SPECULATION

If at some future day we two should meet,Stand face to face before the staring crowd,And pull from Love's dead form the decent shroudThat time has wound about from head to feet—I scarcely know what words would come to greetYour presence, if they would be soft or loud,Would your head be held high or humbly bowed,And would the moment bitter be or sweetTo me, as you pushed back the long past years,Would I rejoice, perhaps, at this new pain?At least 'twould mean that I could live again,And had not washed away my soul with tears.I think there might be much that I could blessIn that deliverance out of nothingness.

If at some future day we two should meet,

Stand face to face before the staring crowd,

And pull from Love's dead form the decent shroud

That time has wound about from head to feet—

I scarcely know what words would come to greet

Your presence, if they would be soft or loud,

Would your head be held high or humbly bowed,

And would the moment bitter be or sweet

To me, as you pushed back the long past years,

Would I rejoice, perhaps, at this new pain?

At least 'twould mean that I could live again,

And had not washed away my soul with tears.

I think there might be much that I could bless

In that deliverance out of nothingness.

To meet almost as strangers, who have beenSuch lovers in the past! no glad delightTo thrill our senses, till the wrong seems right,For very joy—I wonder will your mienBe happy? it seems years since I have seenYou smiling! I shall take you to the light,And trace new lines upon your brow, and rightAbove them may be some gray hairs, your cleanStrong profile, will it look the very same?Are your hands wrinkled? Oh! my perfect hands!Be not less lovely now that passion standsAloof, and dare not kiss you into flame—I could not bear it! Time can never blightSuch marvels, so divinely slim and white.

To meet almost as strangers, who have been

Such lovers in the past! no glad delight

To thrill our senses, till the wrong seems right,

For very joy—I wonder will your mien

Be happy? it seems years since I have seen

You smiling! I shall take you to the light,

And trace new lines upon your brow, and right

Above them may be some gray hairs, your clean

Strong profile, will it look the very same?

Are your hands wrinkled? Oh! my perfect hands!

Be not less lovely now that passion stands

Aloof, and dare not kiss you into flame—

I could not bear it! Time can never blight

Such marvels, so divinely slim and white.

Why kinder to the breeze than unto me?For oft you let him play within your hair,Blow its soft curls about, and find it fair,The while he whispers low and tenderlyInto your ear; and yet how cold is he!And loves you not, but only frolics there;Sometimes I wishImight be turned to air,And thus be rid of my humanity,That finds no favour in your haughty eyes.Were I a breeze you'd fling your windows wide,And give me welcome, as I swept asideThe curtain, kissing all pride now denies,Your lips, your cheeks, your eyes, your throat, your breast,Until with kissing spent I sank to rest.

Why kinder to the breeze than unto me?

For oft you let him play within your hair,

Blow its soft curls about, and find it fair,

The while he whispers low and tenderly

Into your ear; and yet how cold is he!

And loves you not, but only frolics there;

Sometimes I wishImight be turned to air,

And thus be rid of my humanity,

That finds no favour in your haughty eyes.

Were I a breeze you'd fling your windows wide,

And give me welcome, as I swept aside

The curtain, kissing all pride now denies,

Your lips, your cheeks, your eyes, your throat, your breast,

Until with kissing spent I sank to rest.

The sea was witness of the words you said:She hushed her every tide that she might hearYour whispered love, and while you bent so nearMy bosom, laying down your weary headTo rest thereon—the corals in their bedStirred with emotion, shaken as with fear,And foam grew paler, passionately drearAs some wan smile, upon a face that's dead.I took your hand in mine, your living hand!And pressed it closer, closer in mine own.A nameless terror shocked me while I scannedYour ardent face; there rose a stifled moanTo part my lips; I saw the future standBefore me, and behold! I was alone.

The sea was witness of the words you said:

She hushed her every tide that she might hear

Your whispered love, and while you bent so near

My bosom, laying down your weary head

To rest thereon—the corals in their bed

Stirred with emotion, shaken as with fear,

And foam grew paler, passionately drear

As some wan smile, upon a face that's dead.

I took your hand in mine, your living hand!And pressed it closer, closer in mine own.A nameless terror shocked me while I scannedYour ardent face; there rose a stifled moanTo part my lips; I saw the future standBefore me, and behold! I was alone.

I took your hand in mine, your living hand!

And pressed it closer, closer in mine own.

A nameless terror shocked me while I scanned

Your ardent face; there rose a stifled moan

To part my lips; I saw the future stand

Before me, and behold! I was alone.

Ah! Faith, I'd barter all I own to knowBut one brief moment of your magic charm,Whereby my spirit freed from earthly woe,Might spread its wings towards immortal calm.Is there no wisdom but it steals our peace?No knowledge but it leads us to unrest?My mind is weary, and would seek releaseFrom thoughts terrestrial; those indeed are blessedUpon whose hearts all simple holy thingsFall without question, as a drop of dewLights on a rose, and, though she gently swings,Falls not to earth! ah! rose, if I were you,I would thrice bless your dumbness, since therebyYour fragrant lips may never question why.

Ah! Faith, I'd barter all I own to know

But one brief moment of your magic charm,

Whereby my spirit freed from earthly woe,

Might spread its wings towards immortal calm.

Is there no wisdom but it steals our peace?

No knowledge but it leads us to unrest?

My mind is weary, and would seek release

From thoughts terrestrial; those indeed are blessed

Upon whose hearts all simple holy things

Fall without question, as a drop of dew

Lights on a rose, and, though she gently swings,

Falls not to earth! ah! rose, if I were you,

I would thrice bless your dumbness, since thereby

Your fragrant lips may never question why.

Upon my life I bear one precious scar:Each night I kiss it, till anew it bleeds,And tell each drop of blood, as hallowed beadsAre told by those dear few who faithful are.To me it seems to beautify, not mar,My inner self, for from that deep wound leadsA path to gained respect, my secret needsQuenched by the bleeding of that fountain are.The fiery contest when that wound was won,Still burns within my brain, and robs of life,And terror, every lesser hurt that's doneTo heart or spirit; let all harm run rife.I shall not fear again to look uponThe gleaming edges of Fate's sharpest knife.

Upon my life I bear one precious scar:

Each night I kiss it, till anew it bleeds,

And tell each drop of blood, as hallowed beads

Are told by those dear few who faithful are.

To me it seems to beautify, not mar,

My inner self, for from that deep wound leads

A path to gained respect, my secret needs

Quenched by the bleeding of that fountain are.

The fiery contest when that wound was won,Still burns within my brain, and robs of life,And terror, every lesser hurt that's doneTo heart or spirit; let all harm run rife.I shall not fear again to look uponThe gleaming edges of Fate's sharpest knife.

The fiery contest when that wound was won,

Still burns within my brain, and robs of life,

And terror, every lesser hurt that's done

To heart or spirit; let all harm run rife.

I shall not fear again to look upon

The gleaming edges of Fate's sharpest knife.

Without what desolation! mist and rain,And weeping trees, and roses that decayWhile still in blossom, till the autumn dayLies low, and speechless, and benumbed with pain.An early twilight hides the gentle plainWith mournful dusk, while meadows melt awayLike echoes of those tunes we used to play,Ere time had turned them to a lost refrain.But leave the window, turn towards the room,So soft with firelight on the time-worn beamsA friendly spirit lurks within the gloomOf dim oak corners, while a host of gleamsAwait your fingers on our fancy's loom,To weave them into happy fireside dreams.

Without what desolation! mist and rain,

And weeping trees, and roses that decay

While still in blossom, till the autumn day

Lies low, and speechless, and benumbed with pain.

An early twilight hides the gentle plain

With mournful dusk, while meadows melt away

Like echoes of those tunes we used to play,

Ere time had turned them to a lost refrain.

But leave the window, turn towards the room,So soft with firelight on the time-worn beamsA friendly spirit lurks within the gloomOf dim oak corners, while a host of gleamsAwait your fingers on our fancy's loom,To weave them into happy fireside dreams.

But leave the window, turn towards the room,

So soft with firelight on the time-worn beams

A friendly spirit lurks within the gloom

Of dim oak corners, while a host of gleams

Await your fingers on our fancy's loom,

To weave them into happy fireside dreams.

Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth,Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple painBe offered in a sacrificial rainOf sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreathOf all their leaves, and place it just beneathYour high-combed curls, to rest upon the plainOf your white temples: though the Nymphs disdainTo grace our modern banquet, they bequeathA sylvan fancy to my wayward dream.This glint of candles on the silver roundIs yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream,These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground,And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting themeFor you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.

Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth,

Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple pain

Be offered in a sacrificial rain

Of sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreath

Of all their leaves, and place it just beneath

Your high-combed curls, to rest upon the plain

Of your white temples: though the Nymphs disdain

To grace our modern banquet, they bequeath

A sylvan fancy to my wayward dream.

This glint of candles on the silver round

Is yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream,

These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground,

And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting theme

For you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.

The shaded lamps that make the room seem dimScarcely revealing pictures on the wall;Yet one so placed to let a halo fallUpon your hair; you smile! yes, it's a whimA Poet's fancy with a moonlit rimPerhaps—and yet a harmless wish withal.Don't quarrel with it, just sit there, those tallWhite lilies make a background for your slimYoung body. Let the blinds be up, and nightGaze through the windows with her purple eyes,Dropping some ardent star from out its heightFor very eagerness of glad surpriseAt so much beauty, till your song's delightShall waft it back into the listening skies!

The shaded lamps that make the room seem dim

Scarcely revealing pictures on the wall;

Yet one so placed to let a halo fall

Upon your hair; you smile! yes, it's a whim

A Poet's fancy with a moonlit rim

Perhaps—and yet a harmless wish withal.

Don't quarrel with it, just sit there, those tall

White lilies make a background for your slim

Young body. Let the blinds be up, and night

Gaze through the windows with her purple eyes,

Dropping some ardent star from out its height

For very eagerness of glad surprise

At so much beauty, till your song's delight

Shall waft it back into the listening skies!

Where shall I find a corner in this roomAlmost in darkness? Ah! that deep recessOf languid cushions, eager to caressMy weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloomMade holy by the incense of perfume,All unobserved and happy I'll confessMy senses to those roses, passionless,And listening in their bowl of silver doom.Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly!With tender pauses in between the notesFilled up with little sighs, unconsciously—These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boatsOur souls may sail on lakes of melodyAdown whose ripples youth eternal floats.

Where shall I find a corner in this room

Almost in darkness? Ah! that deep recess

Of languid cushions, eager to caress

My weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloom

Made holy by the incense of perfume,

All unobserved and happy I'll confess

My senses to those roses, passionless,

And listening in their bowl of silver doom.

Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly!

With tender pauses in between the notes

Filled up with little sighs, unconsciously—

These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boats

Our souls may sail on lakes of melody

Adown whose ripples youth eternal floats.

Oh! burning silence! when the very airIs warm with memories of sounds we love!You cease to sing, yet from below, above,Around me, in me, of me, everywhere,That Music's spirit, tremulously fairFlutters and flutters, like a wounded dove,And cannot fly beyond this earthly groove!Midway it pauses, hanging throbbing there.I will not speak, lest it should seem profaneIn such a presence; idle words of praiseYe are but mortal sounds, with no refrainThat can endure beyond our passing days,And so be silent! silent with the painOf all deep feeling, that can find no phrase.

Oh! burning silence! when the very air

Is warm with memories of sounds we love!

You cease to sing, yet from below, above,

Around me, in me, of me, everywhere,

That Music's spirit, tremulously fair

Flutters and flutters, like a wounded dove,

And cannot fly beyond this earthly groove!

Midway it pauses, hanging throbbing there.

I will not speak, lest it should seem profane

In such a presence; idle words of praise

Ye are but mortal sounds, with no refrain

That can endure beyond our passing days,

And so be silent! silent with the pain

Of all deep feeling, that can find no phrase.

Kiss me good night, sweet minstrel, on the stairs!I love your lips, they're neither pale nor red,But like an after-glow, when day lies deadUpon the mountains. Do they say soft prayers,Those languid lips? to God, a God who cares,And gathers such dear follies thread by threadAs each is woven in your mind, and shedLike gold spun silk upon His field of tares?You're silent! let it pass; who knows but you,So strong in weakness, may compel God's earTo listen for the smallest drop of dewThat all our thunders would disdain to hear:And so, Sweet,ifyou pray, repeat anewTo God, that while you sang I wept a tear!

Kiss me good night, sweet minstrel, on the stairs!

I love your lips, they're neither pale nor red,

But like an after-glow, when day lies dead

Upon the mountains. Do they say soft prayers,

Those languid lips? to God, a God who cares,

And gathers such dear follies thread by thread

As each is woven in your mind, and shed

Like gold spun silk upon His field of tares?

You're silent! let it pass; who knows but you,

So strong in weakness, may compel God's ear

To listen for the smallest drop of dew

That all our thunders would disdain to hear:

And so, Sweet,ifyou pray, repeat anew

To God, that while you sang I wept a tear!

This morning while I light my cigaretteIn this dim study with its endless viewStretching away to hills whose eyes are blueWith secret thoughts,mythoughts are all regret,Regret for broken interludes! and yet—If it were otherwise, who knows but youMight grow to pall, as things familiar do,While now it seems worth while to not forget!And so good-bye, my friend, drift out in smoke,Vague, and intangible, a fleeting joyThat some stray match of fate in passing woke,To burn awhile, like this small soothing toyBetween my lips: Time's galling iron yokeIs not for us, we made and we'll destroy.

This morning while I light my cigarette

In this dim study with its endless view

Stretching away to hills whose eyes are blue

With secret thoughts,mythoughts are all regret,

Regret for broken interludes! and yet—

If it were otherwise, who knows but you

Might grow to pall, as things familiar do,

While now it seems worth while to not forget!

And so good-bye, my friend, drift out in smoke,

Vague, and intangible, a fleeting joy

That some stray match of fate in passing woke,

To burn awhile, like this small soothing toy

Between my lips: Time's galling iron yoke

Is not for us, we made and we'll destroy.

Rampant Lion Decoration

CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

The following poems from"'Twixt Earth and Stars,"byMarguerite Radclyffe-Hall,have been set to music:

ByMR. HUBERT BATH"A Song."Chappell and Co."Italian Spring."Boosey and Co."On the Lagoon."Boosey and Co.ByMR. EATHORPE MARTIN"Shall I Complain?"Metzler and Co.

ByMR. HUBERT BATH

"A Song."Chappell and Co."Italian Spring."Boosey and Co."On the Lagoon."Boosey and Co.

ByMR. EATHORPE MARTIN

"Shall I Complain?"Metzler and Co.

Transcriber's NotesMinor punctuation and printer errors repaired.

Minor punctuation and printer errors repaired.

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