Chapter I: Charge You, O Winds of the West

I charge you, O winds of the West, O winds with the wings of the dove,
That ye blow o’er the brows of my Love, breathing low that I
sicken for love.

I charge you, O dews of the dawn, O tears of the star of the morn,
That ye fall at the feet of my love, with the sound of one
weeping forlorn.

I charge you, O birds of the air, O birds flying home to your nest,
That ye sing in his ears of the joy that for ever has fled
from my breast.

I charge you, O flowers of the Earth, O frailest of things, and most fair,
That ye droop in his path as the life in me shrivels and droops
with despair.

O Moon, when he lifts up his face, when he seeth the waning of thee,
A memory of her who lies wan on the limits of life let it be.

Many tears cannot quench, nor my sighs extinguish the flames
of love’s fire,
Which lifteth my heart like a wave, and smites it and breaks
its desire.

I rise like one in a dream; unbidden my feet know the way
To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and
white hawthorn of May.

The song of the throstle is hushed, and the fountain is dry
to its core,
The moon cometh up as of old; she seeks, but she finds him
no more.

The pale-faced, pitiful moon shines down on the grass where
I weep,
My face to the earth, and my breast in an anguish ne’er
soothed into sleep.

The moon returns, and the spring, birds warble, trees burst
into leaf,
But love once gone, goes for ever, and all that endures is
the grief.

MATHILDE BLIND.

SONG.

Thou walkest with me as the spirit-light
Of the hushed moon, high o’er a snowy hill,
Walks with the houseless traveller all the night,
When trees are tongueless and when mute the rill.
Moon of my soul, O phantom of delight,
Thou walkest with me still.

The vestal flame of quenchless memory burns
In my soul’s sanctuary. Yea, still for thee
My bitter heart hath yearned, as moonward yearns
Each separate wave-pulse of the clamorous sea:
My moon of love, to whom for ever turns
That life that aches through me.

MATHILDE BLIND.

CÆLI.

If stars were really watching eyes
Of angel armies in the skies,
I should forget all watchers there,
And only for your glances care.

And if your eyes were really stars,
With leagues that none can mete for bars
To keep me from their longed-for day,
I could not feel more far away.

F. W. BOURDILLON.

LOVE IN THE HEART.

Love in the heart is as a nightingale
That sings in a green wood;
And none can pass unheeding there, nor fail
Of impulses of good.

Though cruel brief be Love’s bright hour of song,
Yet let him sing his fill!
For other hearts the echoes shall prolong
When Love’s own voice is still.

F. W. BOURDILLON.