Chapter X: Epilogue (1)

_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