love delays and sorrow Drinks her own tears that add but to her thirst; When song and sleep and love itself seem curst, And hope lies dead; still, still I dream to-morrow Will bring some word of cheer From thee who art not here. Will love delay, will love delay till death Hath sealed these lips and locked these eyes in night? Till unto love and hate indifferent quite This form shall lie? Then wilt thou, wild of breath, Bend down and kiss me there When I no more shall care? II If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes And beckons through the World, far must thou seek!... She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths; No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weak With melancholy vigils; and no shade Of tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid: No tearful anger torn of truthless love, Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hilt For vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid, In owlet towers!--Nay! she sings above On morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt. If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware! Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she; And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair, And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly, For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that brings Dew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springs Of light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow, O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies: The melody which is her heart, that sings The poetry of love, to which all bow, Both gods and men, the love that never dies. Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone star Set in the splendor of the sunset’s wave; Lost in thy loneliness of searching far, Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave: Lost--gladly lost! a devotee to her Who, in the end, perhaps may let thee share A portion of her bliss, her heritage Of happiness in the same way and wise As woods and waters share it.--Then prepare Thy soul,--made perfect,--for its final wage, Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize. III Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere, And drip with rain instead of dew, No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here, And dead your long white lilies too,-- And dead the heart that broke for you: How comes the dim touch of your arm? Your faint lips on my feverish cheek? Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm, And gray, so gray! till I am weak, Weak with wild tears and can not speak. I am as one who walks in dreams; Sees, as in youth, his father’s home; Hears from his native mountain streams Far music of continual foam, And one sweet voice that bids him come. AT HER GRAVE I With your eyes of April blue, And your mouth Like a May-rose, fresh with dew, Of the South, With your hair as golden sweet As the ripples of ripe wheat, How you make my old heart beat!-- Who are you? II There is something that I knew, Long ago, In your voice that thrills me through With the glow Of remembered happiness; And your look--I can not guess What it is there, nor express.-- Who are you? III You are like her! even the hue Of her eyes!-- It is strange you stop here, too, Where she lies!-- Where she lies who was, you see, All to me a girl could be-- But no wife.--You stare at me.-- Who are you? IV Well, I left her. That ’s not new-- God above! Men, who live so, often do. ’T is n’t love. So I broke her heart, they say,-- And been wretched since that day: And our child--don’t turn away!-- Who are you? A CONFESSION These are the facts:--I was to blame. I brought her here and wrought her shame. She came with me all trustingly. Lovely and innocent her face: And in her perfect form, the grace Of purity and modesty. I think I loved her then: would dote On her ambrosial breast and throat, Young as a wildflower’s tenderness: Her eyes, that were both glad and sad: Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had: Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss. Three months passed by; three moons of fire; When in me sickened all desire: And in its place a devil,--who Filled all my soul with deep disgust, And on the victim of my lust Turned eyes of loathing,--swiftly grew. One night, when by my side she slept, I rose: and leaning, while I kept The dagger hid, I kissed her hair And mouth: and, when she smiled asleep, Into her heart I drove it deep-- And left her dead, still smiling there. LAST DAYS Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills, And heartache of the autumn sky! Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills, Are mine, and God knows why! I held one dearer than each day Of life God sets in sunny gold-- But Death hath ta’en that gem away, And left me poor and old. The heartbreak of the hills is mine, Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf, Of wind that sobs through thorn and pine An unavailing grief. The sorrow of the loveless skies’ “Farewells” are wild as those I said When last I kissed my child’s blue eyes And lips, ice-dumb and dead. AT TWILIGHT Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes; Once more I feel her voice’s witchery Within my heart unfountain tears and sighs, And fill the soul of me. Once more she bends a silent face above; Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shake My life, unbinding long-imprisoned love, Bidding my lost dreams wake. Once more I see her serious smile; and touch Once more the lips of her whose kisses say-- “The night was long, and thou hast suffered much: At last, dear heart, ’t is day!” DAY AND NIGHT They said to me, “The days are not so far off When she will come, who gave her heart to thee;” And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, off Her long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea. And I recall that night, which gave its soul of Calm beauty to the earth, when she did give Her love’s white starlight to the rugged whole of My barren life and bade me see and live. The days go by, and my sick soul recalls but The revelation of that evening sky: The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,--but Of whiter shadow,--where hearts break and die. The day is error’s: it can but deceive us With shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse. The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave us The thoughts of God, the visible universe. THREE BIRDS A red bird sang upon the bough When wind-flowers nodded in the dew: My spring of bird and flower wast thou, O tried and true! A brown bird warbled on the wing When poppy buds were hearts of heat: I wooed thee with a golden ring, O sad and sweet! A black-bird twittered in the mist When nightshade blooms were filled with frost: The leaves upon thy grave are whist, O loved and lost! UNREQUITED Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes: One hand among the deep curls of her brow, I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs: She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow. So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sere Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year. Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet; Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer. Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat Sweet to one hope, or heart to one despair! So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant head Sung to and sung to by a longing bird, And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, No blossom wilted, for it had not heard. THE HEART’S DESIRE God made her body out of foam and flowers, And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent; Then called two planets from their heavenly towers, And in her face, divinely eloquent, Gave them a firmament. God made her heart of rosy ice and fire, Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns; And of a starbeam and a moth’s desire He made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns, And all my being yearns. So is my life a prisoner unto passion, Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word; So in the cage her loveliness doth fashion Is love endungeoned, like a golden bird That sings but is not heard. Could it but once convince her with beseeching! But once compel her as the sun the south! Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching, Upon the red carnation of her mouth Dew its eternal drouth! Then might I rise victorious over sadness, O’er fate and change, and, with but little care, Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness, Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair, And die, or do and dare. OUT OF THE DEPTHS I Let me forget her face! So fresh, so lovely! the abiding place Of tears and smiles that won my heart to her; Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps, As strong winds stir Dark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.-- In every lineament the mind can trace, Let me forget her face! II Let me forget her form! Soft and seductive, that contained each charm, Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies; And all the sensuous youth of line and curve, That makes men’s eyes Bondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.-- In every part that memory can warm, Let me forget her form! III Let me forget her, God! Her who made honeyed love a bitter rod To scourge my heart with, barren with despair; To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!-- Oh, hear my prayer! Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fire I cry to thee, with face against the sod, Let me forget her, God! “THIS IS THE FACE OF HER” This is the face of her I’ve dreamed of long That in my heart I bear: This is the face of her Pictured in song. Look on the lily lids, The eyes of dawn,-- Deep as a Nereid’s, Swimming with dewy lids In waters wan. Look on the brows of snow, The locks of night: Only the gods can show Such brows of placid snow, Such locks of light. The cheeks, like rosy moons; The lips of fire: Love sighs no sweeter tunes Under romantic moons Than these suspire. Loved lips and eyes and hair! Look, this is she! She, who sits smiling there, Throned in my heart’s despair, Never for me! INDIFFERENCE She is so dear the wildflowers near Each path she passes by, Are over fain to kiss again Her feet and then to die. She is so fair the wild birds there That sing upon the bough, Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh, And sing no other now. Alas! that she should never see, Should never care to know, The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above, And his, who loves her so. GHOST WEATHER Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hiss Through writhing lindens torn in two-- The dead’s own days are days like this! Yea; let me sit and be with you. Here in your willow chair, whose seat Spreads purple plush.--Hark! how the gusts Seem moaning voices that repeat Some grief here; in this room, where dusts Make dim each ornament and chair; This locked-in memory where you died: Since angels stood here, saintly fear Guards each dark corner, mournful-eyed. Through this dim light bend your dim face; Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam, A soft, dim cloudiness of lace, Stand near me while I dream, I dream. THE FOREST POOL One memory persuades me when Dusk’s lonely star burns overhead, To take the gray path through the glen-- That finds the forest pool, made red With sunset--and forget again, Forget that she is dead. Once more I look into the spring, That on one rock a finger white Of foam that beckons still doth bring-- Some moon-wan spirit of the night, Who dwells within its murmuring, Her life the sad moonlight. I see the red dusk touch it here With fire like a blade of blood; One star reflected, white and clear, Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud; While all my grief stands very near, Pale in the solitude. And then, behold, while yet the moon Hangs--silver as a twisted horn Blown out of Elfland--sweet with June, White in white clusters of the thorn, Slow, in the water as a tune, An image pale is born: That has her throat of frost; her lips-- Her mouth where God’s anointment lies; Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tips Break, like the starlight from dark skies; Her hair, a hazel heap that slips; Her throat and hair and eyes. And then I stoop; the water kissed, The face fades from me into air; And in the pool’s dark amethyst My own pale face returns my stare: Then night and mist--and in the mist One dead leaf drifting there. AT SUNSET Into the sunset’s turquoise marge The moon dips, like a pearly barge Enchantment sails through magic seas, To fairyland Hesperides, Over the hills and away. Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown, The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down; Her apron filled with stars she stands. And one or two slip from her hands Over the hills and away. Above the wood’s black caldron bends The witch-faced Night and, muttering, blends The dew and heat, whose bubbles make The mist and musk that haunt the brake Over the hills and away. Oh, come with me, and let us go Beyond the sunset lying low, Beyond the twilight and the night, Into Love’s kingdom of long light, Over the hills and away. DEAD AND GONE Can you tell me how he rests, Flowers, growing o’er him there? His a right warm heart, my sweets,-- So, cover it with care. Can you tell me how he lies Such nights out in the cold, O cricket, with your plaintive call, O glow-worm, with your gold? If my eyes are sorrowful, Well may they weep, I trow,-- Since his dead eyes gazed into them, They have been sad enow. If my heart make moan and ache, Well may it break, I’m sure-- For his dead love is more, ah me! More than it can endure. ONE NIGHT I A night of rain. The wind is out. And I had wished it otherwise: A calm, still night; no scudding skies; Or, in the scud, above the rout, The moon; by whose pale light my eyes Might meet her eyes; the smile that tries To come but will not; lips, that pout With seeming anger, all surmise, When I have said “I love your lies”-- Lips I shall kiss before she dies. II What force this wind has! As it runs Around each unprotecting tree It seems some beast; and now I see Its form, its eyes; a woman’s once:-- Dark eyes! that blaze as lionly As some bayed beast’s, that will not flee The pine-knots and derides the guns.-- Or is it but the thought in me! The thought of that which is to be, The deed, that rises shadowy? III And now the trees and whipping rain Confuse them.... I must drive it hence, The memory of her eyes! the tense Wild look within them of hard pain!... Yet she must die--with every sense Strung to beholding knowledge, whence My heart shall be made whole again.-- Here I will wait where night is dense. Soon she will come, like Innocence, Thinking her youth is her defense. IV And when she leaves,--and none perceives,-- The old gray manor, where the eight Old locusts, (twisted shadows), freight With mossy murmurings its eaves, One moment at the iron gate She ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate, Come rustling through the autumn leaves. And I will take both hands and sate My mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”; She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait.... V O passion of past vows, revive Imagination, and renew The ardor of love’s language you For love’s rose-altar kept alive! Repeat the oaths that rang with dew And starlight!--Tell her she is true As beautiful.--I will contrive To make her think I have no clue To all her falseness. I will woo As once I wooed before I knew. VI And we will walk against the wind; The shuffling leaves about our feet; Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete, Because one woman so hath sinned And never suffered. She shall meet No murder in my eyes; no heat Of fate in holding hand that ’s pinned To hers. To make her trust to beat, I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,--like wheat Of affluent summer,--saying “Sweet.” VII And should I bungle in this thing, This purpose that must see her dead To cure this fever in my head?-- What other thing is there to bring Soul satisfaction? when is shed No real blood, save what makes red The baulked intention?--I will fling The mask aside!--But hate hath led Desire too far now to be fed With failure. I have naught to dread. VIII When we have reached the precipice That thwarts the battling of the sea, And wallows out great rocks, that knee The giant foam with roar and hiss, I will not cease to coax and be The anxious lover. Trusting she Will not suspect my farewell kiss Until it turns a curse, and we Sway for an instant totteringly, And she has shrieked some prayer at me. IX O let me see wild terror there Upon her face! the wilder frown Of crime’s apprisal, and renown Of my life’s injury, that bare This horror with its bloody crown!-- No pity, God! For, if her gown, Suspending looseness of her hair, Delay the plunge ... the night is brown ... My heel must crush her white face down, And Hell and Heaven see her drown. THE PARTING She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossed Their spider-shadows round her; and the breeze, Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost, And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees, Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze. Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore. Some stars made misty blotches in the sky. And all the wretched willows on the shore Looked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye. She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh. She heard his skiff grind on the river rocks Whistling he came into the shadow made By the great tree. He kissed her on her locks; And round her form his eager arms were laid. Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed. And then she spoke, while still his greeting kiss Stung in her hair. She did not dare to lift Her face to his; her anguished eyes to his While tears smote crystal in her throat. One rift Of weakness humored might set all adrift. Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard. And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brain Remembered he had said no farewell word; And swift emotion swept her; and again Left her as silent as a carven pain.... She, in the old sad farm-house, wearily Resumed the drudgery of her common lot, Regret remembering.--’Midst old vices, he, Who would have trod on, and somehow did not, The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot. THE DAUGHTER OF THE SNOW Though the panther’s footprints show, And the wild-cat’s, in the snow, You will never find a trace Of the footsteps of a certain Maiden with a paler face Than the drifts that fill and curtain Hillside, valley, and the wood, Where the hunter’s wigwam stood In the winter solitude. What white beast hath grown the fur For the whiter limbs of her?-- Raiment of the frost and ice To her supple beauty fitting; Wampum strouds, as white as rice, Of the frost’s fantastic knitting, Wrap her form and face complete; Glove her hands with ice; her feet Moccasin with beaded sleet. ’Though he knew she made a haunt Of the dell, it did not daunt: Where the hoar-frost mailed each tree In soft, phantom alabaster, And hung ghosts of bud and bee On each autumn-withered aster; By the frozen waterfall, There she stood, beneath its wall, In the ice-sheathed chaparral. Where the beech-tree and the larch Built a white triumphal arch For the Winter, marching down With his icy-armored leaders; Where each hemlock had a crown, And pale diadems the cedars; Where the long icicle shone, There he saw her, standing lone, Like a mist-wraith turned to stone. And she led him many a mile With her hand-wave and her smile, And the printless swiftness of Feet of frost, and snowy flutter Of her raiment; now above, Now below, the boughs of utter Winter whiteness. Led him on Till the dawn and day were gone, And the evening star hung wan.... Hunters found him dead, they tell, In the winter-wasted dell, With his quiver and his bow, Where the cascade ran a rafter, White, of crystal and of snow; Where he listened to her laughter, Promises, that were as far As the secrets of a star, And her love that naught could mar. And her countenance is this Stamped on his: and this her kiss, Haunting still his mouth and eyes, Colder than the cold December: This her passion, that defies All control, the stars remember Filled him, killed him: this is she Clinging to him, neck and knee, Where his limbs sank wearily. THE SPIRIT OF THE STAR (_Love Spiritual_) “_This union of the human soul with the divine æthereal substance of the universe, is the ancient doctrine of Pythagoras and Plato._”--Divine Legation. There is love for love: the heaven Teems with possibilities: And, when love is purely given, Love returns from where none sees: And such love becomes a ladder Reaching heavenward, from the sadder Night of Earth; from out the driven Darkness of its miseries. There is love for love: and Beauty, From her star above the Earth, Smiles, and straight each cloud of sooty Night takes on celestial worth: And, like some white flower unfolding, Love is born; and softly holding Up its face, as if in duty, Grows to that which gave it birth. Earth and Heaven are prolific Of love’s wonders: and the sky Teems with spirits, fair, terrific, Who, if loved, shall never die: Dæmons, haggard as their mountains; Naiads, sparkling as their fountains; Sylphids of the winds, pacific As the stars they tremble by.... Such was I; who long had waited For the everlasting sleep: Where, around me, worlds dilated, Waned or waxed within the deep: Where, beneath my star, a planet Whirled and shone, like glowing granite, While around it ne’er abated One white satellite its sweep. I was sad: my beauty wearied, Useless as a scentless bud Fading ere it blooms. The serried Mists of worlds, as red as blood, Streamed beneath me. And the starry Firmament above bent, barry With the wild auroras, ferried Of the meteors’ sisterhood. [Illustration: Something drew me, unreturning, Filled me with a finer flame Page 418 _The Spirit of the Star_] I was loveless with a yearning After love that never came; All my astral being burning Towards that world without a name, World I knew not: till, with splendor Of compulsion that was tender, Something drew me, unreturning, Filled me with a finer flame. So I left my star, whose lances Pierced with arrowy gold the heat Of heaven’s hyacinth; its glances Saddened me. No more to meet, Then I left my star; and, beating Downward, heard it still repeating Far farewells; and through the trances Of dark space its face looked sweet. Passed your moon: a melancholy Disc at first; then, vast and sharp, Lo, a world, all white and holy! Where, upon the crystal scarp Of a mountain,--like a story Of high Heaven revealed in glory,-- Gradual, as if music slowly Built it, rolling from a harp,-- Rose a city: cloudy nacre Were its walls, that towered round Acre upon arch-piled acre Of a marble-terraced ground: Caryatids alternated With Atlantes, sculpture-weighted: And its gates--some god the maker-- Rhombs of symboled diamond. In the white light glittered swimming Domes of dazzle: swirl on swirl, Temples lifted columns, brimming Crystal flame, that seemed to whirl: Battlemented moonstone darkled; Palaces, pale-pillared, sparkled, Cloudy opal: and, far dimming, Aqueducts of ghostly pearl. Streaming steeples shone, of dædal Emblem; each an obelisk: Minarets, each one a needle, Balancing a bubble-disc; Some of diamond, like a blister Frozen; some of topaz-glister, Vinous; in whose blinding middle Blazed an orb of burning bisque. And I saw where, silvery slanted, A vast pyramidic heap Rose of spar; whereon was planted The acropolis of Sleep,-- God of these:--that, looming higher, Wrought of seeming ice and fire, Where pale rainbow-colors panted, Gleamed above the lunar deep. Robed in white simarre and chiton, Visions filled its every square, Moving like a finer light on Light: and in the glory there Music rang and golden laughter; And before each shape, and after, Radiance went, that shadowed white, on Temple and on palace stair. Though they called me, I descended Earthward. For great longing drew Me and, drawing me, was blended With your world. I never knew It was Earth, until,--forsaking Heaven,--I beheld it taking,-- A great azure sphere,--its splendid Way along the singing blue. And when night came, here, above you,-- Sleeping by your folded sheep On the hills,--I stooped: whereof you Dreamed: I kissed you in your sleep: I, your destiny, who wrought it So you knew me: you, who thought it Not so strange that I should love you, I a spirit of the deep. ’Twas your love that sought and found me, Drew me from that star-life sad; Won my soul to yours and bound me With such love as none hath had: I am she, you may remember, That fair star that seemed an ember O’er you, that you loved.--Around me Wrap your arms now and be glad. Look above: what seems a petal, Burning, of a rose; that far Point of radiance, bright as metal, Fiery silver, is your star! Look above you: rise unto it. Let it lead you now who drew it Down to Earth, where shadows settle!-- On that star no shadows are! THE SPIRIT OF THE VAN (_Love Ideal_) “_Among the mountains of Carmarthen, lies a beautiful and romantic piece of water, named The Van Pools. Tradition relates, that after midnight, on New Year’s Eve, there appears on this lake a being named The Spirit of the Van. She is dressed in a white robe, bound by a golden girdle; her hair is long and golden; her face is pale and melancholy_.”--Keightley’s “Fairy Mythology.” Midsummer-night; the Van. Through night’s wan noon, Wading the storm-scud of an eve of storm, Pale o’er Carmarthen’s peaks the mounting moon.-- Wilds of Carmarthen! sombre heights, that swarm Girdling this water, as old giants might Crouch, guarding some enchanted gem of charm,-- Wilds of Carmarthen, that for me each night Reëcho prayers and pleadings,--all the year Unanswered,--made to listening waters white! Mountains, behold me yet again! Bend near! Behold her lover! hers, that shape of snow, Who dwells amid these pools; who will not hear My heart’s wild pleading, calling loud, now low, Unhappy, to her, ’mid the lonely hills. Whene’er a ripple trembles into glow, Where yeasty moonshine scuds the foam, straight thrills Heart’s expectation through my veins, and high With “she!” each pulse the exultation fills. But she ’tis never. Once ... and then! would I, Would I had perished, so beholding!--World, ’Twas you, O world, who would not let me die! Once I beheld her!--If some fiend had curled Stiff talons in my hair, and, twisting tight, Had raised me high, then into Hell had hurled; Fresh from that vision of her beauty white, With Heaven in my soul, I, unamerced, Shackled with tortures, yet might mock Hell’s spite. Immortal memory, quench in me this thirst!-- O starlike vision, that a moment clove My sight, and then for ever left me curst! Oh, make me mad with love, with all thy love! Me, me, who seek thee ’mid these wilds when gloom Storms or drip gold the sibylline stars above!-- Let thy high coming in a flash consume The light of all the stars! and make me mad, Mad with love’s madness! fill me with sweet doom! Sleep will I not now, for my soul is sad: For, should I sleep, there might come other dreams,-- Sadder than thou art,--in thy beauty clad And all thy tyranny. To me it seems Better to wake here, underneath this pine, Until thy face upon my vision gleams.-- Thou, who art wrought of elements divine, And I of crasser clay, clay that will think, “Since I am hers, why should she not be mine?” Again, its usual phantom, on the brink Of thy lone lake, I ask thee: “Must I yearn Forever, haunted of that vision’s wink?”-- When, glassing out great circles, which did urn Some intense essence of interior light, (As clouds, that clothe the moon, unbinding, burn, Riven, erupt her orb, triumphant white,) I saw, midmost the Van, a feathering fire Dilating ivory-wan.--Expectant night Tiptoed attentive, fearful to suspire.-- Wherefrom arose--what white divinity? What godhead sensed with glory and desire? Born for the moment for the eyes of me! Then re-absorbed into the brassy gloom Of whispering waves that sighed their ecstasy. Thou! in whose path harmonious colors bloom, Pale pearl and lilac, asphodel and rose,-- Like many flow’rs auroral of perfume,-- Thou leftst me thus, to marvel as who knows He is not dead and yet it seems he is, Since all his soul with spirit-rapture glows.-- O sylph-like brow! lips like an angel’s kiss! High immortality! whose face was such As starlight in a lily’s loveliness!... The gold that bound thee seemed too base to clutch Thy chastity, though clear as golden gum That almugs sweat, and fragrance to the touch! Thy hair--not hair!--seemed rays, like those that come Strained through the bubble of a chrysolite.-- No word I said: thy beauty struck me dumb. Thy face, that is upon my soul’s quick sight Eternal seared, hath made of me a shade, A wandering shadow of the day and night: A seeker ’mid the hoary hills for aid, The sole society of my sick heart, who Shuns all companionship of man and maid: Who, comrade of the mountain blossoms blue, And intimate of old trees, goes dreaming they,-- As in that legendary world that drew Oracles from lips in oaks--, may sometime say Prophetic precepts to it: how were won A spirit loved to love a mortal;--yea, In vain.-- But one day, frog-like in the sun, Beside a cave,--the nightshade vines made rank And hairy henbane, where huge spiders spun,-- Wrinkled as Magic, I a grizzled, lank, Squat something startled, naught save skin and hair; With eyes wherein dwelt demons; flames, that shrank And grew;--familiars, who fixed me with glare As, raising claw-like hands when I drew near, Frog-like he croaked, “Thou fool! go seek her there! Woo her with thy heart’s actions! making clear Thy soul’s white passage for her coming feet!-- In! in! thou fool! plunge in! Fear naught but fear!” Yet I have waited many weeks. Repeat. Acts of the heart with passionate offering Of love whose anguish makes it seven times sweet. Still all in vain, in vain. To-night I bring My self alone; my soul unfearing, see! My soul unto thee!--Shall the clay still cling Clogging fulfillment? and achievement be Balked still by flesh?--no! let me in--to die, Haply; or, for a moment’s mystery, Gaze in thine eyes: one splendid instant lie In thy white arms and bosom; and thy kiss, My elemental immortality!-- Part of thy breathing waves, to laugh or hiss In foam; or winds, that rock the awful deeps, Or build with song vast temples for thy bliss. Wherein, responsive as thy white hand sweeps The chords of some sad shell, I’ll dream and roam Through glaucous chambers where the green day sleeps. Dead not with death, what secrets hath thy home Not mine then, epoched in exultant foam?... Deeper, down deeper! yea, at last I come! THE CAVERNS OF KAF (_Love Sensual_) “_‘Where am I?’ cried he; ‘what are these dreadful rocks? these valleys of darkness? are we arrived at the horrible Kaf?’_”--Vathek. One, Benreddin, I have heard, Near the town of Mosul sleeping, In a dream beheld a bird, Wonderful, with plumes of sweeping Whiteness, crowned pomegranate-red: And, it seemed, his soul it led, Brilliant as a blossom, keeping Near the Tigris as it fled. Following, at last he came To a haggard valley, shouldered Under peaks that had no name: Where it vanished. ’Mid the bouldered Savageness a woman, fair, In a white simarre, stood there, Auburn-haired; around whom smoldered Pensive lights of purple air. And she led him down to vast Caves of sardonyx, whose ceiling Domed one chrysoberyl. Blast On blast of music,--stealing Out of aural atmospheres,-- Beat like surf upon his ears; Then receded, faintly pealing Psalteries and dulcimers. Living figures seemed to heave High the walls, where, wild, embattled, Warred Amshaspand and the Deev: Over all two splendors rattled Arms of Heaven, arms of Hell; Forms of flame that seemed to swell Godlike: Aherman who battled With Ormuzd he could not quell. There she left him wond’ring; till The reverberant music, drifting, Strong beyond his utmost will, Drew him onward where, high lifting Pillar and entablature, Vast with emblem, yawned a door-- Valves of liquid lightning, shifting In and out and up and o’er. Through the door he swept: deep-domed, Green with serpentine and beryl, Loomed a cavern, crusted, foamed, Tortuous with gems of peril: Difficult, a colonnade Seemed, of satin-spar, to braid Deeps of labyrinthed and sterile Tiger-spar that, twisting, rayed. Dizzy stones of magic price Crammed volute and loaded corbel: Irridescent shafts of ice Leapt: with long reëchoed warble Waters unto waters sang: Crystal arc and column sprang Into fire as each marble Fountain flung its foam that rang. And around him, filled with sound, Streams of resonant colors jetted: Rainbow surf that interwound Crypts and arcades, crescent-fretted: Mists of citron and of roon; Lemon lights that mocked the moon; Shot with scarlet, veined and netted, Beating golden hearts of tune. Suns arose, of blinding blue; Moons of green-dilating splendor: In whose centers slowly grew Spots like serpents’ eyes that, slender, Glared; at first, prismatic beams; Then, intolerable gleams; Hissing trails of fire, tender As an houri’s breath that dreams. Characters of Arabic, Cabalistic, red as coral, Flashed through violet veils, so quick None might read: as if, in quarrel, Iran wrote of Turan there Hate and scorn, or, everywhere, Wrought some talisman of moral Strength no Afrit’s heart would dare. Sounding splendors drew him on To another cavern; hollow; Hewn of alabastar wan; Lucid; where his gaze could follow Caves in caves; transparent flights Rolling, lost in moving lights, Glaucous gold: he like a swallow O’er a lake the morning smites. Down the dome flashed out and in Instant faces of the Peris: Restless eyes of Deevs and Jinn In the walls watched: unseen Faeries Out of rainbows rained and tossed Flowers of fire full of frost; Blossoms where the fire varies, Gold and green and crimson-mossed. Then there met him, face to face, Seven odalisques of Heaven, Swinging in a silver space Flaming censers: and the seven, Crowned with stars of burning green, Seemed to turn to incense; seen, As it rose, to be a driven Hippogrif, or rosmarine. Aloes, Nard, and Ambergris, Sandal, Frankincense, and Civet,-- Genii of the fragrances,-- Rein each winged aroma; give it Spurs and race it down the lull Of the caverns, clouded dull With wild manes of musk; now vivid, Vaporous white and wonderful. And Benreddin’s aching soul, In each sense intoxicated, Reached, at last, what seemed the goal Of all passion: golden-gated, Vast, a fountain: where he saw Limbs of light without a flaw; Breasts and arms of bloom; that waited For his soul to nearer draw. Houri faces shimmered there; Fluid forms.--It, with a thunder Of wild music, like the hair Of a genie, flamed from under Caverns of the demon-world: Filled with voices, high it hurled, Calling him, with beckoning wonder Of cœrulean forms that swirled. And with burning lips and eyes In he plunged: hoarse laughter greeted, Demon laughter: then sad sighs, Dying downward: passion-heated Hands seemed drawing him away, Downward: where a rocking ray Flamed and swung, and Eblis-sheeted Shadows wandered ghostly gray. * * * * * And, ’tis said, that he was young, Young that morning. When the darting, Anguish-throated bulbuls sung, In the silent starlight starting, One, a Baghdad merchant, led By the hoarness of its head, Found what seemed a mummy: parting Hair from brow, Benreddin--dead. THE SALAMANDER (_Love Dæmonic_) “_The Fire-Philosophers, and the Rosicrucians, or Illuminati, taught that all knowable things (both of the soul and of the body) were evolved out of fire, and finally resolvable into it: and that fire was the last and the only-to-be known God: as that all things were capable of being searched down into it, and all things were capable of being thought up into it._”--The Rosicrucians. Once she breathed upon my eyes, Touched the soul that dreamed within me; All the magic that might win me Whispered to my heart with sighs-- Darkness can not make them lies!... Bring me moly, hellebore! Mix them for my soul’s nepenthe, For my spirit’s dread Amenti, For the curse that comes once more With unutterable lore! Sunlight, starlight or the moon, Stormlight, firelight or the sheening Witchlight intimate no meaning Of her glory’s plenilune; Of her soul’s unriddled rune, And most awful beauty! nor Actual, nor yet ideal!-- Insubstantial and yet real; Partly flame and partly star, Yet no part of what these are. I am hers and--woe is mine!... Has she drugged me with the sadness Of some elemental madness?-- Like a demigod I pine ’Twixt the mortal and divine.... When I see her, lo, she stands In the luminous electre Of a star: a smiling spectre With white scintillating hands Luring to unhallowed lands. Then, behold, in fearful file, A mirage of tower and terrace, Lawn and mountain range,--that buries Flame in frost,--looms! mile on mile Of her crescent-glowing Isle: Where the lurid waters lull Shores that roll the rainbow fire; Where, with living lute and lyre, Rose-red, swiftly as a gull, Glides her star-like galley’s hull. And, behold, before I know, I am where her walls of amber, Towers of limpid ruby, clamber Over terraces below Summits of refulgent snow. Lambent lazuli and shell Colonnade her courts of marble; Where, of lightning, fountains warble Out of basined pearl, or well Into hollowed carbuncle. Rosy silver seems her skin, And a flame her arm commanding, With its gleaming hand, me, standing At her gates, to enter in, Burning as a Seraphin. Lucid darkness are her eyes, Where the frozen fire smolders; And upon her shining shoulders, Like a tangible glitter, lies Auburn hair like sunset skies. Mouth of sibilant soft flame; Lilith lips, whose roses lighten With illusive love; and brighten With wild passion and the name Of desire no man may tame. Passion, and the thoughts that wed Love and loathing; such caresses Of sweet touch as naught expresses Here on Earth, yet full of dread, Madness, whereof death is bred. She hath drawn me to her lips; Borne me through her palace portal; And the fire, which is immortal, From me like a garment slips-- Ah, the spirit-part’s eclipse! As when moon and planet swoon Unto each, my body kindles, Strangely, while my spirit dwindles, Like the Earth-o’ershadowed moon, Darkening from lune to lune. Then she laughs; and leads me where Cloudy, wild, chameleon color Marbles halls with hues, the duller For her astral presence there, Beaming white with beaming hair: Where, in roses purple pale,-- Dropping like a ruby bubble Through the moon dust,--“double double,” Throbs the crimson nightingale, There she lures me with some tale. Or to where the scarlet snake Coils beneath great flaming flowers; Where the musk mimosa bowers Roll their rosy clouds, and make Sunset heavens of each lake. Where the bees and moths go by, Fiery diamond; opal-burning Butterflies, and iris-turning Peacock-painted birds, that vie With the flow’rs, like fragments fly Of wild rainbow: Where, in rills, Down the rocks, that lichens redden, Constellated moss and leaden Fungus glow; and all the hills, As with flames, the orchid fills. Where, in coruscating light, Glare the golden-checkered zinnias; And the bugle-bloomed gloxinias, Making morning of each height, Float like mists of ruby white. There, beneath some blazing vine, Where the liquid moonlight glitters Of a river,--coral litters Red with grail,--like prisms in wine I have watched the fishes shine. Or, o’er sunset-colored moss, Glow-worms trail their beryls; sprinkling Green the smouldering shade; while, twinkling, With convulsive sapphire gloss, Fireflies rained blue lights across. Where the reeds seemed rays of rose, And white mirrored moons, the lotus-- Each a spirit giving notice Of the inner light that glows Where the under water flows-- Shapes arose of flashing spray:-- Where, a wild auroral splendor, Rolled the forest,--emerald-tender As the light of breaking day,-- Beckoned forms of starry ray. Through the violetish light, Winged with nautilus and lily Flame, adown the forests stilly Vistas, moony whirls of white, Floated shapes with eyes of night. I must follow where she leads.-- Blinding portals of her castle To my entering feet are facile.... Love no terrible trumpet needs At her gates to bugle deeds.... Lo, my being never veils Aught from her. To her caresses All my heart knows it confesses With a faith that never fails, Though it hears the truth that wails In its soul’s admonishment, Of the curse that sits in session In each amorous expression Of her love; its violent Flame, by which my life is rent. I have drained the feverish cup Of all darkness. Made a leman Of an elemental demon; And my soul lies, staring up, Draining poison at each sup.-- While she smiles on me ’tis well: I shall follow, though she make me What her self is; never wake me From the dream I can not tell, That is neither heaven nor hell: Where I drink mesmeric gold Of wild vision,--that romances In informing Protean fancies With a beauty never old, And emotion never cold.-- Let me drink and never wake From the trances that environ Me, and ’neath the subtle siren See the demon, like a snake, With destroying eyes that ache. While the slow laconic look Of her eyes express no censure, Gazing in them, I adventure,-- Far beyond the wisest book,-- Ways her serpent fancy took. Yet I know I reverence One whose gaze in God’s negation; One who, like an emanation Of all evil, chains my sense With satanic influence. Yet, while still I hear her say, “One more kiss before the morning! One more bliss for love’s adorning! One more kiss ere break of day,” Still my soul with her must stay. Stay, nor know, nor ever see! Till her basilisk beauty flashes, And the curse, from out the ashes Of her passion, fiery, Strikes--destroying utterly. LYANNA. “_These elementary beings, we are told, were by their constitution more long-lived than man, but with this essential disadvantage, that at death they wholly ceased to exist. In the meantime they were inspired with an earnest desire for immortality; and there was one way left for them, by which this desire might be gratified. If they were so happy as to awaken in any of the initiated (Rosicrucians) a passion, the end of which was marriage, then the sylph became immortal._”--Godwin’s “Lives of the Necromancers.” Summer came over the Indian Ocean Girdled with fire, tiaraed with light; Her eyes all languor, her lips--a potion To quaff--of poppy. And gold and white She flashed and sparkled; all gleam and motion, All blush and blossom she came; and I, Of the race of the sylphs, o’er the Indian Ocean Followed her through the sky. Self-exiled so from the sylphs that cluster, Pulsing with pearl and burning with blue, In domes of the dawn,--where the organs bluster Low of the winds,--where they glow like dew As the day dreams up, and their armies muster, Ranges of glitter, in cloudy gold, At the gates of the Dawn, of blinding luster, To forth when her gates unfold. For Summer murmured me, “Follow! follow!” Whispered one word that was all of love.-- Winged with the speed of the sweeping swallow, I followed the word she had breathed above: “Follow! follow!”--the god Apollo Never followed, with speed as strong The flying nymph through holt and hollow, As I that word of song. Fleet as the winds are fleet, yea, and fleeter Far than the stars that throb, like foam, Through the firmament’s blue, in musical metre Winnowed my wings; and the golden gloam Rang; and life was a passion, completer Than a life in Eden; and love,--a lyre That sang in my heart and made life sweeter With hope,--a leaping fire. Thus to the north my wings went maying Radiant ways, till a castle shone Gaunt on great cliffs, with the late skies graying O’er walls of war and their towers lone, With tortuous steps to the sea, where, spraying, Thundered the breakers; and terrace and stair, Rock o’er the waters, rose rosy and raying Deep in the sunset’s glare. A dewdrop burns when the dawn lights prickle: And all my being tingled with light, Bloomed when I saw her, tarrying fickle, White on the castled height: Slender she shone as the moon in sickle, The slim new-moon, like a pearl-pale streak; And golden, too, as the honey-trickle Of combs where the wax is weak. In dreams I came to her, lo! as a vision: Yea, by her side as a dream I stood; To her innermost spirit I sighed my mission, In the vestal ear of her maidenhood: And she deemed me a dream; and I made a prison Of my arms for her soul while she, smiling, slept: Her body lay still, but her soul had arisen, And looked on my face and wept: “Lyanna, I hoop thee with arms of fire!”-- My words were music, a harp afloat,-- “Lyanna, my heart is a vibrant wire, Thy love is its only note. Let it sing forever. Let it sound entire, Full as the angels’ who hover and harp To the glory that’s God, like a golden lyre Borne in a beam that is sharp.... “Behold me, thy rose! full of flame and splendor! Thy rose to pluck: thy ruby bloom: Thy sylphid rose, with eyes that are tender; Lips that are fire; and limbs of perfume And fragrant fire: thy heart’s defender! Thy airy lover!” ... And, bending above, Sweeter my speech than a flower’s that, slender, Tells to the stars its love. Lo, as I spoke, with thoughts that thicken, Her heart seemed filled; and she spoke; but sleep Shadowed her words, till my kiss did quicken And free, like stars from the night that leap:-- “Long I have waited; and long did sicken To clasp thee thus, O my rose of love! Oft have I dreamed of thee, yea, and was stricken With joy at the thought thereof. “White are the clouds; but I saw thee whiter ’Mid dazzling domes of the dawn; and knew Tho’ bright are God’s stars, that thine eyes were brighter, Brighter and burning blue. And my heart was thine, though it held thee slighter Than hues that the mists of the morning take: And waited and yearned, and the yearning tighter Than tears in the hearts that break. “‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ I heard thee ever Calling ‘Lyanna,’ a ripple of flame: ‘Lyanna! Lyanna!’ like song forever; And I marveled at my name. The sound was such--that if stars could sever And silver-syllable a word of beams, So would it sound.--I turned; but never Beheld thee, only in dreams. “Thou walkedst a beauty afar: a glitter Of gleaming aroma: and I, with moan, Reached thee my arms: but thy gaze was bitter, Calmer and sterner than stone: Avoiding thou passedst in scorn: a sitter, I seemed, on the uttermost bounds of bliss: When, lo! on the wind,--a flame, a flitter Of fire,--thy laugh, and thy kiss!”-- I had won her love. And, behold! the thunder Trumpeted tempest: I heard the seas Lunge at the walls like a roaring wonder, And the rain-wind sing in the trees.-- Lyanna my bride.--And the heavens asunder Rushed--chasms of glaring storm, where poured The thunder’s cataracts, rolling under-- And showed me, horde on horde, The shouting spirits of storm.--The portal Of sleep was riven; she rose, and saw: And I said to her soul, “Of the utterly mortal Mine the eternal lot and law.”-- “I love thee!” she answered.--And I, “Immortal Am I through thy love!” ... And so we fled.... Behold! when they came in the morn, astartle, Men whispered--“Lyanna is dead!” THE SPIRITS OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS _Voices of Darkness_ Ere the birth of Death and of Time, And of Hell, with its tears and its torments: Ere the waves of heat and of rime, And the winds to the heavens were as garments: Cloud-like in the womb of Space, Mist-like from her monster womb, We sprang, a myriad race Of thunder and tempest and gloom. _Voices of Light_ As from the evil good Springs, and desire: As the white lily’s hood Buds from the mire: So from this midnight brood Sprang we with fire. _Voices of Darkness_ We had lain for long ages asleep In her bosom, a bulk of torpor, When down through the vasts of the deep Clove a sound, like the notes of a harper: Clove a sound, and the horrors grew Tumultuous with turbulent night, With whirlwinds of blackness that blew, And storm that was godly in might. And the walls of our dungeon were shattered Like the crust of a fire-wrecked world: As torrents of clouds that are scattered, From the womb of the deep we were hurled. _Voices of Light_ Us in unholy thought Patiently lying, Eöns of violence wrought, Violence defying; When, on a mighty wind, Voiced of a godly mind, Big with a motive kind, Girdled with wonder, Flame and a strength of song, Rolling vast light along, Thundered the Word, and Wrong Vanished,--and we were strong, Strong as the thunder. _Voices of Darkness_ We people the lower spaces, Where our cities of silence make scorn Of the sun, and our shadowy faces Are safe from the splendors of morn. Our homes are wrecked worlds and each planet Whose sun is a light that is sped; Bleak moons, whose cold bodies of granite Are hollow and flameless and dead. _Voices of Light_ We in the living sun Live like a passion: Ere the sad Earth begun We and the sun were one, As God did fashion. Lo! from our burning hands, Flung like inspired brands, Sowed we the worlds, like sands, Countless as ocean: And ’tis our breath gives life, Life to those stars, all rife With iridescent strife, Music and motion. _Voices of Darkness_ We joy in the hate of all mortals; Inspire their crimes and the thought That falters and halts at the portals Of actions, intentions unwrought. We cover the face of to-morrow: We frown in the hours that be: We breathe in the presence of sorrow: And death and destruction are we. _Voices of Light_ We are man’s hope and ease, Joy and his pleasure; Authors of love and peace, Love that shall never cease, Free as the azure. Lo! we but look, and light Heartens the world with might, Vanquishes death and night Hate and its burnings: And from our bosoms stream Beauty and yearnings For a diviner dream, Higher discernings. _Voices of the Break of Day_ Morning and birth are ours; Light that is blown From our fair lips; and flowers, Dropped from our hands in showers, Seeds that are sown: Song and the bursting buds, Life of the fields and floods; Strength that’s full-grown: And, from our beryl jars, Filled with the clouds and stars, Pour we the winds and dew; While by our eyes of blue Darkness is rent in two, Conquered and strown. _Voices of the Dawn_ Ye in your darkness are Dark and infernal; Subject to death and mar! But in the spaces far, Like our effulgent star, We are eternal. THE WATER WITCH See! the milk-white doe is wounded. He will follow as it bounds Through the woods. His horn has sounded, Echoing, for his men and hounds. But no answering bugle blew. He has lost his retinue For the shapely deer that bounded Past him when his bow he drew. Not one hound or huntsman follows. Through the underbrush and moss Goes the slot; and in the hollows Of the hills, that he must cross, He has lost it. He must fare Over rocks where she-wolves lair; Wood-pools where the wild-boar wallows: So he leaves his hunter there. Through his mind then flashed an olden Legend told him by the monks:-- Of a girl, whose hair is golden, Haunting fountains and the trunks Of the woodlands; who, they say, Is a white doe all the day, But when woods are night-enfolden Turns into an evil fay. Then the story once his teacher Told him: of a mountain lake Demons dwell in; vague of feature, Human-like; but each a snake, She is queen of.--Did he hear Laughter at his startled ear? Or a bird?--And now, what creature Is it,--or the wind,--stirs near? Fever of the hunt! This water, Falling here, will cool his head. Through the forest, dyed in slaughter, Slants the sunset; ruby-red Are the drops that slip between Hollowed hands, while on the green,-- Like the couch of some wild daughter Of the forest,--he doth lean. But the runnel, bubbling, dripping, Seems to bid him to be gone; As with crystal words and tripping Steps of sparkle luring on. Now a spirit in the rocks Calls him; now a face that mocks, From behind some boulder slipping, Laughs at him through lilied locks. And he follows through the flowers, Blue and gold, that blossom there; Thridding twilight-haunted bowers Where each ripple seems the bare Beauty of white limbs that gleam Rosy through the running stream; Or bright-shaken hair, that showers Starlight in the sunset’s beam. Till, far in the forest, sleeping Like a luminous darkness, lay A deep water, wherein, leaping, Fell the Fountain of the Fay, With a singing, sighing sound, As of spirit things around, Musically laughing, weeping In the air and underground. Not a ripple o’er it merried: Like the round moon in a cloud, In its rocks the lake lay buried: And strange creatures seemed to crowd Its dark depths: dim limbs and eyes To the surface seemed to rise Spawn-like; or, all formless, ferried Through the water shadow-wise. Foliage things with woman faces, Demon-dreadful, pale and wild As the forms the lightning traces On the clouds the storm has piled In the darkness.--On the strand-- What is that which now doth stand?-- ’Tis a woman: and she places On his arm a spray-white hand. Ah! two mystic worlds of sorrow Were her eyes; her hair, a place Whence the moon its gold might borrow; And a dream of ice her face: Round her hair and throat in rims Pearls of foam hung; and through whims Of her robe, as breaks the morrow, Gleamed the rose-light of her limbs. Who could help but gaze with gladness On such beauty? though within, Deep within the beryl sadness Of those eyes, the serpent sin Seemed to coil.--She placed her cheek Chilly upon his, and weak With love-longing and its madness Grew he. Then he heard her speak:-- “Dost thou love me?”--“If surrender Of the soul means love, I love.” “Dost not fear me?”--“Fear?--more slender Art thou than a wildwood dove. Yet I fear--I fear to lose Thee, thy love.”--“And thou dost choose Aye to be my heart’s defender?”-- “Take me. I am thine to use.” “Follow then.--Ah, love, no lowly Home I give thee.”--With fixed eyes To the water’s edge she slowly Drew him.... Nor did he surmise Who this creature was, until O’er his face the foam closed chill, Whispering, and the lake unholy Rippled, rippled and was still. THE SUCCUBA I have dreams where I believe That a queen of some dim palace, One, whose name is Genevieve, Weighs me with her love or malice: She is dead and yet my bride: And she glimmers at my side Offering a crystal chalice Filled with fire, diamond-dyed. I have dreams. Ah, would that I Might forget them!--I remember How her gaze, all icily Draws me, like a glowing ember, Up her castle-stair’s pale-paved Alabaster, from the waved Ocean, grayer than November, Where I linger, soul-enslaved. Walls of shadow and of night Lit with casements full of fire, Somber red or piercing white: As the wind breathes lower, higher, Round the towers spirit-things Whisper, and the haunted strings Moan of each huge, plangent lyre Set upon its four chief wings. In its corridors at tryst Flame-eyed phantoms meet. Its sparry Halls are misty amethyst: Battlemented ’neath the starry Skies it looms; the strange unknown Skies where, green as glow-worms, sown, Gloom the stars; the moon hangs barry Beryl, low and large and lone.... Can it be a witch is she? Or a vampire? she, far whiter Than the spirits of the sea!-- She whose eyes are cold, yet brighter Than her throat’s pale jewels. Lo! Flame she is though seeming snow: And her love lies tighter, tighter On my heart than utter woe. Though I dream, it seems I live; And my heart is sick with sorrow Of the love that it must give To her; passion, it must borrow Of herself, unhallowed, vain; Then return it her again: Thus she holds me; and to-morrow Still will hold with sweetest pain. In her garden’s moon-white space Strangest flowers bloom: huge lilies, Each one with a human face; Knots of spirit-amaryllis; Cactus-bulks with pulpy blooms Gnome-like in the silver glooms; And dim deeps of daffadillies, Fay-like, brimming faint perfumes. But to me their fragrance seems Poison; and their lambent lustre, Spun of twilight and of dreams, Poison; and each pearly cluster Hides a serpent’s fang. And I, Looking from an oriel, sigh; For my soul is fain to muster Heart to breathe of them and die. Then I feel big eyes, as bright As the sea-stars. Gray with glitter, She behind me, moony white, Smiles, ’mid hangings wherein flitter Loves and deeds of Amadis Darkly worked. And then her kiss On my mouth falls; sweet and bitter With a bliss that is not bliss. And I kiss her eyes and hair; Smooth her tresses till their golden Glimmer sparkles. Everywhere Shapes of strange aromas, holden Of the walls, around us troop; And in golden loop on loop,-- Of the lull’d eyes vague beholden,-- Forms of music o’er us stoop. Yet I see beneath it all, All this sorcery, a devil, Beautiful, and white, and tall, Broods with shadowy eyes of evil: She, who must resume with morn Her true shape: a cactus-thorn, Monstrous, on some lonely level Of that demon-world forlorn. I have dreams where I believe That a queen of some dim palace, One, whose name is Genevieve, Weighs me with her love or malice: And all night I am her slave There beside the demon wave, Where I drain the loathsome chalice Of her love, that is my grave. MASKS _Cucullus non facit monachum_ Live it down! as you have spoken You could live it ere you knew What love was--“a bauble broken, Foolish, of a thing untrue.”-- You, Viola, with your beauty, Cloistered, die a nun? No! you-- You must wed: it is your duty. There’s your poniard; for the second In this tazza dropped: the blood On it scarcely hard.... I reckoned Happily that hour we stood There upon your palace-stairway, How, with the Franciscan hood Cowled, I said, there was a bare way. In the minster there I found it-- Our revenge. I saw him, wild, Stalking towards the church: around it Dogged him, marking how he smiled In the moonlight where I waited. When the great clock, beating, dialed Ten, I knew he would be mated. Heaven or my better devil!-- Hardly had his sword and plume Vanished in the dark, when, level On the long lagoon, did loom, Under moonlight-woven arches, Her slim gondola: all gloom: One tall gondolier: no torches. Dusky gondolas kept bringing Revellers: and far the night Rang with instruments and singing.-- From the imbricated light Of the oar-vibrating water, Gliding up the stairway, white, Velvet-masked,--the count’s own daughter! Quick I met her: whispered, “Flora, Gaston.--_Mia_, till they go, One brief moment here, Siora.-- She’ll perceive us--she, below, See! the duchess’ diamonds sparkling Round the inviolable glow Of her throat--there, dimly darkling: “That’s Viola!” ... Thus I drew her In the church’s ancient pile-- Under her black mask I knew her, By her chin, her lips, her smile. Through one marble-foliated Window fell the moon-rays. While All the maskers passed we waited. I had drawn the dagger. Turning Called her by her name. Some lie Of a passion sighed, her burning Hand in mine; when, stalking by, In the square, _his_ form bejeweled Gleamed. My very blood burned dry With the hate his presence fueled. Our revenge! up-pushing slightly Cowl, the mask fell, and revealed Balka, as the poniard whitely Flashed. The hollow nave re-pealed One long shriek the loft repeated. Swift, I stabbed her thrice. She reeled Dead. I thought of you, the heated Horror on my hands; and tarried Still as silence. Drawn aside On her face the mask hung, married To its camphor-pallor: wide Eyes with terror--stone. One second I regretted; then defied All remorse. Your promise beckoned; And I left her. Love had pointed Me this way. I walked the way Clear-eyed and ... it has anointed Us fast lovers?--Do not say, Now, that you will go and nun it! For this man who scorned you?--Nay!-- Live to hate him! You ’ve begun it. CARMEN _La Gitanilla_, tall dragoons In Andalusian afternoons, With ogling eye and compliment, Smiled on you as along you went Some sleepy street of old Seville; Twirled with a military skill Moustaches; buttoned uniforms Of Spanish yellow bowed your charms. Proud, wicked head, and hair blue-black, Whence the mantilla, half thrown back, Discovered shoulders and bold breast Bohemian brown. And you were dressed In some short skirt of gypsy red Of smuggled stuff; and stockings,--dead White silk,--that, worn with many a hole, Let the plump leg peep through; while stole, Now in, now out, your dainty toes, Sheathed in morocco shoes, with bows Of scarlet ribbon.--Flirtingly You walked by me; and I did see Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip That gnawed the rose I saw you flip At bashful José’s nose while loud The gaunt guards laughed among the crowd. And in your brazen chemise thrust, Heaved with the swelling of your bust, A bunch of white acacia blooms Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes. As in a cool _neveria_ I ate an ice with Mérimée, Dark Carmencita, very gay You passed, with light and lissome tread, All holiday bedizenéd; A new mantilla on your head: Your crimson dress gleamed, spangled fierce; And crescent gold, hung in your ears, Shone, wrought Morisco; and each shoe, Of Cordovan leather, buckled blue, Glanced merriment; and from large arms To well-turned ankles all your charms Blew flutterings and glitterings Of satin bands and beaded strings: Around each tight arm, twisted gold Coiled serpents, and, a single fold, Wreathed wrists; each serpent’s jeweled head, With rubies set, convulsive red. In flowers and trimmings, to the jar Of mandolin and gay guitar, You in the grated patio Danced: the curled coxcombs’ staring row Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance, With wily motion and glad glance, Voluptuous, the wild _romalis_, Where every movement was a kiss, A song, a poem, interwound With your Basque tambourine’s dull sound. I,--as the ebon castanets Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets,-- Saw angry José through the grate Glare on us, a pale face of hate, When some indecent officer Presumed too lewdly to you there. Some still night in Seville: the street Candilejo: two shadows meet: Swift sabres flash within the moon-- Clash rapidly.--A dead dragoon. AT NINEVEH There was a princess once, who loved the slave Of an Assyrian king, her father; known At Nineveh as Hadria; o’er whose grave The sands of centuries have long been blown; Yet sooner shall the night forget its stars Than love her story:--How, unto his throne, One day she came, where, with his warriors, The King sat in his hall of audience, ’Mid pillared trophies of barbaric wars, And, kneeling to him, asked, “O father, whence Comes love and why?”--He, smiling on her said,-- “O Hadria, love is of the gods, and hence Divine, is only soul-interpreted. But why love is, ah, child, we do not know, Unless ’t is love that gives us life when dead.”-- And then his daughter, with a face aglow With all the love that clamored in her blood Its sweet avowal, lifted arms of snow, And, like Aurora’s rose, before him stood, Saying,--“Since love is of the powers above, I love a slave, O Asshur!--Let the good The gods have giv’n be sanctioned.--Speak not of Dishonor and our line’s ancestral dead! _They_ are imperial dust. _I_ live and love.”-- Black as black storm then rose the King and said,-- A lightning gesture sweeping at her there,-- “Enough! ho, Rhana, strike me off her head!” And at the mandate, with his limbs half bare A slave strode forth. Majestic was his form As some young god’s. He, gathering up her hair, Wound it three times around his sinewy arm; Then drew his sword. It for one moment shone A semicircling light, and, dripping warm, Lifting the head he stood before the throne. Then said the despot, “By the horn of Bel! This was no child of mine!”--Like chiseled stone Stern stood the slave, a son of Israel. Then striding towards the monarch, in his eye The wrath of heaven and the hate of hell, Shrieked, “Beast! I loved her! look on us and die!” Swifter than fire clove him to the brain. Then kissed her face, and, holding it on high, Cried out, “Judge thou, O God, between us twain!” And, fifty daggers in his heart, fell slain. SENORITA An agate black, her roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of the skies, No starry blue; but of good earth The reckless witchery and mirth. Looped in her raven hair’s repose, A hot aroma, one red rose Droops; envious of that loveliness, Through being near which, its is less. Twin sea-shells hung with pearls, her ears; Whose delicate rosiness appears Part of the pearls; whose pallid fire Binds the attention these inspire. One slim hand crumples up the lace About her bosom’s swelling grace; A ruby at her samite throat Lends the required color-note. The moon brings up the violet night An urn of pearly-chaliced light; And from the dark-railed balcony She stoops and waves her fan at me. O’er orange blossoms and the rose Vague, odorous lips the South Wind blows, Peopling the night with whispers of Romance and palely passionate love. And now she speaks; and seems to reach My soul like song that learned its speech From some dim instrument--who knows?-- Or flow’r, a dulcimer or rose. SINCE THEN I found myself among the trees What time the reapers ceased to reap; And in the sunflower-blooms the bees Huddled brown heads and went to sleep, Rocked by the balsam-breathing breeze. I saw the red fox leave his lair, A shaggy shadow, on the knoll; And, tunnelling his thoroughfare Beneath the soil, I watched the mole-- Stealth’s own self could not take more care. I heard the death-moth tick and stir, Slow-honeycombing through the bark; I heard the cricket’s drowsy chirr, And one lone beetle burr the dark-- The sleeping woodland seemed to purr. And then the moon rose: and a white Low bough of blossoms--grown almost Where, ere you died, ’t was our delight To tryst,--dear heart!--I thought your ghost: --The wood is haunted since that night. AFTER DEATH At moonset, when ghost speaks with ghost And spirits meet where once they sinned, Between the whispering wood and coast, My soul met her soul on the wind, My late-lost Evalind. I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild. Two burning shadows were her eyes, Wherein the love,--that once had smiled A heartbreak smile,--in some strange wise, I did not recognize. Then suddenly I seemed to see How sin had damned my soul and doomed To wander thus eternally With love and loathing, that assumed The form of her entombed. THE OLD MAN DREAMS The blackened walnut in its spicy hull Rots where it fell; And, in the orchard, where the trees stand full, The pear’s brown bell Drops; and the log-house in the bramble lane, From whose low door Stretch yellowing acres of the corn and cane, He sees once more. The cat-bird sings upon its porch of pine; And o’er its gate, All slender-podded, twists the trumpet-vine Its leafy weight: And in the woodland, by the spring, mayhap, With eyes of joy Again he bends to set a rabbit-trap, A brown-faced boy. Then, whistling, through the underwoods he goes, Out of the wood, Where, with young cheeks, red as an autumn rose, In gingham hood, His sweetheart waits, her school-books on her arm: And now it seems Beside his chair bends down his wife’s fair form-- The old man dreams. MEMORIES Here where Love lies perishéd, Look not in upon the dead, Lest the shadowy curtains, shaken In my Heart’s dark chamber, waken Ghosts, beneath whose garb of sorrow Whilom gladness bows his head: When you come at morn, to-morrow, Look not in upon the dead, Here where Love lies perishéd. Here where Love lies cold interred, Let no syllable be heard, Lest the hollow echoes, housing In my Soul’s deep tomb, arousing Wake a voice of woe, once laughter Claimed and clothed in joy’s own word: When you come at dusk, or after, Let no syllable be heard, Here where Love lies cold interred. MARCH AND MAY Windy the sky and mad; Surly the gray March day; Bleak the forests and sad,-- Oh, that it only were May! On maples, tasseled with red, No blithe bird, fluting, swung; The brook, in its swollen bed, Raved on in an unknown tongue. We walked in the wind-tossed wood: Her face as the May’s was fair; Her blood was the May’s own blood; And May’s her radiant hair. And we found in the woodland wild One cowering violet, Like a frail and timorous child, In the caked leaves bowed and wet. And I said, “We have walked in vain! To find but this shivering bud, Weighed down with its weight of rain, Crouched here in the wild March wood.” But she said, “Though the day be sad, And the skies be dark with fate, There is always something glad That will help our hearts to wait. “Look, now, at this beautiful thing, In this wood’s wild hollow curled! ’Tis a promise of joy and spring, And of love, to the waiting world. “Ah, the sinless Earth is fair, And man’s are the sin and the gloom-- Come, bury the days that were, And look to’ard the days to come!” * * * * * And the May came on with her charms, With twinkle and rustle of feet; Blooms stormed from her luminous arms And songs that were wildly sweet. Now I think of her words that day, This day that I longed so to see, That finds her dead with the May, And my life but a withered tree. IN AUTUMN I Sunflowers wither and lilies die, Poppies are pods of seeds; The first red leaves on the pathway lie, Like blood of a heart that bleeds. Weary alway will it be to-day, Weary and wan and wet; Dawn and noon will the clouds hang gray, And the autumn wind will sigh and say, “He comes not yet, not yet, Weary alway, alway!” II Hollyhocks bend all tattered and torn, Marigolds all are gone; The last pale rose lies all forlorn, Like love that is trampled on. Weary, ah me! to-night will be, Weary and wild and hoar; Rain and mist will blow from the sea, And the wind will sob in the autumn tree, “He comes no more, no more. Weary, ah me! ah me!” “WHEN SHE DRAWS NEAR” I When she draws near, I seem to hear The shy approach of some wild innocence: As if--in acorn crown-- A dryad should step down From some dim oak-tree where the woods are dense. II When she’s with me, I seem to see The brambles blossom where just touched her dress: As, with her love’s perfume, She touches into bloom The thorns of life and gives them loveliness. REED CALL FOR APRIL I When April comes, and pelts with buds And apple-blooms each orchard space, And takes the dogwood-whitened woods With rain and sunshine of her moods, Like your fair face, like your sweet face: It’s honey for the bud and dew, And honey for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart. II When April comes and tints the hills With gold and beryl that rejoice, And from her airy apron spills The laughter of the winds and rills, Like your young voice, like your sweet voice: It’s gladness for God’s bending blue, And gladness for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart. III When April comes, and binds and girds The world with warmth that breathes above, And to the breeze flings all her birds, Whose songs are welcome as the words Of you I love, O you I love: It’s music for all things that woo, And music for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart. HER VIOLIN I Her violin!--Again begin The dream-notes of her violin; And tall and fair, with gold-brown hair, I seem to see her standing there, Soft-eyed and sweetly slender: The room again, with strain on strain, Vibrates to Love’s melodious pain, As, sloping slow, is poised her bow, While round her form the golden glow Of sunset spills its splendor. II Her violin!--Now deep, now thin, Again I hear her violin; And, dream by dream, again I seem To see the love-light’s tender gleam Beneath her eyes’ long lashes: While to my heart she seems a part Of her pure song’s inspired art; And, as she plays, the rosy grays Of twilight halo hair and face, While sunset burns to ashes. III O violin!--Cease, cease within My soul, O haunting violin! In vain, in vain, you bring again, Back from the past, the blissful pain Of all the love then spoken; When on my breast, at happy rest, A sunny while her head was pressed-- Peace, peace to these wild memories! For, like my heart naught remedies, Her violin lies broken. MEETING IN SUMMER A tranquil bar Of rosy twilight under dusk’s first star. A glimmering sound Of whispering waters over grassy ground. A sun-sweet smell Of fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell. A lazy breeze Jostling the ripeness from the apple-trees. A vibrant cry, Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky. And faintly now The katydid upon the shadowy bough. And far off then The little owl within the lonely glen. And soon, full soon, The silvery arrival of the moon. And, to your door, The path of roses I have trod before. And, sweetheart, you! Among the roses and the moonlit dew. HER VIVIEN EYES Her Vivien eyes,--beware! beware!-- Though they be stars, a deadly snare They set beneath her night of hair. Regard them not! lest, drawing near-- As sages once in old Chaldee-- Thou shouldst become a worshiper, And they thy evil destiny. Her Vivien eyes,--away! away!-- Though they be springs, remorseless they Gleam underneath her brow’s bright day. Turn, turn aside, whate’er the cost! Lest in their deeps thou lures behold, Through which thy captive soul were lost, As was young Hylas once of old. Her Vivien eyes,--take heed! take heed!-- Though they be bibles, none may read Therein of God or Holy Creed. Look, look away! lest thou be cursed,-- As Merlin was, romances tell,-- And in their sorcerous spells immersed, Hoping for Heaven thou chance on Hell. [Illustration: I look into thy heart and then I know The wondrous poetry of the long-ago Page 496 _Reasons_] REASONS I Yea, why I love thee let my heart repeat: I look upon thy face and then divine How men could die for beauty, such as thine,-- Deeming it sweet To lay my life and manhood at thy feet, And for a word, a glance, Do deeds of old romance. II Yea, why I love thee let my heart unfold: I look into thy heart and then I know The wondrous poetry of the long-ago, The Age of Gold, That speaks strange music, that is old, so old, Yet young, as when ’t was born, With all the youth of morn. III Yea, why I love thee let my heart conclude: I look into thy soul and realize The undiscovered meaning of the skies,-- That long have wooed The world with far ideals that elude,-- Out of whose dreams, maybe, God shapes reality. HER VESPER SONG The summer lightning comes and goes In one white cloud above the hill, As if within its soft repose A burning heart were never still-- As in my bosom pulses beat Before the coming of his feet. All drugged with odorous sleep, the rose Breathes dewy balm about the place, As if the dreams the garden knows Arose, in immaterial grace-- As in my heart sweet thoughts arise Beneath the ardour of his eyes. The moon above the darkness shows An orb of silvery snow and fire, As if the night would now disclose To heav’n her one divine desire-- As in the rapture of his kiss All my glad soul is drawn to his. The cloud divines not that it glows; The rose knows nothing of its scent; Nor knows the moon that it bestows Light on our earth and firmament-- So is the soul unconscious of The beauties it reveals through love. THE GLORY AND THE DREAM There in the past I see her as of old, Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a room Dim with a twilight of tenebrious gold; Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloom Night opens in the tropics. Fold on fold Pale laces drape her; and a frail perfume, As of a moonlit lily brimmed with rain, Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain. Her head is bent; some red carnations glow Deep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;-- Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow, Her breasts, through which the veinéd violets stream.-- I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slow As thoughts of love that haunt a poet’s dream: And at her feet once more I sit and hear Wild words of passion--dead this many a year. SNOW AND FIRE Deep-hearted roses of the purple dusk And lilies of the morn; And cactus, holding up a slender tusk Of fragrance on a thorn; All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk, Her presence puts to scorn. For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there, Scentless and chaste of heart; The moonflower, making spiritual the air, Like some pure work of art; Divine and holy, exquisitely fair, And virtue’s counterpart. Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and when Her lips to mine are pressed,-- Why are my veins all fire then? and then Why should her soul suggest Voluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men, And prurient with unrest? IN MAY I When you and I in the hills went Maying, You and I in the bright May weather, The birds, that sang on the boughs together, There in the green of the woods, kept saying All that my heart was saying low, “I love you! love you!” soft and low;-- And did you know? When you and I in the hills went Maying. II There where the brook on its rocks went winking, There by its banks where the May had led us, Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows, Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinking All that my soul was thinking there, “I love you! love you!” softly there;-- And did you care? There where the brook on its rocks went winking. III Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling, Should our paths unite or our pathways sever, In the Mays to-come I shall feel forever The wildflowers thinking, the wild-birds telling, In words as soft as the falling dew, The love that I keep here still for you, As deep and true, Whatever befalls through fate’s compelling. “WERE I AN ARTIST” Were I an artist, Lydia, I Would paint you as you merit, Not as my eyes, but dreams descry; Not in the flesh, but spirit. The canvas I would paint you on Should be a strip of heaven; My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawn And night and starry even. Your form and features to express Likewise your soul’s chaste whiteness, I’d take the primal essences Of darkness and of brightness. I’d take pure night to paint your hair; Stars for your eyes; and morning To paint your skin--the rosy air Which is your limbs’ adorning. To paint the love-bows of your lips, I’d mix, for colors, kisses; And for your breasts and finger-tips, Sweet odors and soft blisses. And to complete the picture well, I’d temper all with woman,-- Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell, To show you yet are human. THE RIDE She rode o’er hill, she rode o’er plain, She rode by fields of barley, By morning-glories filled with rain, Along the wood-side gnarly. She rode o’er plain, she rode o’er hill, By orchard land and berry; Her eyes were sparkling as the rill, Cheeks, redder than the cherry. A bird sang here, a bird sang there, Then blithely sang together; Sang sudden greeting everywhere, “Good-morrow!” and “Good weather!” The sunlight’s laughing radiance Laughed in her radiant tresses; The bold breeze made her wild curls dance, And flushed her face with kisses. “Why ride you here, why ride you there, Why ride you here so merry? The sunlight living in your hair, And in your cheek the berry? “Why ride you with your sea-green plumes, Your sea-green silken habit, By balmy bosks of faint perfumes, And haunts of roe and rabbit?” “The morning ploughed the east with gold, And planted it with holly; And I was young and he was old, And rich, and melancholy. “A wife they ’d have me to his bed, And to the church they hurried; But now, gramercy! he is dead! Thank God! is dead and buried. “I ride by tree, I ride by rill, I ride by rye and clover, For by the church beyond the hill Awaits my first true lover.” AT PARTING What is there left for us to say, Now it is time to speak good-by? And all our dreams of yesterday Are one with yester-evening’s sky-- What is there left for us to say, Now different ways before us lie? A word of hope, a word of cheer, A word of love, whose help shall last, When we are far to bring us near Through memories of the happy past; A word of hope, a word of cheer, To keep our young hearts true and fast. What is there left for us to do, Now it is time to say farewell? And care, that bade us once adieu, Returns again with us to dwell-- What is there left for us to do, Now different ways our fates compel? Clasp hands and kiss, touch lips and smile, And look the love that shall remain-- When severed so by many a mile-- The sweetest balm for bitterest pain: Clasp hands and kiss, touch lips and smile, And trust to God to meet again. IN THE GARDEN OF GIRLS Serious, but smiling, stately and serene, And lovelier than a flower, She stands; in whom all sympathies convene As perfumes in a bower; Through whom I feel what soul and heart must mean, And all their love and power. Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth, Beneath their cloud-like curls; Lips of immortal rose, where joy and youth Nestle like priceless pearls; Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of Ruth, Deeper than any girl’s. When first I saw her, ’t was as if within My gaze took shape some song-- Played by a master of the violin-- A music, pure and strong, That rapt my soul above all earthly sin To heights that know no wrong. “COME TO THE HILLS” Come to the hills, the woods are green-- The heart is high when lovers meet-- There is a brook that flows between Mossed rocks where we will make our seat, Where we will sit and speak unseen. I hear you laughing in the lane-- The heart is high when lovers meet-- The clover smells of sun and rain And spreads a carpet for our feet, Where we will walk and dream again. Come to the woods, the dusk is here-- The heart is high when lovers meet-- A bird upon the branches near Sets music to our hearts’ sweet beat, Our hearts that beat with something dear. I hear your step; the lane is passed-- The heart is high when lovers meet-- The little stars come bright and fast, Like happy eyes that watch us, Sweet, That see us greet and kiss at last. EVASION I Why do I love you, who have never given My heart encouragement or any cause? Is it because, as earth is held of heaven, Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws? Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyes The answer lies. II From your sweet lips no word hath ever fallen To tell my heart its love is not in vain-- The bee that woos the flow’r hath honey and pollen To cheer him on and bring him back again: But what have I, your other friends above, To feed my love? III Still, still you are my dream and my desire; Your love is an allurement and a dare Set for attainment, like a shining spire, Far, far above me in the starry air: And gazing upward, ’gainst the hope of hope, I breast the slope. WILL YOU FORGET? In years to come, will you forget, Dear girl, how often we have met? And I have gazed into your eyes And there beheld no sad regret To cloud the gladness of their skies, While in your heart--unheard as yet-- Love slept, oblivious of my sighs?-- In years to come, will you forget? Ah, me! I only pray that when, In other days, some man of men Has taught those eyes to laugh and weep With joy and sorrow, hearts must ken When love awakens in their deep,-- I only pray some memory then, Or sad or sweet, you still will keep Of me and love that might have been. CONTRASTS No eve of summer ever can attain The gladness of that eve of late July, When ’mid the roses, dripping with the rain, Against the wondrous topaz of the sky, I met you, leaning on the pasture bars,-- While heaven and earth grew conscious of the stars. No night of blackest winter can repeat The bitterness of that December night, When, at your gate, gray-glittering with sleet, Within the glimmering square of window-light, We parted,--long you clung unto my arm,-- While heaven and earth surrendered to the storm. CARISSIMA MEA I look upon my sweetheart’s face, And, in the world about me, see No face like hers in any place. It is not made, as others sing Of their young loves, like ivory, But like a wild-rose in the spring. Her brow is low and very fair, And o’er it, smooth and shadowy, Lies deep the darkness of her hair. Beneath her brows her eyes gleam gray, And gaze out glad and fearlessly-- Their wonder haunts me night and day. Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,-- Twin curves of penciled ebony,-- Within their spans contain my fate. Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,-- So small and sweet!--it well may be That it for me is yet reserved. Between her hair and rounded chin, Calm with her soul’s calm purity, There lies no shadow of a sin. Of perfect form, she is not tall,-- Just higher than the heart of me, O’er which I place her, all in all. She is not shaped, as some have sung Of their young loves, like some slim tree, But like the moon when it is young. Her hands, that smell of violet, So white and fashioned fragrantly, Have woven round my heart a net. Yea, I have loved her many a day; And though for me she may not be, Still at her feet my love I lay. Albeit she be not for me, God send her grace and grant that she Know naught of sorrow all her days, And help me still to sing her praise! AN AUTUMN NIGHT Some things are good on autumn nights, When with the storm the forest fights, And in the room the heaped hearth lights Old-fashioned press and rafter: Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat, A mug of cider, sharp and sweet, And at your side a face petite, With lips of laughter. Upon the roof the rolling rain, And, tapping at the window-pane, The wind that seems a witch’s cane That summons spells together: A hand within your own a while; A mouth reflecting back your smile; And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile All thoughts of weather. And, while the wind lulls, still to sit And watch her fire-lit needles flit A-knitting, and to feel her knit Your very heart-strings in it: Then, when the old clock ticks “’t is late,” To rise, and at the door to wait Two words, or, at the garden-gate, A kissing minute. A DAUGHTER OF THE STATES She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes, Wherein th’ unconquerable soul defies, And Love sits throned, imperious and serene. And I have thought that Liberty, alone Among her mountain stars, might look like her, Kneeling to God, her only emperor, Kindling her torch on Freedom’s altar-stone. For in her self, regal with riches of Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born-- Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn, And Ermengarde, returning love for love. THE QUARREL An instant only and her eyes Flashed lightning like the angry skies; And o’er her forehead, curving down, Fell dark the shadow of a frown; Then backward, deep and stormy fair, She tossed the tempest of her hair; Then of her lips’ full rose disdain Made a pink-folded bud again; Then quicker than all utterance, All changed: and at a word, a glance, Her anger rained its tears, then passed; And she was in my arms at last; The austere woman, doubly dear, And lovelier for each falling tear: But why we quarreled, how it grew, I can not tell, I never knew: Perhaps ’t was Love; he, who, with tears, Would show how fair a face appears; As, after storm, the sky ’s more blue, A wildflower ’s fairer for the dew. MIRIAM What better praise for all her ways Than that all days her ways illume? Such brightness as the maiden year Knows, when God’s kindness seems as near As flowers whose wisdom ’s but to bloom. Hers the deep hair: a face more fair Than roses June sets blossoming: The sunshine of her gladness gleams In bloom-bright lips and cheeks, and dreams Upon her throat’s soft coloring. Her voice is sweet as birds that greet With song the coming of the light: The serious happy gleam that lies In the dark lustre of her eyes Is as the starlight to the night. Beyond the sea such girls as she It was whom Titian loved to paint, With calm Madonna eyes, and hair Rich auburn; robed in gold and vair, Fair as the vision of a saint. THE SUMMER SEA Over the summer sea, When the white-eyed stars look pale, And the moonbeams make a trail Of gold through the waves for me, I turn my ghostly sail Away, away, And follow the form I see Over the summer sea. Over the misty sea, Ere the cliff which highest soars From the billow-beaten shores Reddens all rosily, Where the witch-white water roars, Far on, far on. Through the foam she beckons me Over the summer sea. Over the haunted sea, When the great, gold moon low lies On the rim of the western skies, ’Twixt the moon, she comes, and me, And gazes in my eyes; Low down, low down, ’Twixt the orbéd moon and me, Over the summer sea. Deep in the bitter sea, Wilt thou drag me down, O sweet? Down, down! from hair to feet Filled with thee utterly? Against thy heart’s wild beat?-- At last! at last! Wilt drag me down with thee, Deep in the summer sea? FINALE So let it be. Thou dare not say ’t was I!-- Here in life’s temple, where thy soul can see, Look where the beauty of our love doth lie, Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!-- Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh! This is the end. What need to tell it thee! So let it be. So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him, And sorrow, who sat by him deified,-- For whom his face made comfort,--lo! how dim They heap his altar which they can not hide, While memory’s lamp swings o’er it, burning slim.-- This is the end. What shall be said beside? So let it be. So let it be. Did we not drain the wine, Red, of love’s sacramental chalice, when He laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine? Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill again Now it is empty of the god divine!-- This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen. So let it be. CONCLUSION The songs Love sang to us are dead: Yet shall he sing to us again, When the dull days are wrapped in lead, And the red woodland drips with rain. The lily of our love is gone, That graced our spring with golden scent: Now in the garden low upon The wind-stripped way its stalk is bent. Our rose of dreams is passed away, That lit our summer with sweet fire: The storm beats bare each thorny spray, And its dead leaves are trod in mire. The songs Love sang to us are dead: Yet shall he sing to us again, When the dull days are wrapped in lead, And the red woodland drips with rain. The marigold of memory Shall fill our autumn then with glow: Haply its bitterness will be Sweeter for love of long-ago. The cypress of forgetfulness Shall haunt our winter with its hue: Its apathy to us not less Dear for the dreams love’s summer knew. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Poems of Madison Cawein, vol. 2, by Madison Cawein *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 54902 ***