Chapter II

'Neath myriad mellow tapers' golden glow A woman stands, proud, insolent and fair; A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hair Burns like the evening star descending low Adown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snow Of her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie. Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery; The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flow Outlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile, A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein-- One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wine The senses steal, the soul and brain beguile Till all seem merged in feeling ... and again A Circe's spells transform men into swine.

To A. M. M.

She is so shy, this little love of mine,
So pale and pure, almost I fear to speak
The love that thrills my every pulse like wine
Yet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.

She is so calm that Passion's stirring strain
To chanson soft and low unbidden dies;
The while her longing lover sighs in vain
For one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.

A lily she that from its garden bed,
Into the golden sunshine glad and sweet
Lifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head,
Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.

Yet--should one loving reverently kneel
And draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart,
Perchance those waxen petals might reveal
Enshrined within, a glowing golden heart.

Loveless

As some poor starveling at a palace gate
Sees curtained gleams from banquet-litten halls,
Hears song out-ringing from the festal walls,
Scents viands that shall princely palates sate,
Yet in the outer gloom may only wait,
Crouched in the cold, thrice-thankful for some least
Mean morsel flung him from the plenteous feast--
Poor bondman to the ball and chain of Fate!
So, lonely at Love's outer gate I stand
And glimpse the brightness and the bliss within,
Where love-lit smiles transmute the dark to day--
I wait without--I may not enter in;
Long, wistfully, I gaze--then void of hand
And starved of spirit, sadly turn away.

Clytie--The Sunflower

(To F. H.)

In pale green twilight lands
Under the sea
Her rainbow palace stands,
Irised and opaline;
Agate and almondine,
Corals and pearly shells
Swept from deep ocean dells,
Strewing the silver strands,
Starring the golden sands
In the green twilight lands
Under the sea.

All thro' the dreamy day
Under the sea
Where the sea-maidens play,
Twining foam-garlands fair,
Girding their golden hair,
Clad in her moss-robe green
Veiled in her bright locks' sheen--
Where the dim seaweeds sway,
Trackless her white feet stray
All thro' the dreamy day
Under the sea.

Or like a star she glides
Over the sea,
Deftly her steeds she guides--
Gold-fish that glint and gleam,
Jewels alive they seem--
Softly the surges swell,
Rocking the rosy shell
Where the sea-maiden rides,
Wafture of wooing tides,
Swift as a star she glides
Over the sea.

One day she lifts her eyes
Up from the sea
Where the great sun-god flies
Over the world afar,
Guiding his golden car--
All his star brow aglow,
All his bright hair aflow;
Dawn in his radiance lies,
Dusk at his coming dies--
Hapless she lifts her eyes
Up from the sea.

Swiftly his steeds speed on
Over the sea,
Soon is the splendor flown,
Lone on the shore she stands.
Stretching imploring hands,
Lifting impassioned eyes
Where the last sun-gleam dies;
All the day's brightness gone,
Hapless she stands alone,
Heedless the god speeds on
Over the sea.

Ever her wistful gaze
Over the sea
Yearns on the sun-god's rays--
Till by some subtle power
Changed to a golden flower--
Still in her robe of green,
Crowned with her gold hair's sheen
Slight on her stem she sways ...
Yet does her yearning gaze
Follow the sun-god's rays
Over the sea.

In Bondage

What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a god Sunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face-- What can the world perceive of the subtler inward grace Breathing upon the dust of the coarse clay clod? What knows the world of me--the Me that is prisoned within-- Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes-- How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin, That this cloak of crass, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise?

What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize? What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave-- I, with the coarse stubbed hands, the dull and narrow eyes, The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave? What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face, Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid, Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embrace Then looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed.

Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay, Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars, Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison bars Thro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day, Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured face And the sacred fire within crumble the coarse clay clod. Till the Soul, breathed on by an unseen, unknown Grace, Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its God!

To a Singer

Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen grays Are thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleam From wings of Helios athwart thy dream Irradiates for thee earth's darksome ways. Wild woodland voices ripple thro' thy lays; Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring, Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing, The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days, A glint of sunshine on the swallow's wing, Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of bee Made drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine; All these Orphean music holds for thee, And all thy days and dreams companioning Walks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.

Blossom of Brine

Morn! and a white sail winging Over the sunlit waves; A song on the breezes ringing Up from the coral caves Where sea-nymphs, white arms lifting Wreaths for the sea-god twine Of the frail foam-flowers drifting On the wave-crests--blossom of brine.

Night! and a dark rack flying Over the sullen waves; A dirge on the night winds sighing Up from the cold sea caves Where sea-nymphs white arms lifting Wreaths for a pall entwine For a still white face is drifting On the wave-crest--blossom of brine.

A Memory

Strange that across the vast of varied years,
Fraught with life's wonted alloy--mingled joy and pain--
Sun-kissed with smiles or gloomed with mists of tears,
Old memories should wake to life again.
Old thoughts and dreams, words breathed by lips long dumb,
Songs sung by voices silent now for aye,
Like hosts of speechless spectres thronging come
Dim formless wraiths of each dear vanished day.

Strange that a fragment of a life replete,
A few brief hours as men measure time,
A chapter in life's book, closed now--yet vaguely sweet
As odor-laden zephyrs from some far-off clime--
Should drift across my heart while joysome memories rise
Of golden moments snatched from Arcady,
Of silver sails and opal-tinted skies,
Of viridescent earth and sapphire sea.

Of Lotus-land where pleasure dreamful lies,
Of kindred souls responsive each to each,
Of thoughts half hidden by deep-tinted eyes--
(Sweet traitors telling that denied to speech!)
The merest fragment of a life replete,
A sun-gleam 'mid existence's sombre grays,
Eyes, hands and hearts that for one moment meet
In strange, sweet yearning ... then--divided ways.

To Margaret

Maiden of varying mood, Thalia thou hast wooed, Thespis thereafter, Till 'neath thy lyric sway Each heart must tribute pay-- Tears blent with laughter. So in the days to be This do we crave for thee, Through life's hereafter, Throughout the changing years, May all thy griefs and tears Be blent with laughter.

Regret

Shimmer of rose and pearl,
Sheen on an opal sky;
Day's crimson banners unfurl,
Purple-pleached shadow-gleams die;
Dawn flowers bourgeoning fair,
Meads with the dawn-dews wet;
Rare is the morn--ah, rare!
But in the heart, regret--
A vague regret.

Clouds like the scattered snow
Stippling a sapphire sky;
Fervor and heat and glow,
Zephyrs that swoon and die.
Drowseth the nooning air
On meads with red poppies set;
Fair is the day--ah, fair!
But in the heart, regret--
And still ... regret.

Flashes of burning gold,
Flushes of crimson light
Faint on a waning wold,
Stealeth the silent night.
One from a casement bar
Leaneth with lashes wet,
Watching the last wan star
Fade like a heart's regret--
A vain regret.

"God Bless You, Dear"

Dear patient face and placid brow,
Dear lips that smiled despite of pain,
Brave toil-worn hands, so helpful now,
Sweet spirit free from earthly stain.
Within the doorway Mother stands,
The while a merry barefoot lad,
Across the springtime meadow-lands
Goes whistling schoolward, blithe and glad;
And where the pathway breasts the hill,
I stay my steps and turn to hear
Her loving voice, as lingering still,
She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."

Dear patient face and furrowed brow,
Dear lips that smile thro' all life's pain,
Brave toil-worn hands, so weary now,
Sweet soul unmarred by earthly stain.
Within the doorway Mother stands,
The while a man oppressed with care,
Across the waning Autumn lands,
Goes toil-ward, fain to strive and bear;
And where the pathway breasts the hill,
I stay my steps and turn to hear
Her trembling voice, as ling'ring still,
She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."

Dear peaceful face and placid brow,
Dear lips that smile secure from pain,
Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now,
Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain.
Within God's portal Mother stands,
The while a man forspent with care
Seeketh the far-off meadow-lands,
By faith made strong to strive and bear.
And as I breast life's weary hill,
I ofttimes pause--meseems I hear
The well-loved accents breathing still
The old fond prayer, "God bless you, dear."

Roses

"Where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?"--Rubaiyat.

A red rose burns upon his breast
Where erst a white rose lay;
Above his fervent heart-throb pressed--
The red rose of To-day.

What recks he of the flower that dies--
(For roses bloom alway!)
Low in the dust, forgotten, lies
The rose of Yesterday.

But yet, To-day's red rose must die,
(For roses fade alway!)
To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie--
A rose of Yesterday.

The Poet

One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear,
One crying down the wayward wind of Chance,
One piping unto feet that will not dance
And mourning unto ears that will not hear.

Shylock

Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes, His face with evil passion marred and seamed, Looks frowningly upon a Christian world. Behind that hateful mask a demon lurks To urge the narrow soul to darksome deeds Of violence and greed, of hate and ruth. His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant force To mete to helpless souls eternal doom; A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,-- But yet less potent than the yellow gold Those crooked talons clutch, and for the which The miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.

Sonnet

(To Charles J. O'Malley.)

As when above orchestral undertone,
The plaining wail of muted violin,
The hushed oboe and the distant din,
Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan--
Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone,
A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soul
To feel the theme, and the harmonious whole
A sonant setting seems for that alone;
So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife,
Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song--
No minor plaint of dull despairing pain,
But one true note of hope that bids us long
For higher things; and all the din of life
Seems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.

Antithesis

The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught
With all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved;
He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ...
Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.

The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilled
With all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept;
He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ...
Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.

In Fortune's Twilight

The old house totters 'neath its weight of years, Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there, Old, friendless, lone--save for the wanton, Care, Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeers And laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears. Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age-- His dim eyes falter as he scans the page Of Life's worn album, blotted with his tears. He sees in dreams the wife he loved--long dead; The son--once proud to bear his father's name-- Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace; The wayward girl who wrought her father shame ... He sits alone with Care; the day has fled And twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.

Fate

Thro' countless aeons sunless and remote
A Soul went searching for its spirit mate,
Thro' star-stained space, o'er wind-swept deep, afloat,
Forever desolate.

Anon, another spirit, lone of heart
Goes forth thro' voiceless void to seek its mate;
Eftsoon they meet, these twain, strike hands ... and part!
And this is Fate.

The Path of Dreams

Beside the stream that silverly steals on To swell the song of that far-sounding sea Which breaks upon the utmost shore of Thought, They who have drunk at Song's immortal spring Walk with glad feet the upland path of dreams That whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands-- By one, yclept the Way of Fools--a plain Of dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit; But by another called the Path of Hope That leads far up the slope of heart's desire;-- And haply both speak truth--for oft the way Is set with stones that tear the climbing feet, And oft for roses there is bitter rue, And oft for singing there is idle scorn, And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we know The upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds (Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope) Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!

Beside the silent stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless sea They who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draught Walk with unsandalled feet the path of dreams That winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleep To dim dream shores girt with dim spectre-trees, Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings, Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of ferns And fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowers Not of their wonted hue, but dimly gray, Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit, And silent winds from poppied meadows blow-- And here dear presences to us denied By sterner Day, approach to cry us hail; And here a little do we taste the joy Of kisses dreamed on lips forever mute, A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled, And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ... Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn, Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields! Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless Sea That breaks upon the farthest unknown shore-- They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draught Walk with still feet the viewless Path of Dreams That winds thro' long, low-lying fields of Sleep To fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms; And haply, longed-for presences denied By sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,-- Bright radiances from realms of light eterne, Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis-- But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled, Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust-- From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne, Full well we know we shall return no more!

An Autumn Song

The dim sun slips adown the sky That dies from gold to gray; The homing birds that Southward fly To my heart's hailing make reply, Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my wistful eyes, Southward, where all my treasure lies, Whither the homing sparrow flies, Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"

The chill blast sweeps the steely sky That glooms a sullen gray; Soft summer winds that Southward fly To my soul's sighing make reply Breathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Southward I turn my longing eyes, Southward my yearning spirit hies, Whither or bird or zephyr flies Sighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"

Vain

Wreath of laurel and crown of bay
And the noisy trump of Fame,
Praise for the singer's deathless lay,
And a listening world's acclaim.

But the singer sits with his grief alone
Where love lies cold and dead.
The plaudits fall on a heart of stone;
The Soul of the song has fled.

Sartor Resartus

Ah, God be merciful to him who sees Thro' ermined pomp and pageantry of kings, Thro' regal mien and beauty's witcheries The poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hid Within the body's hold! Thrice-cursed is he Whose soul sees souls of others face to face, Who strips the outer man like vestments off And views the naked heart in all its shame And poverty; who still must rend the veil Of motive, purpose, false humanity And futile pretense! God! to walk this world Doomed still to see what others fain would hide, Reading men's thoughts as scholars read the page Of some old language dead to all save them; Seeing beneath the tender woman flesh, The woman-grace, the pleading woman-eyes, The grisly skeleton, the hollow ribs, The eyeless sockets and the grinning jaw; Reading for aye the sneer beneath the smile, The lie that lurks behind the seeming truth; To know that such, or haply worse, am I, A living lie, false prophet to myself, Clothed on with shimmering robes of fallacy And vain deceit! Ah God, where is the truth? Are all men false or lies the fault in me Who, vulture-like, seize only on the taint, And leave the pure? If haply thus it be In pity take away the subtle sight That pierces thought. Give back the old fond faith, The young belief in all humanity; Hide from my view the canker in the rose, The taint in truth, the blight upon the bloom.

Far better 'twere to drink the hemlock draught And, happy, deem it nectar than to find The drop of gall within the nectared cup. Far better trust repaid with treachery Than doubt confirmed! Ah, Thou all-seeing God Who art the Truth, make me to see the truth; Lift from my soul the shadow; in the room Of doubt, send trust. Let me believe again; Help me to see the highest in mankind!

Illumed

Like to a little child, whose straying feet, Tracking the fox-fire's guiling glint and gleam, Have wandered far afield by marsh and stream While just before the wavering glimmers fleet On and still on where sky and meadow meet, Till, spent and fearful in the gathering gloom, At last he sees the guiding light of home, Where love awaits and mother-kisses sweet. So was it mine through fens of doubt to stray Pursuing still some fair ephemeron, Or fleeting gleam, or shimmering fallacy, Till through the deepening dusk a beacon shone Set by the hand of Love to light the way O Father, to implicit trust in Thee!

In the Play

In a painted "Forest of Arden," in the glare of the garish light, In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night; Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind, I thrill at the touch of your painted lips--for--"_I am your Rosalind!_"

Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art, That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart; Could you know that my soul speaks to you--aye soul and spirit and mind! When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"

To you 'tis a vain dissembling--a part of the work of the day, And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play. Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed. To prove your skill as a lover--yet--"_I am your Rosalind!_"

I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her art Must needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still her part--

Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind! Cry to your soul in another's words--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"

To E. P. B.

Imperial as that famed Elizabeth
Before whose feet a knight his cloak cast down--
A sovereign--altho' thine only crown
Love's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.

Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath,
Across thy path no regal robe I fling--
Only a living, loving heart I bring
To lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.

Through the Dark

Last night they laid me in my winding sheet,
Set burning tapers at my feet and head,
Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet,
And told each other softly, "She is dead."

Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and stark
I lay where waned the tawny tapers dim,
Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful dark
I lived in thoughts of _him_.

The morning came. One who had loved me bent
Above my face with tears and bated breath;
Laid on my heart the roses _he_ had sent--
And I--was glad of death!

Preluding

Frail fronds of ferns uncurling, Blue iris flags unfurling, Pale showers of blossoms swirling Like clouds of wind-blown snow; With fragile wildings playing, Like two blithe children maying, Across the glad meads straying, Together, dear, we go.

The silver clouds far-drifting, Vague lights and shadows shifting, The sungleams gold-dust sifting Down thro' the latticed leaves; Gray brooks the meadows lacing, Young flow'rs the uplands gracing, Her faery 'broidery tracing The skillful spider weaves.

From long, long day-dreams shaken, The vivid violets waken; His Southern haunts forsaken, The bluebird flecks the sky; Ah, breath of bloom-bright heather, Ah, golden Maytime weather, We drift in dreams together-- Together, you and I.

The Heights of Silence

(Transcribed from "The Choir Invisible.")

Above the valleys, peopled, fair and warm,
Rise the bleak, silent uplands where abide
Wraiths of lost loves, love's recompense denied,
Unspoken, unconfessed, unsatisfied....
Cold, silent heights, engirt with zones of storm,
Where Love for aye unmated must abide.

The broad, sweet downward vistas of the flesh
Stretch fair and far; the calm white spirit-height
Is lone and chill; there dimly shines the light
Of sun and star that burns and beacons bright
Where Sin spreads still her guiling, glitt'ring mesh.
Ah, warm the valley! Lone and chill the height!

Yet he who wins the height's sublimity--
The silent height where loves unlived abide,
Loves stainless, sublimated, purified--
Shall glimpse that land, to grosser view denied,
Where love and longing infinite shall be
Or ever stilled--or ever satisfied.

Andromeda

Bound ever to a great grey rock of Doom,
Striving with futile hands to rive the chain
Of woven fear, distrust and subtle pain,
While gaunt wolf-waves that leap from out the gloom
Of doubt's cold sea are snarling at my feet,
As nearer writhes the dragon of Despair
Foul with dank horrors of his caverned lair,
And like a clock of doom the dark tides beat....
I lift my eyes; Lo! sudden sweeps along
Thought's empyrean and the vast of dreams
One star-browed, Jove-like, human-orbed; meseems
His feet are winged with music, shod with song;
Ah, Perseus, should'st thou, pitying, leave the sky
To loose my bonds--then all the fear were gone,
Soul touching soul, trust from distrust were won,
Like god and goddess 'fronted, thou and I;
Despair were slain, closed the unequal strife,
Thy great soul's strength should make weak purpose strong,
Thy hand should lead me up the slopes of Song,
Thy winged feet guide me to the peaks of Life!

Requital

What tho' you loved me once? Man's love at best
Is but a mood--the fancy of an hour,
You held all faith and truth a theme for jest,
Love's recompense, a smile. You knew your power.

What tho' you loved me then? You went away
And left my life an arid waste of pain;
And now--your best years spent, your idols clay--
You stretch imploring arms to me again.

What tho' you love me still? What tho' you say
The current of your life toward mine is set,
As vagrant stars obey the planets' sway,
Or perfume clingeth to the violet?

What tho' I once loved you? See in yon West
Day's fires have burned to ashes cold and gray;
So in my quiet heart love's wild unrest
By its own flame consumed, is dead for aye.

When Fades the Light

When fades the light along the western sky,
When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray,
When darkling mere and mead enshadowed lie,
And Night's wide arms enfold the wearied Day;
When tired lilies ring their vesper bells
And dusking leaves speak whispered orison,
When cassocked Twilight breathing benison
His rosary of flashing fireflies tells--
Then ends the day-long struggle. Strong no more
I drift far out on Fancy's phantom sea,
Setting full sail for that forbidden shore
Where waiteth Love for me.

* * * * *

When fades the light from out my dying eyes,
And soul and sense seem slipping soft away,
When Death's swift shallop launched on Lethe lies
Waiting to wing me to the unknown Gray;
When things of time and thought grow strangely dim,
And the pent spirit strains to loose its bands
Till from the fettered feet and helpless hands
Shall fall life's shackles pitiless and grim--
Then shall the conflict cease. Enchained no more
My soul shall sail the silent unknown sea
Until it touch the unforbidden shore
Where Love awaiteth me.

Butterflies

As if a bed of bloom had taken wing--
Bright marigolds, nasturtiums, zinnias gay--
They breast the breeze or, lightly poising, cling
To other flowers not animate as they.

In the Dark Forest

The long gray twilight falls and deeper glooms
Close round the graying wood that dimmer grows
As dies the Day's last yearning tint of rose,
And Dusk spins shadows on her eldritch looms.
The black bat flits, the eerie white moth flies--
Wan ghost of yesterday's bright butterfly--
The dusking forest pools uplooking lie
Like graveless dead men's staring, sightless eyes.

Ah, eerie, eerie is the lonely wood,
But lo! the faeries light their firefly lamps,
Elusive foxfire flames from marish damps;
Hastes to the morris-dance an elfin brood;
A far bell chimes, the cricket cheerly shrills,
The droning beetle sounds his hoarse bassoon
And hylas trill; eftsoon the rising moon
The ambient air to molten silver thrills.

Then all the lyric night is set to song!
The cuckoo calls, the plaining whippoorwill
Cries faint and far away; more distant still
The hoopoe, hid his marshy haunts among,
Wails with the cry of some lost soul in pain;
The nightingale engilds the pulsant dark
With golden-throated melody--but hark!
The night-jar's discord mars the perfect strain.

The night wears on, black shadows throng apace,
The wood is still, the moon grows wan and old,
White marsh-mists wreathe like clammy arms, death-cold,
And moth-wings like dead fingers sweep my face;
The bittern wailing leaves the sombre pool,
Voicing the world-old pain that never dies;
The owl with ghoulish laughter outward flies
Like some weird Vivien shrieking, "Fool!" and "Fool!"

Insatiate

What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?
Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere
Have held in tender fold through many a year
Her quiet grave, I fear her--fear her still.

He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast
And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet,
No touch of mine can make his life replete
For man's first love is oftentimes his last.

A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.
E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp
Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp,
And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.

She lives incarnate in each flower fair,
Her eyes illume the violets in my hand,
The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land
Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.

Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me--
For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still
Who lies forever mute on yonder hill.
He loved her once. Would God that I were she!

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes

Table of Contents: Slight listing changes were made to match poem titles.

Page 29: Added opening parenthesis:
(And I knew that tho' many a woman had loved you,
Till that moment, the glance of no woman had moved you!)

Page 47: Added closing parenthesis:
(Thank God, he suffered so brief a while)

Page 70: Corrected wathway to pathway:
And where the pathway breasts the hill,

Page 79: Added a blank line after first stanza:
Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"

End of Project Gutenberg's The Path of Dreams, by Leigh Gordon Giltner