Chapter 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 wildbirds telling
The same fond love that my heart then knew,
Love unspeakable, deep and true,--
But what of you?
Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

_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.

_Clouds of the Autumn Night_

Clouds of the autumn night, Under the hunter's moon,-- Ghostly and windy white,-- Whither, like leaves wild strewn, Take ye your stormy flight?

Out of the west, where dusk, From her rich windowsill, Leaned with a wand of tusk, Witch-like, and wood and hill Phantomed with mist and musk.

Into the east, where morn Sleeps in a shadowy close, Shut with a gate of horn, 'Round which the dreams she knows Flutter with rose and thorn.

Blow from the west, oh, blow, Clouds that the tempest steers! And with your rain and snow Bear of my heart the tears, And of my soul the woe.

Into the east then pass, Clouds that the night winds sweep! And on her grave's sear grass, There where she lies asleep. There let them fall, alas!

_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 primrose 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 veined 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?

_Restraint_

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sit And watch the firelight's varying shade and shine On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine-- As through glad windows--mark fair fancies flit In sumptuous chambers of thy soul's chaste wit Like graceful women: 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!

_Why Should I Pine_?

Why should I pine? when there in Spain Are eyes to woo, and not in vain; Dark eyes, and dreamily divine: And lips, as red as sunlit wine;

Sweet lips, that never know disdain: And hearts, for passion over fain; Fond, trusting hearts that know no stain Of scorn for hearts that love like mine.-- Why should I pine?

Because all dreams I entertain
Of beauty wear thy form, Elain;
And e'en their lips and eyes are thine:
So though I gladly would resign
All love, I love, and still complain,
"Why should I pine?"

_When Lydia Smiles_

When Lydia smiles, I seem to see The walls around me fade and flee; And, lo, in haunts of hart and hind I seem with lovely Rosalind, In Arden 'neath the greenwood tree: The day is drowsy with the bee, And one wild bird flutes dreamily, And all the mellow air is kind, When Lydia smiles.

Ah, me! what were this world to me
Without her smile!--What poetry,
What glad hesperian paths I find
Of love, that lead my soul and mind
To happy hills of Arcady,
When Lydia smiles!

_The Rose_

You have forgot: it once was red With life, this rose, to which you said,-- When, there in happy days gone by, You plucked it, on my breast to lie,-- "Sleep there, O rose! how sweet a bed Is thine!--And, heart, be comforted; For, though we part and roses shed Their leaves and fade, love cannot die.--" You have forgot.

So by those words of yours I'm led
To send it you this day you wed.
Look well upon it. You, as I,
Should ask it now, without a sigh,
If love can lie as it lies dead.--
You have forgot.

_A Ballad of Sweethearts_

Summer may come, in sun-blonde splendor, To reap the harvest that Springtime sows; And Fall lead in her old defender, Winter, all huddled up in snows: Ever a-south the love-wind blows Into my heart, like a vane asway From face to face of the girls it knows-- But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

If Carrie smile or Maud look tender,
Straight in my bosom the gladness glows;
But scarce at their side am I all surrender
When Gertrude sings where the garden grows:
And my heart is a bloom, like the red rose shows
For her hand to gather and toss away,
Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes--
But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Let Laura pass, as a sapling slender,
Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,--
Or Blanche or Helen,--to each I render
The worship due to the charms she shows:
But Mary's a poem when these are prose;
Here at her feet my life I lay;
All of devotion to her it owes--
But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

How _can_ my heart of my hand dispose?
When Ruth and Clara, and Kate and May,
In form and feature no flaw disclose--
But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

_Her Portrait_

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 bit 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
That 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 still are human.

_A Song for Yule_

I

Sing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way, And the 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!