Chapter III

Though she hath touched hot lips to mine and wept,
From out the hell of her wild soul, fierce tears,
Each little look love kept
Of her disdain, unknowingly, these years,
And word of scorn, is crier at mine ears
To wake the hate that slept.--
She asks me now for water that shall cherish,
When hot sands choke my life’s dry fountainhead:
For love, that stirs not though her love should perish
Where mine lies dead.

LOTUS

Where is the vale and mountain,
And where the rock and stream,
One with its life of music,
The other with its gleam,
Where she and I were shadows
And all our world, a dream?

Between the world of waking,
And the sad world of sleep,
I met her, crowned with sorrow
Of love no heart would keep;
Within her eyes the terror
Of darkness, starry deep.

And was it in the valley,
Where something whispereth,
“Who is it walks so dimly?”
That I heard her murmur, “Death”?
As if upon my eyelids
The Beautiful breathed its breath.

There was no tomb before us,
Nor any stone to tell
Of love, or hate, or horror
In heaven or in hell--
But in her look the legend,
And in her eyes the spell.

And was it on the mountain,
The stealthy stars had crossed
To stand austere with silence,
That I heard her whisper, “Lost”?
As if dark eyes one moment
The Terrible did accost.

There was no memoried presence
Of flower or star or bird
To tell of tears and parting
That heartbreak once had heard--
But in her face the vision,
And in her heart the word.

Where is the vale and mountain,
And where the rock and stream
One with its life of music,
The other with its gleam,
Where she and I were shadows
And all our world, a dream?

MOLY

When by the wall the tiger-flower swings
A head of sultry slumber and aroma;
And by the path, whereon the blown rose flings
Its obsolete beauty, the long lilies foam a
White place of perfume, like a beautiful breast;
Between the pansy fire of the west,
And poppy mist of moonrise in the east,
This heartache will have ceased.

The witchcraft of soft music and sweet sleep--
Let it beguile the burthen from my spirit,
And white dreams reap me, as strong reapers reap
The golden grain and gorgeous blossom near it;
Let me behold how gladness gives the whole
The transformed countenance of my own soul;
Between the sunset and the risen moon,
Let sorrow vanish soon.

And these things then shall keep me company:
The spirit of the dew; the heart of laughter
That haunts the wind; the soul of melody
That sings within the stream, that reaches after
The flow’rs, that rock themselves to its caress:
These of themselves shall shape my happiness,
A visible presence I shall lean upon,
Feeling that care is gone.

Forgetting how the cankered flower must die;
The worm-pierced fruit fall, sicklied to its syrup;
How joy, begotten ’twixt a sigh and sigh,
Waits with one foot forever in the stirrup:--
Remembering how within the hollow lute
Sweet music sleeps when music’s voice is mute;
And in the heart, when all seems dark despair,
Hope with his golden hair.

CHRYSELEPHANTINE

I

Among the hills and morning-colored ways
Let us go forth, oh, let us go with singing!
Within the hearts of better bosoms bringing
A gift of gifts, one day of all our days,
Unto the golden temple of God’s praise,
And ivory altar of the beautiful.
The woods are deep, the woods are dark and cool;
Let us go forth with timbrels of rejoicing,
And lutes of love, and lips forever voicing
The beautiful!

II

The milkworth’s pink and barley’s gold and green,
Twined with the purple of the wilding pansies,
Shall be our wreath;--sweet as an old romance is
With pale blue eyes of some fair fairy-queen,--
Let the frail bluet in our wreath be seen;
And of mauve leaves and leafy loveliness,
And cool, green moss and ferns shall be our dress.
Let us go forth, arrayed as is the morning,
With psalteries of praise, to the adorning
Of loveliness!

III

No spotted serpent hisses near her shrine,
That God ordained, within the heaven-lit distance,
Which love hath built, with life to give assistance,
Of fragrance and of song; whereover shine
All of God’s stars,--so many thoughts divine:--
And at its entrance moonéd purity,
Naked, keeps guard,--no eye impure shall see!--
But worshippers of beauty in the spirit,
And offerers of soul, whose thoughts inherit
Love’s purity.

SIBYLLINE

I

There is a glory in the apple-boughs
Of glimmering moonlight,--like a torch of myrrh,
Burning upon an altar of sweet vows,
Dropped from the hand of some pale worshiper:--
And there is life among the apple-blooms
Of mystic winds,--as if a god addressed
The flamen from the sanctuary glooms,
Revealing secrets which no man has guessed,
Saying: “Behold! a darkness which illumes:
A waking which is rest.”