Chapter III

If you would know my mother-heart,
But watch the wasting day!
The wind steps softly in the corn,
The light slips to the hill;
Love, wait awhile, be still.

INDIAN SUMMER

Blossoms shaken from their star forms
Back to earth,
Flying seedlings warm and waiting
Drift in sunlight with the going
Of the birds towards the south!

Birds are going!
They will sing before they go,
Fill the orchard with their mirth:
Song of harvest, song of summer, song of springtime,--
They remember it was April long ago!

We are parting,
You are going towards the south!
Love was birth.
Is this dying,--
Death my harvest, grief my summer, tears my springtime?...
Well, kiss me kindly,
Song is warmest on the mouth!
Give me love before you go!

A THOUSAND YEARS

A thousand years from now
No one will know that you and I
Lifted our arms to touch the sky
And clasped an empty vow,--
No one will know,
We loved so long ago!

A thousand years from now
We shall not hear the cry of hope
Linger, remember, echo, grope,
While mornings glow
And evenings come and go!

A thousand years from now
No one will know that we have slept
Breast to each other’s breast and wept,--
No one will know
We loved so long ago!

A thousand years from now
We shall not see love welcome death,
Dreams harden into frosted breath,
Spring burn the apple bough
While mornings glow
And evenings come and go!

THE BROKEN DOOR

This is the place! I know
The broken door, the ragged bed of bloom
Where poppies grow,
Row after row.

This is the place.
A year ago, her footprint
Marked the garden path
With tender hollow.

But now?
Time’s step is slow to follow.

ONLY YOUR NAME

Sometimes I wake from sleep
Only your name drawing across my lips
In creeping wind from unlit space,
No star sparks flickering on that wind,
No signal tree top touched with racing light,
No lantern-memory hung to show the way;
Only a pathless name,
Dark, terrible, meaningless because most near!
And yet I never knew you,--
Only your name and pain!

REPETENDS

In the still woods I find your eyes,
I hear your voice once more
And the far-singing hermit thrush
Beyond our northern door.

In the still woods pale repetends
I find of death and grief
In fallen nest and perished bee
And sepulchre of leaf.

TOO LATE

It is too long, too long!
My heart grows old with grieving
For the touch of you.

It is too far, too far!
My eyes are dazed
With searching emptiness,--
The dark, the blurred horizon
With its dust of other feet.

It is too late, too late!
Gray thoughts stalk round me
With their death.
I strike my tent,
I go.
Not even dreams can bring you now,--
Too long, too far, too late!

THE TIDE

I shall find you when the tide comes in,--
A shell, a sound, a flash of light
To live with me by day,
To dream with me by night.

You come and go
As waters flow;
You lap me round
You pour me full;
A shell at rest
You touch my breast.
I feel your will,
And I am bound
By light, by sound;
To love you still.

I shall find you when the tide comes in,--
A shell, a sound, a flash of light.
Men say you died.
They knew not what to say,--
I hear the tide,
I hear the tide!

DUST AND DREAMS

At peace with every sweet remembered thing
You lie; with woodland song that died long years
Ago; with pebbles washed ashore and fears
Released and feathers broken from the wing
That beat its westward flight towards the sun
And some far nest beside some unknown sea:
I would not answer when you called to me,
And now my thought of you is never done.

This starlit road with its dark towering pines,
Its dust of misty pollen blown in cloud
From field to field, its silences, its shroud
Of clinging dark and all its trailing vines
White with moonshine and the priestly dew,
We shared. Tonight I travel it alone,--
Alone I go towards that glistening stone
Which marks your rest, my thought a prayer for you.

Singing the water rushes past your quiet grave
Beneath this little town whose ancient name
Suggests the fair collegiate dream and fame
Of Oxford and her clustered towers. With wave
The river winds a garland for your rest--
The woven sound of grieving without end.
To you I bring the memory of a friend
And lay these words on your remembered breast.

THE NEST

I

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?
And is there room at your side?
And can you hear the sound of my breath
And sorrow that cries like a tide?

II

Oh, may I take your hand, dear one,
As the nest enfolds the bird,
Lie close to your heart and breast to breast
And never a spoken word?

III

What then if the stars be gone, dear one,
What then if the wind be still,
And words that we spoke long years ago
Drift pale and faint and chill?

IV

Our dust shall be warmed by the sun, dear one,
Our grief shall fade with the snow;
And mingled in spring by sun and rain
Our love to a flower blow.

V

Oh, is there room at your feet, dear one?
And is there room at your side?
And can you hear the sound of my breath
And sorrow that cries like a tide?

LOST LOVE

You have her mouth of grief,--
Your parted lips half-shape a moan;
You have her brow branded with memory;
You have her downcast eyes
Brooding like doves above the body’s need;
You have her heart of love
Where music flows
And sorrows nurse.

O Voice of all lost love and agony,
Cecilia, Saint,
We beg the healing of your breast,
Music at our lips
And sleep!

“WHEN SPRING”

A BALLAD OF LOVE

I

When spring was in her heart beat,
Her lover came from sea;
She gave him passion’s lily cup,
He gave her thistles three.

II

When spring was in her heart beat,
He filled their lily cup
With bitter dew and star dust
And frozen spray to sup.

III

When spring was in her heart beat,
He snared the only star
Still racing on her dream path:
Now other thistles are!

IV

He said a little tinsel
Would serve her last journee,
And nailed a glittering handful
Upon a willow tree.

V

Now death drags at her heart beat
She sees gray branches weep;
They drip but ashen starlight,
Singing, “Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!”

TWO CANDLES

TO MY MOTHER AT FLEUR DE LYS

I

Two candles place I at her feet,
Two candles at her head;
These are the gifts that I would bring
To my Belovèd Dead.

II

I sought the violet of her eyes,
Her eyes were closed in sleep;
My love was trembling like a child
And could not even weep.

III

I clad her in a purple shroud,
Some said it should be white;
I said, “The passion of her eyes
Found peace in candlelight!”