TO REVERY.

WHATogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought,What walls of bastioned Parian, lucid rose,What marts of crystal, for the eyes of ThoughtHast builded on what Islands of Repose!Vague onyx columns ranked Corinthian,Or piled Ionic, colonnading heightsThat loom above long burst of mythic seas:Vast gynaeceums of carnelian;Micaceous temples, far marmorean flights,Where winds the arabesque and plastique frieze.Where bulbous domes of coruscating oreCloud—like convulsive sunsets—lands that dream,Myrrh-fragrant, over siren seas and hoar,Dashed with stiff, breezy foam of ocean's stream.Tempestuous architecture-revelries;Built melodies of marble or clear glass;Effulgent sculptures chiseled out of thoughtIn misty attitudes, whose majestiesFeed full the pleasure as those beauties passTo pale extinctions which are beauty fraught.On rebeck and on rose in plinths of spars,On glimmering solitudes of flower and stone,A twilight-glow swoons settled, burned with stars,Deep violet dusk developing nor done.Where float fair nacreous shapes like deities,—Existences of glory musical,—'Round whose warm hair twist fillets' coiling gold,Their limbs Olympian lovely, and their eyesDark oblique fervors; and most languorous tallIn woven white with girdling gold threefold.There darkling the consummate vintage sleeps,—Lethe-nepenthes for Earth-agony,—In sealéd amphorae some Sybil keeps,World-old, forever cellared secretly.A wine of Xeres or of Syracuse?A fierce Falernian?—Ah! no vile Sabine!—A stol'n ambrosia of what olden god?Whose bubbled rubies maiden feet did bruiseFrom crusted vats of vintage rich, I ween,Vivacious purple of some Samian sod.Oh, for the cold conclusion of one draught!Elysian ecstacy of classic earth!—Where heroes warred with gods and where gods laughedIn eyes of mortal brown, a lusty mirthOf deity delirious with desire:Where danced the sacrifice to hornéd shrines,And splashed the full libation blue as blood.—Oh, to be drunk with dreaming! to inspireThe very soul of beauty whence it shinesToo lost for utterance yet understood!In cogitation of what verdurous shades,Dull-droning quietudes where wild-bees lolledSuck, lulled in pulpy lilies of the glades,Barbaric-smothered with the kerneled gold:Teased by some torso of the golden age,Nude breasts of Cytherea, famous fair,Uncestus'd, yet suggestive of what lovesImmortal! yearn enamoured; or to rageWith sun-burnt Poesy whose throat breathes bareO'er leopard skins and flute among her groves.

WHATogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought,

What walls of bastioned Parian, lucid rose,

What marts of crystal, for the eyes of Thought

Hast builded on what Islands of Repose!

Vague onyx columns ranked Corinthian,

Or piled Ionic, colonnading heights

That loom above long burst of mythic seas:

Vast gynaeceums of carnelian;

Micaceous temples, far marmorean flights,

Where winds the arabesque and plastique frieze.

Where bulbous domes of coruscating oreCloud—like convulsive sunsets—lands that dream,Myrrh-fragrant, over siren seas and hoar,Dashed with stiff, breezy foam of ocean's stream.Tempestuous architecture-revelries;Built melodies of marble or clear glass;Effulgent sculptures chiseled out of thoughtIn misty attitudes, whose majestiesFeed full the pleasure as those beauties passTo pale extinctions which are beauty fraught.

Where bulbous domes of coruscating ore

Cloud—like convulsive sunsets—lands that dream,

Myrrh-fragrant, over siren seas and hoar,

Dashed with stiff, breezy foam of ocean's stream.

Tempestuous architecture-revelries;

Built melodies of marble or clear glass;

Effulgent sculptures chiseled out of thought

In misty attitudes, whose majesties

Feed full the pleasure as those beauties pass

To pale extinctions which are beauty fraught.

On rebeck and on rose in plinths of spars,On glimmering solitudes of flower and stone,A twilight-glow swoons settled, burned with stars,Deep violet dusk developing nor done.Where float fair nacreous shapes like deities,—Existences of glory musical,—'Round whose warm hair twist fillets' coiling gold,Their limbs Olympian lovely, and their eyesDark oblique fervors; and most languorous tallIn woven white with girdling gold threefold.

On rebeck and on rose in plinths of spars,

On glimmering solitudes of flower and stone,

A twilight-glow swoons settled, burned with stars,

Deep violet dusk developing nor done.

Where float fair nacreous shapes like deities,—

Existences of glory musical,—

'Round whose warm hair twist fillets' coiling gold,

Their limbs Olympian lovely, and their eyes

Dark oblique fervors; and most languorous tall

In woven white with girdling gold threefold.

There darkling the consummate vintage sleeps,—Lethe-nepenthes for Earth-agony,—In sealéd amphorae some Sybil keeps,World-old, forever cellared secretly.A wine of Xeres or of Syracuse?A fierce Falernian?—Ah! no vile Sabine!—A stol'n ambrosia of what olden god?Whose bubbled rubies maiden feet did bruiseFrom crusted vats of vintage rich, I ween,Vivacious purple of some Samian sod.

There darkling the consummate vintage sleeps,—

Lethe-nepenthes for Earth-agony,—

In sealéd amphorae some Sybil keeps,

World-old, forever cellared secretly.

A wine of Xeres or of Syracuse?

A fierce Falernian?—Ah! no vile Sabine!—

A stol'n ambrosia of what olden god?

Whose bubbled rubies maiden feet did bruise

From crusted vats of vintage rich, I ween,

Vivacious purple of some Samian sod.

Oh, for the cold conclusion of one draught!Elysian ecstacy of classic earth!—Where heroes warred with gods and where gods laughedIn eyes of mortal brown, a lusty mirthOf deity delirious with desire:Where danced the sacrifice to hornéd shrines,And splashed the full libation blue as blood.—Oh, to be drunk with dreaming! to inspireThe very soul of beauty whence it shinesToo lost for utterance yet understood!

Oh, for the cold conclusion of one draught!

Elysian ecstacy of classic earth!—

Where heroes warred with gods and where gods laughed

In eyes of mortal brown, a lusty mirth

Of deity delirious with desire:

Where danced the sacrifice to hornéd shrines,

And splashed the full libation blue as blood.—

Oh, to be drunk with dreaming! to inspire

The very soul of beauty whence it shines

Too lost for utterance yet understood!

In cogitation of what verdurous shades,Dull-droning quietudes where wild-bees lolledSuck, lulled in pulpy lilies of the glades,Barbaric-smothered with the kerneled gold:Teased by some torso of the golden age,Nude breasts of Cytherea, famous fair,Uncestus'd, yet suggestive of what lovesImmortal! yearn enamoured; or to rageWith sun-burnt Poesy whose throat breathes bareO'er leopard skins and flute among her groves.

In cogitation of what verdurous shades,

Dull-droning quietudes where wild-bees lolled

Suck, lulled in pulpy lilies of the glades,

Barbaric-smothered with the kerneled gold:

Teased by some torso of the golden age,

Nude breasts of Cytherea, famous fair,

Uncestus'd, yet suggestive of what loves

Immortal! yearn enamoured; or to rage

With sun-burnt Poesy whose throat breathes bare

O'er leopard skins and flute among her groves.

AH, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes,What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold,Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods,And to your pride anointed empire soldFor wan traditioned death, whose misty moodsShake each huge throne of quarried shadows cold?Now where the agate-foliaged forests sleep,Bleak briars are ruby-berried, and the brushFlames—when the winds armsful of motion heapIn wincing gusts upon it—amber blush;The beech an inner beryle breaks from deepEncrusting topaz of a sullen flush.Dead gold, dead bronze, dull amethystine rose,Rose cameo, in day's gray, somber sparOf smoky quartz—intaglioed beauty—glowsLuxuriance of color. Trunks that areVast organs antheming the winds' wild woesA faded sun and pale night's paler star.Bulged from its cup the dark-brown acorn falls,And by its gnarly saucer in the streamsSwells plumped; and here the spikey spruce-gum ballsRust maces of an ouphen host that dreams;Beneath the chestnut the split burry hullsDisgorge fat purses of sleek satin gleams.Burst silver white, nods an exploded huskOf snowy, woolly smoke the milk-weed's puffAlong the orchard's fence, where in the duskAnd ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr's roughRed, breezy cheeks burn thro' his beard,—the brusqueCrab apples laugh, wind-tumbled from above.Runs thro' the wasted leaves the crickets' click,Which saddest coignes of Melancholy cheers;One bird unto the sumach flits to pickRed, sour seeds; and thro' the woods one hearsThe drop of gummy walnuts; the railed rickLooms tawny in the field where low the steers.Some slim bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked,The birds to Echo's shores, where flossy foamsBoom low long cream-white cliffs.—Where once buzzedUnmillioned bees within unmillioned blooms,One hairy hummer cramps one bloom, frost mocked,—rockedA miser whose rich hives squeeze oozing combs.Twist some lithe maple and right suddenlyA leafy storm of stars about you breaks—Some Hamadryad's tears: Unto her kneeWading the Naiad clears her brook that streaksThro' wadded waifs: Hark! Pan for HelikeFlutes melancholy by the minty creeks.

AH, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes,

What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold,

Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods,

And to your pride anointed empire sold

For wan traditioned death, whose misty moods

Shake each huge throne of quarried shadows cold?

Now where the agate-foliaged forests sleep,Bleak briars are ruby-berried, and the brushFlames—when the winds armsful of motion heapIn wincing gusts upon it—amber blush;The beech an inner beryle breaks from deepEncrusting topaz of a sullen flush.

Now where the agate-foliaged forests sleep,

Bleak briars are ruby-berried, and the brush

Flames—when the winds armsful of motion heap

In wincing gusts upon it—amber blush;

The beech an inner beryle breaks from deep

Encrusting topaz of a sullen flush.

Dead gold, dead bronze, dull amethystine rose,Rose cameo, in day's gray, somber sparOf smoky quartz—intaglioed beauty—glowsLuxuriance of color. Trunks that areVast organs antheming the winds' wild woesA faded sun and pale night's paler star.

Dead gold, dead bronze, dull amethystine rose,

Rose cameo, in day's gray, somber spar

Of smoky quartz—intaglioed beauty—glows

Luxuriance of color. Trunks that are

Vast organs antheming the winds' wild woes

A faded sun and pale night's paler star.

Bulged from its cup the dark-brown acorn falls,And by its gnarly saucer in the streamsSwells plumped; and here the spikey spruce-gum ballsRust maces of an ouphen host that dreams;Beneath the chestnut the split burry hullsDisgorge fat purses of sleek satin gleams.

Bulged from its cup the dark-brown acorn falls,

And by its gnarly saucer in the streams

Swells plumped; and here the spikey spruce-gum balls

Rust maces of an ouphen host that dreams;

Beneath the chestnut the split burry hulls

Disgorge fat purses of sleek satin gleams.

Burst silver white, nods an exploded huskOf snowy, woolly smoke the milk-weed's puffAlong the orchard's fence, where in the duskAnd ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr's roughRed, breezy cheeks burn thro' his beard,—the brusqueCrab apples laugh, wind-tumbled from above.

Burst silver white, nods an exploded husk

Of snowy, woolly smoke the milk-weed's puff

Along the orchard's fence, where in the dusk

And ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr's rough

Red, breezy cheeks burn thro' his beard,—the brusque

Crab apples laugh, wind-tumbled from above.

Runs thro' the wasted leaves the crickets' click,Which saddest coignes of Melancholy cheers;One bird unto the sumach flits to pickRed, sour seeds; and thro' the woods one hearsThe drop of gummy walnuts; the railed rickLooms tawny in the field where low the steers.

Runs thro' the wasted leaves the crickets' click,

Which saddest coignes of Melancholy cheers;

One bird unto the sumach flits to pick

Red, sour seeds; and thro' the woods one hears

The drop of gummy walnuts; the railed rick

Looms tawny in the field where low the steers.

Some slim bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked,The birds to Echo's shores, where flossy foamsBoom low long cream-white cliffs.—Where once buzzedUnmillioned bees within unmillioned blooms,One hairy hummer cramps one bloom, frost mocked,—rockedA miser whose rich hives squeeze oozing combs.

Some slim bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked,

The birds to Echo's shores, where flossy foams

Boom low long cream-white cliffs.—Where once buzzed

Unmillioned bees within unmillioned blooms,

One hairy hummer cramps one bloom, frost mocked,—rocked

A miser whose rich hives squeeze oozing combs.

Twist some lithe maple and right suddenlyA leafy storm of stars about you breaks—Some Hamadryad's tears: Unto her kneeWading the Naiad clears her brook that streaksThro' wadded waifs: Hark! Pan for HelikeFlutes melancholy by the minty creeks.

Twist some lithe maple and right suddenly

A leafy storm of stars about you breaks—

Some Hamadryad's tears: Unto her knee

Wading the Naiad clears her brook that streaks

Thro' wadded waifs: Hark! Pan for Helike

Flutes melancholy by the minty creeks.

TEACHme the wisdom of thy beauty, pray,That, being thus wise, I may aspire to seeWhat beauty is, whence, why, and in what wayImmortal, yet how mortal utterly:For, shrinking loveliness, thy brow of dayPleads plaintive as a prayer, anemone."Teach me wood-wisdom, I am petulant:Thou hast the wildness of a Dryad's eyes,The shyness of an Oread's, wild plant:—Behold the bashful goddess where she liesDistinctly delicate!—inhabitantAmbrosial-earthed, star-cousin of the skies."Teach me thy wisdom, for, thro' knowing, yet,When I have drunk dull Lethe till each veinThuds full oblivion, I shall not forget;—For beauty known is beauty; to sustainGlad memories with life, while mad regretAnd sorrow perish, being Lethe slain.""Teach thee my beauty being beautifulAnd beauty wise?—My slight perfections, wholeAs world, as man, in their creation fullAs old a Power's cogitation roll.Teach thee?—Presumption! thought is young and dull—Question thy God what God is, soul what soul."

TEACHme the wisdom of thy beauty, pray,

That, being thus wise, I may aspire to see

What beauty is, whence, why, and in what way

Immortal, yet how mortal utterly:

For, shrinking loveliness, thy brow of day

Pleads plaintive as a prayer, anemone.

"Teach me wood-wisdom, I am petulant:Thou hast the wildness of a Dryad's eyes,The shyness of an Oread's, wild plant:—Behold the bashful goddess where she liesDistinctly delicate!—inhabitantAmbrosial-earthed, star-cousin of the skies.

"Teach me wood-wisdom, I am petulant:

Thou hast the wildness of a Dryad's eyes,

The shyness of an Oread's, wild plant:—

Behold the bashful goddess where she lies

Distinctly delicate!—inhabitant

Ambrosial-earthed, star-cousin of the skies.

"Teach me thy wisdom, for, thro' knowing, yet,When I have drunk dull Lethe till each veinThuds full oblivion, I shall not forget;—For beauty known is beauty; to sustainGlad memories with life, while mad regretAnd sorrow perish, being Lethe slain."

"Teach me thy wisdom, for, thro' knowing, yet,

When I have drunk dull Lethe till each vein

Thuds full oblivion, I shall not forget;—

For beauty known is beauty; to sustain

Glad memories with life, while mad regret

And sorrow perish, being Lethe slain."

"Teach thee my beauty being beautifulAnd beauty wise?—My slight perfections, wholeAs world, as man, in their creation fullAs old a Power's cogitation roll.Teach thee?—Presumption! thought is young and dull—Question thy God what God is, soul what soul."

"Teach thee my beauty being beautiful

And beauty wise?—My slight perfections, whole

As world, as man, in their creation full

As old a Power's cogitation roll.

Teach thee?—Presumption! thought is young and dull—

Question thy God what God is, soul what soul."

THEEfreckled August, dozing hot and blondeOft 'neath a wheat-stack in the white-topped mead—In her full hair brown ox-eyed daisies wound—O water-gurgler, lends a sleepy heed:Half-lidded eyes a purple iron-weedBlows slimly o'er; beyond, a path-found pondBasks flint-bright, hedged with pink-plumed pepper-grasses,A coigne for vainest dragonflies, which glassesTheir blue in diamond.Oft from some dusty locust, that thick weavesWith crescent pulse-pods its thin foliage gray,Thou,—o'er the shambling lane, which past the sheavesOf sun-tanned oats winds, red with rutty clay,One league of rude rail-fence,—some panting day,When each parched meadow quivering vapor grieves,Nature's Astrologist, dost promise rain,In seeping language of the thirsty plain,Cool from the burning leaves.And, in good faith, aye! best of faith, art true;And welcome that rune-chuckled forecasting,When up the faded fierceness of scorched blueStrong water-carrier winds big buckets bring,Black with stored freshness: how their dippers ringAnd flash and rattle! lavishing large dewOn tall, good-humored corn that, streaming wet,Laughs long; while woods and leas, shut in a netOf mist, dream vague in view.And thou, safe-houséd in some pawpaw bowerOf close, broad, gold-green leaves, contented artIn thy prediction, fall'n within the hour;While fuss the brown bees hiveward from the heartOf honey-filtering bloom; beneath the cartDroop pompous barnyard cocks damped by the shower:And deep-eyed August, bonnetless, a beechHugs in disheveled beauty, safe from reachOn starry moss and flower.

THEEfreckled August, dozing hot and blonde

Oft 'neath a wheat-stack in the white-topped mead—

In her full hair brown ox-eyed daisies wound—

O water-gurgler, lends a sleepy heed:

Half-lidded eyes a purple iron-weed

Blows slimly o'er; beyond, a path-found pond

Basks flint-bright, hedged with pink-plumed pepper-grasses,

A coigne for vainest dragonflies, which glasses

Their blue in diamond.

Oft from some dusty locust, that thick weavesWith crescent pulse-pods its thin foliage gray,Thou,—o'er the shambling lane, which past the sheavesOf sun-tanned oats winds, red with rutty clay,One league of rude rail-fence,—some panting day,When each parched meadow quivering vapor grieves,Nature's Astrologist, dost promise rain,In seeping language of the thirsty plain,Cool from the burning leaves.

Oft from some dusty locust, that thick weaves

With crescent pulse-pods its thin foliage gray,

Thou,—o'er the shambling lane, which past the sheaves

Of sun-tanned oats winds, red with rutty clay,

One league of rude rail-fence,—some panting day,

When each parched meadow quivering vapor grieves,

Nature's Astrologist, dost promise rain,

In seeping language of the thirsty plain,

Cool from the burning leaves.

And, in good faith, aye! best of faith, art true;And welcome that rune-chuckled forecasting,When up the faded fierceness of scorched blueStrong water-carrier winds big buckets bring,Black with stored freshness: how their dippers ringAnd flash and rattle! lavishing large dewOn tall, good-humored corn that, streaming wet,Laughs long; while woods and leas, shut in a netOf mist, dream vague in view.

And, in good faith, aye! best of faith, art true;

And welcome that rune-chuckled forecasting,

When up the faded fierceness of scorched blue

Strong water-carrier winds big buckets bring,

Black with stored freshness: how their dippers ring

And flash and rattle! lavishing large dew

On tall, good-humored corn that, streaming wet,

Laughs long; while woods and leas, shut in a net

Of mist, dream vague in view.

And thou, safe-houséd in some pawpaw bowerOf close, broad, gold-green leaves, contented artIn thy prediction, fall'n within the hour;While fuss the brown bees hiveward from the heartOf honey-filtering bloom; beneath the cartDroop pompous barnyard cocks damped by the shower:And deep-eyed August, bonnetless, a beechHugs in disheveled beauty, safe from reachOn starry moss and flower.

And thou, safe-houséd in some pawpaw bower

Of close, broad, gold-green leaves, contented art

In thy prediction, fall'n within the hour;

While fuss the brown bees hiveward from the heart

Of honey-filtering bloom; beneath the cart

Droop pompous barnyard cocks damped by the shower:

And deep-eyed August, bonnetless, a beech

Hugs in disheveled beauty, safe from reach

On starry moss and flower.

WHENI fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring,On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl budsEmbraced, two whispers we search—wanderingBy goblin forests and by girlish floodsDeep in the hermit-holy solitudes—For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring;Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair—wild woodsHave perfumed—loops of radiance; and they,Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by,Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky,Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter flingLike far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.

WHENI fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring,

On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl buds

Embraced, two whispers we search—wandering

By goblin forests and by girlish floods

Deep in the hermit-holy solitudes—

For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring;

Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair—wild woods

Have perfumed—loops of radiance; and they,

Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by,

Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky,

Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter fling

Like far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.

Then we surprise each Naiad ere she slips—Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass,With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hipsCool-glittering; but discovered, when—alas!From green, indented moss and plushy grass,—Her great eyes' pansy-black reproaching,—dipsShe white the cloven waters ere we pass:And a broad, orbing ripple makes to hideFrom our desirous gaze provoked what pathShe gleaming took; what haunt she bashful hathIn minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lipsBubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

Then we surprise each Naiad ere she slips—

Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass,

With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hips

Cool-glittering; but discovered, when—alas!

From green, indented moss and plushy grass,—

Her great eyes' pansy-black reproaching,—dips

She white the cloven waters ere we pass:

And a broad, orbing ripple makes to hide

From our desirous gaze provoked what path

She gleaming took; what haunt she bashful hath

In minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips

Bubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyesAre dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;She, all the maiden modesty's surpriseBlushing her temples,—to deep loins and breastTempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,—Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wiseOf some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to boundA thistle's flashing to a woody rise,A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.

Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes

Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed;

She, all the maiden modesty's surprise

Blushing her temples,—to deep loins and breast

Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,—

Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise

Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed,

Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone,

In rapport with shy Silence to make sound;

So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound

A thistle's flashing to a woody rise,

A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.

Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shadesOf dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark danceWith rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glanceThe advent of some Innocence, who wadesThro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,In braided shadows, when two hairy armsHug her unconscious beauty panting white;Till tearful terror, struggling into might,Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.

Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shades

Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance

With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades:

Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance,

Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance

The advent of some Innocence, who wades

Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance,

In braided shadows, when two hairy arms

Hug her unconscious beauty panting white;

Till tearful terror, struggling into might,

Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades,

Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.

BARBICAN, bartizan, battlement,With the Abergavenny mountains blent,Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent,My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient homeShows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer,Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foamFrom a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer,Being shaggy with heath, yon.—I was his page;A favorite then; and he of that ageWhen a man will love and be loved again,Or die in the wars or a monastery:Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain,Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury.I was his page; and often we faredThro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking—If the baron had known how he would have glaredFrom their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking!—That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene!Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hangWith his crop-eared page to the closest oak!"For he and the Cliffords had ever a fangIn the other's side,... but I see him chokeAnd strangle with wrath when his hawker told—If he told!—how we met on that flowery woldHis daughter, sweet Hortense of Clare, the dayHer hooded tiercel its brails did burstTo trail with its galling jesses away;An untrained haggard the falconer cursed,Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas spedSlant, low and heavily overheadBy us; and Sir Hugh,—who had just then castHis peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry,—In his stirrups rising, thus—as it passed,By the jesses caught and to her did carry,Lingering slender and tall by a roseWhence she pulled the berries—But no two foesHer eyes and Sir Hugh's!—And I swear each feltA song in their hearts!—For I heard him quaverSomewhat and then—by Mary!—he knelt!—And the Lady herself in her words did waverAnd wonder with smiles. Then daintily tookThe hawk on her fist where it pruned and shookIts callowness ragged, as Hugh did seizeSoftly the other hand long and white,—Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees,—And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite.Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!"But seemed so happy! when crushing thro'—Her sturdy retainer with swarthy stare—The underwoods burst; and her maiden crewDrew near them naming her name, and cameWith leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame.—"Their words?" I know not! for how should I?—I paged my master but was no spy.Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know;Yet how should I hear such whispered low,Quick by the wasted woodland yellow?When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellowWith his ale-coarse face, and so made a pauseIn the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir HughStood with the soil on his knee: No causeHad he—but his hanger he halfway drew—Then paused, thrust itclapin its sheath againAnd bowed to the Lady and strode away;Up, vault, on his steed—and we rode amainGay to his towers that merry day.He loved and was loved,—why, I knew!—for look,All other sports for the chase he forsook;To ride in the Raglan marches and hawkAnd to hunt and to wander. And found a lair,In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock,Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,How often I wis not, met him by chance—Perhaps!—Sweet sorceress out of romance,Those tomes of Geoffrey—for she was fair!Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair,How may one picture or liken it!With the golden gloss of its full brown, fitFor the Viviane face of lovable whiteBeneath;—like a star that a cloud of nightStops over to threaten but never will drenchIts tremulous beauty with mists that quench.—Heigho!—but they ceased, those meetings. I wotWatched of the baron, his menial crew;For she loved too well to have once forgotThe place and the time of their trysting true.But she came not—ah! and again came not:"Why and when?" would question Sir HughIn his labored scrawls a crevice of rock—The lovers' post—in its coigne would lock.Until near Yule Love gat them againA twilight tryst—by frowardness sure.—They met. And that day was gray with rain—Or snow, and the wind did ever endureA long, bleak moaning thorough the wood,Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood;And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob,"And whimpered forever a chopping throbThro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued.—And there it was that he learned how she(My faith! how it makes me burn and quiverTo think what a miserable despot he—Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and everTo his daughter was!) forsooth! must wedWith an Eastern Earl—some Lovell: one whom(That God in His mercy had smote him dead!)Hortense of Clare—but in baby bloom—Never had mirrored with maiden eyes.Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties—Of power or wealth—had been bartered thenAnd sold and purchased, and now ... but whenTo her lover, the Clifford, she told this—thereHe had faced with his love the talons of Death—Only for her, who did stay with a stareOf reproach all his heat and say in a breath,"Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often,To live too feeble or—how?—doth it softenAnd weaken away and—to die?—why die?—Live and be strong! and this is why."—Her words are glued here so!... I rememberAll as well as that sullen December,That blustered and bullied about them andSpat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snowWhere they talked there dreamily hand in hand,While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low.Her last words these, "By curfew sureOn Christmas eve at the postern door."And we were there, and a void horse too:Armed: for a journey I hardly knewWhither, but why you well can guess.I could have uttered a certain name—Our comrade's sure—of what loveliness!Waited with love, impatience aflame.While Raglan bulged its baronial girthTo roar to its battlements Yule and song;Retainers loud rollicked in wassail and mirthWhere the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung,And holly beberried the elden wallOf curious oak in the banqueting hall.And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turnedO'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burnedWith flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roastedAnd the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches;Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,Old casks of wine were broached for paunchesOf the vassals that reveled in bower and stall;Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'ledOr swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all,O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled;For Hortense—drink! drink!—by the Virgin's leave,Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve."Was she long—Did she come?"... By that postern weLike shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh:"Yon tower, remember!—that casement, see!—When a stealthy light in its slit burns blueAnd signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she."And about his person his gaberdine drew,For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'.Did she come?—We had watched for an hour or twainEre that light burned there in the central paneAnd was flourished thrice and departed so.Then closer we packed to the postern portalHorses and all in the stinging snow.Stiff with the cold was I.—ImmortalMinutes we waited breath-bated and listenedShuddering there in the gusty gale.Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistenedWild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil.Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat,"She feels for the spring in the hidden panel'Neath the tapestry ... ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet!—How black gulps open the secret channel!Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garbSwirled warm with a mantle o' fur ... she plantsOne foot—then a pause—on the stair—So, Barb,So!—If the tempest that barks and pantsWould throttle itself with its yelps! then IMight hear but one footstep echo and singDown the ugly ... there! 'tis her fingers tryThe massy bolts which the rust makes cling."But ever some whim of the wind that shookThe clanging ring of a creaking hookIn the buttress or wall; and we waited soTill the East grew gray. Did she come?—ah, no!I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis saidOn the eve of the marriage she fled the sideOf the baron, the bridegroom too she fled,With a mischievous laugh, "I'll hide! I'll hide!Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and ledA wild chase after her, but defiedAll search for—a score and ten more years,And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears.But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glareOf torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair;And tower and court re-echoed her name,But she laughed no answer and never came.So over the channel to France with his KingAnd the Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deadenThe ache of the mystery—Hugh that Spring,And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leadenOn hope, and his life was a weary sadness,So he flung it away with a very gladness.And the baron died—and the bridegroom, well,—Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!—to tellOf him there is nothing. The baron died;The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!And the Clare estate with its wealth and its prideDevolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.Ten years and a score thereafter. And theyRansacked the old castle and mark!—one dayIn a lonesome tower uprummaged a chestFrom Flanders, of sinister ebon, carvedSardonic with masks 'round an olden crest,Gargoyle faces distorted and starved:Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!When they opened it—ha, Hortense!—or, no!—Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathedWith flowers of dust, and a mineverAbout it hugged, which quaint richness sheathedOf a bridal raiment and lace with fur.—I'd have given such years of my life—yes, well!—As were left me then so her lover, Hugh,For such time breathed as it took one to tellHow she forever, deemed false, was true!He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in gropingFor the puny spring of that panel—hopingAnd fearing as nearer and nearer grewThe boisterous scramble—why, out she blewHer windy taper and quick—in this chestWary would lie for—a minute, mayhap,Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed—Ere her heart was aware—with a hungry snap."

BARBICAN, bartizan, battlement,

With the Abergavenny mountains blent,

Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent,

My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient home

Shows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer,

Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foam

From a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer,

Being shaggy with heath, yon.—I was his page;

A favorite then; and he of that age

When a man will love and be loved again,

Or die in the wars or a monastery:

Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain,

Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury.

I was his page; and often we fared

Thro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking—

If the baron had known how he would have glared

From their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking!

—That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean—

Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene!

Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hang

With his crop-eared page to the closest oak!"

For he and the Cliffords had ever a fang

In the other's side,... but I see him choke

And strangle with wrath when his hawker told—

If he told!—how we met on that flowery wold

His daughter, sweet Hortense of Clare, the day

Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst

To trail with its galling jesses away;

An untrained haggard the falconer cursed,

Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas sped

Slant, low and heavily overhead

By us; and Sir Hugh,—who had just then cast

His peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry,—

In his stirrups rising, thus—as it passed,

By the jesses caught and to her did carry,

Lingering slender and tall by a rose

Whence she pulled the berries—But no two foes

Her eyes and Sir Hugh's!—And I swear each felt

A song in their hearts!—For I heard him quaver

Somewhat and then—by Mary!—he knelt!—

And the Lady herself in her words did waver

And wonder with smiles. Then daintily took

The hawk on her fist where it pruned and shook

Its callowness ragged, as Hugh did seize

Softly the other hand long and white,—

Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees,—

And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite.

Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!"

But seemed so happy! when crushing thro'—

Her sturdy retainer with swarthy stare—

The underwoods burst; and her maiden crew

Drew near them naming her name, and came

With leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame.—

"Their words?" I know not! for how should I?—

I paged my master but was no spy.

Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know;

Yet how should I hear such whispered low,

Quick by the wasted woodland yellow?

When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellow

With his ale-coarse face, and so made a pause

In the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir Hugh

Stood with the soil on his knee: No cause

Had he—but his hanger he halfway drew—

Then paused, thrust itclapin its sheath again

And bowed to the Lady and strode away;

Up, vault, on his steed—and we rode amain

Gay to his towers that merry day.

He loved and was loved,—why, I knew!—for look,All other sports for the chase he forsook;To ride in the Raglan marches and hawkAnd to hunt and to wander. And found a lair,In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock,Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,How often I wis not, met him by chance—Perhaps!—Sweet sorceress out of romance,Those tomes of Geoffrey—for she was fair!Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair,How may one picture or liken it!With the golden gloss of its full brown, fitFor the Viviane face of lovable whiteBeneath;—like a star that a cloud of nightStops over to threaten but never will drenchIts tremulous beauty with mists that quench.—

He loved and was loved,—why, I knew!—for look,

All other sports for the chase he forsook;

To ride in the Raglan marches and hawk

And to hunt and to wander. And found a lair,

In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock,

Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare,

How often I wis not, met him by chance—

Perhaps!—Sweet sorceress out of romance,

Those tomes of Geoffrey—for she was fair!

Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair,

How may one picture or liken it!

With the golden gloss of its full brown, fit

For the Viviane face of lovable white

Beneath;—like a star that a cloud of night

Stops over to threaten but never will drench

Its tremulous beauty with mists that quench.—

Heigho!—but they ceased, those meetings. I wotWatched of the baron, his menial crew;For she loved too well to have once forgotThe place and the time of their trysting true.But she came not—ah! and again came not:"Why and when?" would question Sir HughIn his labored scrawls a crevice of rock—The lovers' post—in its coigne would lock.Until near Yule Love gat them againA twilight tryst—by frowardness sure.—They met. And that day was gray with rain—Or snow, and the wind did ever endureA long, bleak moaning thorough the wood,Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood;And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob,"And whimpered forever a chopping throbThro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued.—And there it was that he learned how she(My faith! how it makes me burn and quiverTo think what a miserable despot he—Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and everTo his daughter was!) forsooth! must wedWith an Eastern Earl—some Lovell: one whom(That God in His mercy had smote him dead!)Hortense of Clare—but in baby bloom—Never had mirrored with maiden eyes.Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties—Of power or wealth—had been bartered thenAnd sold and purchased, and now ... but whenTo her lover, the Clifford, she told this—thereHe had faced with his love the talons of Death—Only for her, who did stay with a stareOf reproach all his heat and say in a breath,"Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often,To live too feeble or—how?—doth it softenAnd weaken away and—to die?—why die?—Live and be strong! and this is why."—Her words are glued here so!... I rememberAll as well as that sullen December,That blustered and bullied about them andSpat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snowWhere they talked there dreamily hand in hand,While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low.Her last words these, "By curfew sureOn Christmas eve at the postern door."

Heigho!—but they ceased, those meetings. I wot

Watched of the baron, his menial crew;

For she loved too well to have once forgot

The place and the time of their trysting true.

But she came not—ah! and again came not:

"Why and when?" would question Sir Hugh

In his labored scrawls a crevice of rock—

The lovers' post—in its coigne would lock.

Until near Yule Love gat them again

A twilight tryst—by frowardness sure.—

They met. And that day was gray with rain—

Or snow, and the wind did ever endure

A long, bleak moaning thorough the wood,

Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood;

And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob,"

And whimpered forever a chopping throb

Thro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued.

—And there it was that he learned how she

(My faith! how it makes me burn and quiver

To think what a miserable despot he—

Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and ever

To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed

With an Eastern Earl—some Lovell: one whom

(That God in His mercy had smote him dead!)

Hortense of Clare—but in baby bloom—

Never had mirrored with maiden eyes.

Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties—

Of power or wealth—had been bartered then

And sold and purchased, and now ... but when

To her lover, the Clifford, she told this—there

He had faced with his love the talons of Death—

Only for her, who did stay with a stare

Of reproach all his heat and say in a breath,

"Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often,

To live too feeble or—how?—doth it soften

And weaken away and—to die?—why die?—

Live and be strong! and this is why."—

Her words are glued here so!... I remember

All as well as that sullen December,

That blustered and bullied about them and

Spat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snow

Where they talked there dreamily hand in hand,

While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low.

Her last words these, "By curfew sure

On Christmas eve at the postern door."

And we were there, and a void horse too:Armed: for a journey I hardly knewWhither, but why you well can guess.I could have uttered a certain name—Our comrade's sure—of what loveliness!Waited with love, impatience aflame.While Raglan bulged its baronial girthTo roar to its battlements Yule and song;Retainers loud rollicked in wassail and mirthWhere the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung,And holly beberried the elden wallOf curious oak in the banqueting hall.And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turnedO'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burnedWith flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roastedAnd the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches;Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,Old casks of wine were broached for paunchesOf the vassals that reveled in bower and stall;Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'ledOr swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all,O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled;For Hortense—drink! drink!—by the Virgin's leave,Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve.

And we were there, and a void horse too:

Armed: for a journey I hardly knew

Whither, but why you well can guess.

I could have uttered a certain name—

Our comrade's sure—of what loveliness!

Waited with love, impatience aflame.

While Raglan bulged its baronial girth

To roar to its battlements Yule and song;

Retainers loud rollicked in wassail and mirth

Where the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung,

And holly beberried the elden wall

Of curious oak in the banqueting hall.

And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned

O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned

With flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roasted

And the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches;

Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted,

Old casks of wine were broached for paunches

Of the vassals that reveled in bower and stall;

Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'led

Or swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all,

O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled;

For Hortense—drink! drink!—by the Virgin's leave,

Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve.

"Was she long—Did she come?"... By that postern weLike shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh:"Yon tower, remember!—that casement, see!—When a stealthy light in its slit burns blueAnd signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she."And about his person his gaberdine drew,For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'.Did she come?—We had watched for an hour or twainEre that light burned there in the central paneAnd was flourished thrice and departed so.Then closer we packed to the postern portalHorses and all in the stinging snow.Stiff with the cold was I.—ImmortalMinutes we waited breath-bated and listenedShuddering there in the gusty gale.Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistenedWild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil.Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat,"She feels for the spring in the hidden panel'Neath the tapestry ... ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet!—How black gulps open the secret channel!Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garbSwirled warm with a mantle o' fur ... she plantsOne foot—then a pause—on the stair—So, Barb,So!—If the tempest that barks and pantsWould throttle itself with its yelps! then IMight hear but one footstep echo and singDown the ugly ... there! 'tis her fingers tryThe massy bolts which the rust makes cling."But ever some whim of the wind that shookThe clanging ring of a creaking hookIn the buttress or wall; and we waited soTill the East grew gray. Did she come?—ah, no!

"Was she long—Did she come?"... By that postern we

Like shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh:

"Yon tower, remember!—that casement, see!—

When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue

And signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she."

And about his person his gaberdine drew,

For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'.

Did she come?—We had watched for an hour or twain

Ere that light burned there in the central pane

And was flourished thrice and departed so.

Then closer we packed to the postern portal

Horses and all in the stinging snow.

Stiff with the cold was I.—Immortal

Minutes we waited breath-bated and listened

Shuddering there in the gusty gale.

Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistened

Wild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil.

Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat,

"She feels for the spring in the hidden panel

'Neath the tapestry ... ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet!

—How black gulps open the secret channel!

Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garb

Swirled warm with a mantle o' fur ... she plants

One foot—then a pause—on the stair—So, Barb,

So!—If the tempest that barks and pants

Would throttle itself with its yelps! then I

Might hear but one footstep echo and sing

Down the ugly ... there! 'tis her fingers try

The massy bolts which the rust makes cling."

But ever some whim of the wind that shook

The clanging ring of a creaking hook

In the buttress or wall; and we waited so

Till the East grew gray. Did she come?—ah, no!

I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis saidOn the eve of the marriage she fled the sideOf the baron, the bridegroom too she fled,With a mischievous laugh, "I'll hide! I'll hide!Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and ledA wild chase after her, but defiedAll search for—a score and ten more years,And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears.But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glareOf torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair;And tower and court re-echoed her name,But she laughed no answer and never came.

I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis said

On the eve of the marriage she fled the side

Of the baron, the bridegroom too she fled,

With a mischievous laugh, "I'll hide! I'll hide!

Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and led

A wild chase after her, but defied

All search for—a score and ten more years,

And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears.

But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glare

Of torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair;

And tower and court re-echoed her name,

But she laughed no answer and never came.

So over the channel to France with his KingAnd the Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deadenThe ache of the mystery—Hugh that Spring,And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leadenOn hope, and his life was a weary sadness,So he flung it away with a very gladness.And the baron died—and the bridegroom, well,—Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!—to tellOf him there is nothing. The baron died;The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!And the Clare estate with its wealth and its prideDevolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.

So over the channel to France with his King

And the Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deaden

The ache of the mystery—Hugh that Spring,

And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leaden

On hope, and his life was a weary sadness,

So he flung it away with a very gladness.

And the baron died—and the bridegroom, well,—

Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!—to tell

Of him there is nothing. The baron died;

The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy!

And the Clare estate with its wealth and its pride

Devolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy.

Ten years and a score thereafter. And theyRansacked the old castle and mark!—one dayIn a lonesome tower uprummaged a chestFrom Flanders, of sinister ebon, carvedSardonic with masks 'round an olden crest,Gargoyle faces distorted and starved:Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!When they opened it—ha, Hortense!—or, no!—Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathedWith flowers of dust, and a mineverAbout it hugged, which quaint richness sheathedOf a bridal raiment and lace with fur.—I'd have given such years of my life—yes, well!—As were left me then so her lover, Hugh,For such time breathed as it took one to tellHow she forever, deemed false, was true!He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in gropingFor the puny spring of that panel—hopingAnd fearing as nearer and nearer grewThe boisterous scramble—why, out she blewHer windy taper and quick—in this chestWary would lie for—a minute, mayhap,Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed—Ere her heart was aware—with a hungry snap."

Ten years and a score thereafter. And they

Ransacked the old castle and mark!—one day

In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest

From Flanders, of sinister ebon, carved

Sardonic with masks 'round an olden crest,

Gargoyle faces distorted and starved:

Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo!

When they opened it—ha, Hortense!—or, no!—

Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathed

With flowers of dust, and a minever

About it hugged, which quaint richness sheathed

Of a bridal raiment and lace with fur.

—I'd have given such years of my life—yes, well!—

As were left me then so her lover, Hugh,

For such time breathed as it took one to tell

How she forever, deemed false, was true!

He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in groping

For the puny spring of that panel—hoping

And fearing as nearer and nearer grew

The boisterous scramble—why, out she blew

Her windy taper and quick—in this chest

Wary would lie for—a minute, mayhap,

Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed

—Ere her heart was aware—with a hungry snap."

YOUremember, the deep mist,—Climbing to the Devil's Den—Blue beneath us in the glenAnd above us amethyst,Throbbed and circled and awayThro' the wild-woods opposite,Torn and shattered, morning-lit,Scurried up a dewy gray.Vague as in Romance we sawFrom the fog one riven trunk,Its huge horny talons shrunk,Thrust a hungry dragon's claw.And we climbed two hours thro'The dawn-dripping Jellicoes,To that wooded rock that showsUndulating peaks of blue:The vast Cumberlands that sleep,Weighed with soaring forests, farTo the concave welkin's bar,Leagues on leagues of purple sweep.Range exalted over rangeBillowed their enormous spines,And we heard the priestly pinesHum the wisdom of their change.We were sons of Nature then;She had taken us to her,Closer drawn by brier and burr,There on lonely Devil's Den.We were pupils of her moods:Taught the beauties of her loinsIn those bloom-anointed coignes,—Love in her eternal woods:How she bore or flower or bud;Pithed the wiry sapling-oak;In the long vine zeal awokeAye to climb a leafy flood.Her waste fantasies of birth:Sponge-like exudations fair—Dainty fungi everywhereBulging from the loamy earth.Coral-vegetable things;Crystals clamily exhaled;Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled,Vip'rous colored; then close ringsOf the Indian Pipe that cleftPink and white the woodland lax,—Blossoms of a natural waxThe brown mountain-fairies left.We on that parched precipice,Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs,Breathed the balsam of the firs,Felt the blue sky like a kiss.Soft that heaven; stainless asThe grand woodlands lunging on,Wound majestic in the sun,Or as our devotion was!Freedom sat there cragged we saw,Freedom whom hoarse forests sang;Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprangAudience august with law.Wildernesses, from her hipsSprung the giant forests there,Tossed the cataracts from her hair,Thunders lightened from her lips.Oft some scavenger, with vaneMotionless, above we knewWheeled thro' altitudes of blueBy his rapid shadow's stain.Or some cloud of sunny white,—Puffed a lazy drift of pearl,—Balmy breezes o'er would whirlShot with coruscating light.So we dreamed an hour uponThose warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed.Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbedAt us coins of shade and sun.Then arose and down some gorgeMade a bowldered torrent broadThe hurled pathway of our roadTumbled down the mountain large.At that farm-house, which you know,Where old-fashioned flowers spunGay rag-carpets in the sun,By green apple-boughs built low,Rested from our hot descent;One deep draught of cider cool,Unctuous, our fierce veins to dullAt old Hix's eloquent....On Wolf Mountain died the light;A colossal blossom, rayedWith rent petaled clouds that played'Round a calyxed fury bright.Down the moist mint-scented valeTo the mining camp we turned,Thro' the twilight faint discernedWith its crowded cabins pale.Ah! those nights!—We wandered forthOn some shadow-haunted pathWhen the moon was late and ratheThe large stars; sowed south and north,Clustered bursting heavens down:And the milky zodiac,Rolled athwart the belted black,Myriad-million-moted shone.And in dreams we sauntered tillIn the valley pale beneath,From a dew-drop's vapored breathTo faint ghosts, there gathered still,Grave creations weird of mist:Then we knew the moonrise near,As with necromance the airPulsed to pearl and amethyst.Shrilled the insects of the dusk,Grated, buzzed and strident sungTill each leaf seemed tuned and strungFor high Pixy music brusque.Stealing steps and stealthy sighsAs of near unhallowed things,Rustled hair or fluttered wings,Seemed about us; then the eyesOf plumed phantom warriorsBurned mesmeric from some bushMournful in the goblin hush,Then materialized to stars.Mantled mists like ambushed braves,Chiefed by some swart Blackfoot tall,Stole along each forest wall—Phosphorescent moony waves.Then the moon rose; from some cupEach hill's bowl,—magnetic shine,Mist and silence poured like wine,—Brimmed a monster goblet up.Ingot from lost orient mines,Delved by humpbacked gnomes of Night,Full her orb loomed, nacreous white,O'er Pine Mountain's druid pines.As thro' fragmentary fleeceHer circumference polished broke,Orey-seamed, about us wokeMyths of Italy and Greece.Then—a chanson serenade—You, rich-voiced, to your guitarTo our goddess in that starSang "Ne Tempo" from the glade.

YOUremember, the deep mist,—

Climbing to the Devil's Den—

Blue beneath us in the glen

And above us amethyst,

Throbbed and circled and away

Thro' the wild-woods opposite,

Torn and shattered, morning-lit,

Scurried up a dewy gray.

Vague as in Romance we saw

From the fog one riven trunk,

Its huge horny talons shrunk,

Thrust a hungry dragon's claw.

And we climbed two hours thro'

The dawn-dripping Jellicoes,

To that wooded rock that shows

Undulating peaks of blue:

The vast Cumberlands that sleep,

Weighed with soaring forests, far

To the concave welkin's bar,

Leagues on leagues of purple sweep.

Range exalted over range

Billowed their enormous spines,

And we heard the priestly pines

Hum the wisdom of their change.

We were sons of Nature then;

She had taken us to her,

Closer drawn by brier and burr,

There on lonely Devil's Den.

We were pupils of her moods:

Taught the beauties of her loins

In those bloom-anointed coignes,—

Love in her eternal woods:

How she bore or flower or bud;

Pithed the wiry sapling-oak;

In the long vine zeal awoke

Aye to climb a leafy flood.

Her waste fantasies of birth:

Sponge-like exudations fair—

Dainty fungi everywhere

Bulging from the loamy earth.

Coral-vegetable things;

Crystals clamily exhaled;

Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled,

Vip'rous colored; then close rings

Of the Indian Pipe that cleft

Pink and white the woodland lax,—

Blossoms of a natural wax

The brown mountain-fairies left.

We on that parched precipice,

Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs,

Breathed the balsam of the firs,

Felt the blue sky like a kiss.

Soft that heaven; stainless as

The grand woodlands lunging on,

Wound majestic in the sun,

Or as our devotion was!

Freedom sat there cragged we saw,

Freedom whom hoarse forests sang;

Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprang

Audience august with law.

Wildernesses, from her hips

Sprung the giant forests there,

Tossed the cataracts from her hair,

Thunders lightened from her lips.

Oft some scavenger, with vane

Motionless, above we knew

Wheeled thro' altitudes of blue

By his rapid shadow's stain.

Or some cloud of sunny white,—

Puffed a lazy drift of pearl,—

Balmy breezes o'er would whirl

Shot with coruscating light.

So we dreamed an hour upon

Those warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed.

Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbed

At us coins of shade and sun.

Then arose and down some gorge

Made a bowldered torrent broad

The hurled pathway of our road

Tumbled down the mountain large.

At that farm-house, which you know,

Where old-fashioned flowers spun

Gay rag-carpets in the sun,

By green apple-boughs built low,

Rested from our hot descent;

One deep draught of cider cool,

Unctuous, our fierce veins to dull

At old Hix's eloquent....

On Wolf Mountain died the light;

A colossal blossom, rayed

With rent petaled clouds that played

'Round a calyxed fury bright.

Down the moist mint-scented vale

To the mining camp we turned,

Thro' the twilight faint discerned

With its crowded cabins pale.

Ah! those nights!—We wandered forth

On some shadow-haunted path

When the moon was late and rathe

The large stars; sowed south and north,

Clustered bursting heavens down:

And the milky zodiac,

Rolled athwart the belted black,

Myriad-million-moted shone.

And in dreams we sauntered till

In the valley pale beneath,

From a dew-drop's vapored breath

To faint ghosts, there gathered still,

Grave creations weird of mist:

Then we knew the moonrise near,

As with necromance the air

Pulsed to pearl and amethyst.

Shrilled the insects of the dusk,

Grated, buzzed and strident sung

Till each leaf seemed tuned and strung

For high Pixy music brusque.

Stealing steps and stealthy sighs

As of near unhallowed things,

Rustled hair or fluttered wings,

Seemed about us; then the eyes

Of plumed phantom warriors

Burned mesmeric from some bush

Mournful in the goblin hush,

Then materialized to stars.

Mantled mists like ambushed braves,

Chiefed by some swart Blackfoot tall,

Stole along each forest wall—

Phosphorescent moony waves.

Then the moon rose; from some cup

Each hill's bowl,—magnetic shine,

Mist and silence poured like wine,—

Brimmed a monster goblet up.

Ingot from lost orient mines,

Delved by humpbacked gnomes of Night,

Full her orb loomed, nacreous white,

O'er Pine Mountain's druid pines.

As thro' fragmentary fleece

Her circumference polished broke,

Orey-seamed, about us woke

Myths of Italy and Greece.

Then—a chanson serenade—

You, rich-voiced, to your guitar

To our goddess in that star

Sang "Ne Tempo" from the glade.

ANagate black thy roguish eyesClaim no proud lineage of skies,No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.Looped in thy raven hair's repose,A hot aroma, one tame roseDies envious of that beauty where,—By being near which,—it is fair.Thy ears,—two dainty bits of songOf unpretending charm, which wrongWould jewels rich, whose restless fireCourts coarse attention,—such inspire.Slim hands, that crumple listless laceAbout thy white breasts' swelling grace,And falter at thy samite throat,To such harmonious efforts float.Seven stars stop o'er thy balconyCored in taunt heaven's canopy;No moon flows up the satin nightIn pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.From orange orchards dark in dewVague, odorous lips the West wind blew,Or thou, a new AngelicaFrom Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.Oh, stoop to me and speaking reachMy soul like song, that learned low speechFrom some sad instrument, who knows?Or bloom,—a dulcimer or rose.

ANagate black thy roguish eyesClaim no proud lineage of skies,No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.

ANagate black thy roguish eyes

Claim no proud lineage of skies,

No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth,

Rude, reckless witchery and mirth.

Looped in thy raven hair's repose,A hot aroma, one tame roseDies envious of that beauty where,—By being near which,—it is fair.

Looped in thy raven hair's repose,

A hot aroma, one tame rose

Dies envious of that beauty where,—

By being near which,—it is fair.

Thy ears,—two dainty bits of songOf unpretending charm, which wrongWould jewels rich, whose restless fireCourts coarse attention,—such inspire.

Thy ears,—two dainty bits of song

Of unpretending charm, which wrong

Would jewels rich, whose restless fire

Courts coarse attention,—such inspire.

Slim hands, that crumple listless laceAbout thy white breasts' swelling grace,And falter at thy samite throat,To such harmonious efforts float.

Slim hands, that crumple listless lace

About thy white breasts' swelling grace,

And falter at thy samite throat,

To such harmonious efforts float.

Seven stars stop o'er thy balconyCored in taunt heaven's canopy;No moon flows up the satin nightIn pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.

Seven stars stop o'er thy balcony

Cored in taunt heaven's canopy;

No moon flows up the satin night

In pearl-pierced raiment spun of light.

From orange orchards dark in dewVague, odorous lips the West wind blew,Or thou, a new AngelicaFrom Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.

From orange orchards dark in dew

Vague, odorous lips the West wind blew,

Or thou, a new Angelica

From Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay.

Oh, stoop to me and speaking reachMy soul like song, that learned low speechFrom some sad instrument, who knows?Or bloom,—a dulcimer or rose.

Oh, stoop to me and speaking reach

My soul like song, that learned low speech

From some sad instrument, who knows?

Or bloom,—a dulcimer or rose.

BROWSwan thro' blue-black tressesWet with sharp rain and kisses;Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,Like torn wings fierce for flight;Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,One kiss and then—good-night.

BROWSwan thro' blue-black tresses

Wet with sharp rain and kisses;

Locks loose the sea-wind scatters,

Like torn wings fierce for flight;

Cold brows, whose sadness flatters,

One kiss and then—good-night.

Can this thy love undo meWhen in the heavy waves?Nay; it must make unto meTheir groaning backs but slaves!For its magic doth indue meWith strength o'er all their graves.

Can this thy love undo me

When in the heavy waves?

Nay; it must make unto me

Their groaning backs but slaves!

For its magic doth indue me

With strength o'er all their graves.

Weep not as heavy-heartedBefore I go! For thouWilt follow as we parted—A something hollow-hearted,Dark eyes whence cold tears started,Gray, ghostly arms out-dartedTo take me, even as now,To drag me, their weak lover,To caves where sirens hover,Deep caves the dark waves cover,Down! throat and hair and brow.

Weep not as heavy-hearted

Before I go! For thou

Wilt follow as we parted—

A something hollow-hearted,

Dark eyes whence cold tears started,

Gray, ghostly arms out-darted

To take me, even as now,

To drag me, their weak lover,

To caves where sirens hover,

Deep caves the dark waves cover,

Down! throat and hair and brow.

But in thy sleep shalt follow—Thy bosom fierce to mine,Long arms wound warm and hollow,—In sleep, in sleep shalt follow,—To save me from the brine;Dim eyes on mine divine;Deep breath at mine like wine;Sweet thou, with dream-soft kissesTo dream me onward home,White in white foam that hisses,Love's creature safe in foam.

But in thy sleep shalt follow—

Thy bosom fierce to mine,

Long arms wound warm and hollow,—

In sleep, in sleep shalt follow,—

To save me from the brine;

Dim eyes on mine divine;

Deep breath at mine like wine;

Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses

To dream me onward home,

White in white foam that hisses,

Love's creature safe in foam.

What, Hero, else for weepingThan long, lost hours of sleepingAnd vestal-vestured Dreams,Where thy Leander stoopingSighs; no dead eyelids drooping;No harsh, hard looks accusing;No curls with ocean oozing;But then as now he seems,Sweet-favored as can make himThy smile, which is a might,A hope, a god to take himThro' all this hell of night.

What, Hero, else for weeping

Than long, lost hours of sleeping

And vestal-vestured Dreams,

Where thy Leander stooping

Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping;

No harsh, hard looks accusing;

No curls with ocean oozing;

But then as now he seems,

Sweet-favored as can make him

Thy smile, which is a might,

A hope, a god to take him

Thro' all this hell of night.

Then where thy breasts are hollowOne kiss! one kiss! I go!Sweet soul! a kiss to followUp whence thy breasts bud hollow,Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,Eyes than dark waters brighterWherein the far stars glow.Look lovely when I leave thee!—I go, my love, I go!Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,That I must leave thee so.

Then where thy breasts are hollow

One kiss! one kiss! I go!

Sweet soul! a kiss to follow

Up whence thy breasts bud hollow,

Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter,

Eyes than dark waters brighter

Wherein the far stars glow.

Look lovely when I leave thee!—

I go, my love, I go!

Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee,

That I must leave thee so.

FORthe mountains' hoarse greetings came hollowFrom stormy wind-chasms and caves,And I heard their wild cataracts wallowHuge bulks in long spasms of waves,And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow!And our path is o'er myriads of graves."Then I felt that the black earth was porousAnd rotten with worms and with bones;And I knew that the ground that now bore usWas cadaverous with Death's skeletons;And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorousAnd dolorous gnashings and groans.But the night of the tempest and thunder,The might of the terrible skies,And the fire of Hell that,—coiled underThe hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,And the laughter of stars and their wonderMingled and mixed in its eyes.And we clomb—and the moon old and sterileClomb with us o'er torrent and scar!And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,Wan mountains and cities of spar—"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in perilOf falling and failing your star."And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions,Thin rattle of talons and plumes;And a sense as of Boreal dominionsClove down to the abysms and tombs;And the Night's naked, Ethiope minionsSwarmed on us in legions of glooms.And we clomb—till we stood at the portalOf the uttermost point of the peak,And it led with a step more than mortalFar upward some presence to seek;And I felt that this love was immortal,This love which had made me so weak.We had clomb till the limbo of spiritsOf darkness and crime deep belowSwung nebular; nor could we hear itsLost wailings and moanings of woe,—For we stood in a realm that inheritsA vanquishing virgin of snow.

FORthe mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow

From stormy wind-chasms and caves,

And I heard their wild cataracts wallow

Huge bulks in long spasms of waves,

And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow!

And our path is o'er myriads of graves."

Then I felt that the black earth was porousAnd rotten with worms and with bones;And I knew that the ground that now bore usWas cadaverous with Death's skeletons;And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorousAnd dolorous gnashings and groans.

Then I felt that the black earth was porous

And rotten with worms and with bones;

And I knew that the ground that now bore us

Was cadaverous with Death's skeletons;

And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorous

And dolorous gnashings and groans.

But the night of the tempest and thunder,The might of the terrible skies,And the fire of Hell that,—coiled underThe hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,And the laughter of stars and their wonderMingled and mixed in its eyes.

But the night of the tempest and thunder,

The might of the terrible skies,

And the fire of Hell that,—coiled under

The hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs,

And the laughter of stars and their wonder

Mingled and mixed in its eyes.

And we clomb—and the moon old and sterileClomb with us o'er torrent and scar!And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,Wan mountains and cities of spar—"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in perilOf falling and failing your star."

And we clomb—and the moon old and sterile

Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar!

And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl,

Wan mountains and cities of spar—

"'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in peril

Of falling and failing your star."

And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions,Thin rattle of talons and plumes;And a sense as of Boreal dominionsClove down to the abysms and tombs;And the Night's naked, Ethiope minionsSwarmed on us in legions of glooms.

And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions,

Thin rattle of talons and plumes;

And a sense as of Boreal dominions

Clove down to the abysms and tombs;

And the Night's naked, Ethiope minions

Swarmed on us in legions of glooms.

And we clomb—till we stood at the portalOf the uttermost point of the peak,And it led with a step more than mortalFar upward some presence to seek;And I felt that this love was immortal,This love which had made me so weak.

And we clomb—till we stood at the portal

Of the uttermost point of the peak,

And it led with a step more than mortal

Far upward some presence to seek;

And I felt that this love was immortal,

This love which had made me so weak.

We had clomb till the limbo of spiritsOf darkness and crime deep belowSwung nebular; nor could we hear itsLost wailings and moanings of woe,—For we stood in a realm that inheritsA vanquishing virgin of snow.

We had clomb till the limbo of spirits

Of darkness and crime deep below

Swung nebular; nor could we hear its

Lost wailings and moanings of woe,—

For we stood in a realm that inherits

A vanquishing virgin of snow.

COULDI divine how her gray eyesGat such cold haughtiness of skies;How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;How to a folded bud againShe drew her blossomed lips' disdain;Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;Then, afterwards, how melted thereThe austere woman to one tear;Then were I wise to know how grewThis star-stained miracle of blue,How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

COULDI divine how her gray eyesGat such cold haughtiness of skies;

COULDI divine how her gray eyes

Gat such cold haughtiness of skies;

How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;

How, some wood-flower's shadow brown,

Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown;

How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;

How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air,

Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair;

How to a folded bud againShe drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

How to a folded bud again

She drew her blossomed lips' disdain;

Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

Naught deigning save eyes' utterance,

Star-words, which quicker reach the sense;

Then, afterwards, how melted thereThe austere woman to one tear;

Then, afterwards, how melted there

The austere woman to one tear;

Then were I wise to know how grewThis star-stained miracle of blue,How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

Then were I wise to know how grew

This star-stained miracle of blue,

How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

MYheart is high, is high, my dear,And the warm wind sunnily blows;My heart is high with a mood that's cheer,And burns like a sun-blown rose.My heart is high, is high, my dear,And the Heaven's deep skies are blue;My heart is high as the passionate year,And smiles like a bud in dew.My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,For wild is the smell o' the wood,That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat,Mad heat that beats like a blood.My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,And the sense of summer is full;A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat,Full forests and waters cool.My heart is high, is high, my heart,As the bee's that groans and swinksIn the dabbled flowers that dart and partTo his woolly bulk when he drinks.My heart is high, is high, my heart,—Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,That I may get that lilt by heart,And fit each note with a word.God's saints! I tread the air, my dear!Flow one with the running wind;And the stars that stare I swear, my dear,Right soon in my hair I'll find.To live high up a life of mistWith the white things in white skies,With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,Who laugh blue humorous eyes!Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thingTo the aching heart of a rose;In the harebell's ear to cling and swingAnd whisper what no one knows!To live on wild honey as fresh as thinAs the rain that's left in a flower,And roll forth golden from feet to chinIn the god-flower's Danaë shower!Or free, full-throated curve back the throatWith a vigorous look at the blue,And sing right staunch with a lusty noteLike the hawk hurled where he flew!God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!And the mood of the Earth I'll take,And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,And sing till my heart doth break!

MYheart is high, is high, my dear,And the warm wind sunnily blows;My heart is high with a mood that's cheer,And burns like a sun-blown rose.

MYheart is high, is high, my dear,

And the warm wind sunnily blows;

My heart is high with a mood that's cheer,

And burns like a sun-blown rose.

My heart is high, is high, my dear,And the Heaven's deep skies are blue;My heart is high as the passionate year,And smiles like a bud in dew.

My heart is high, is high, my dear,

And the Heaven's deep skies are blue;

My heart is high as the passionate year,

And smiles like a bud in dew.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,For wild is the smell o' the wood,That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat,Mad heat that beats like a blood.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,

For wild is the smell o' the wood,

That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat,

Mad heat that beats like a blood.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,And the sense of summer is full;A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat,Full forests and waters cool.

My heart, my heart is high, my sweet,

And the sense of summer is full;

A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat,

Full forests and waters cool.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,As the bee's that groans and swinksIn the dabbled flowers that dart and partTo his woolly bulk when he drinks.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,

As the bee's that groans and swinks

In the dabbled flowers that dart and part

To his woolly bulk when he drinks.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,—Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,That I may get that lilt by heart,And fit each note with a word.

My heart is high, is high, my heart,—

Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,

That I may get that lilt by heart,

And fit each note with a word.

God's saints! I tread the air, my dear!Flow one with the running wind;And the stars that stare I swear, my dear,Right soon in my hair I'll find.

God's saints! I tread the air, my dear!

Flow one with the running wind;

And the stars that stare I swear, my dear,

Right soon in my hair I'll find.

To live high up a life of mistWith the white things in white skies,With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,Who laugh blue humorous eyes!

To live high up a life of mist

With the white things in white skies,

With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst,

Who laugh blue humorous eyes!

Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thingTo the aching heart of a rose;In the harebell's ear to cling and swingAnd whisper what no one knows!

Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thing

To the aching heart of a rose;

In the harebell's ear to cling and swing

And whisper what no one knows!

To live on wild honey as fresh as thinAs the rain that's left in a flower,And roll forth golden from feet to chinIn the god-flower's Danaë shower!

To live on wild honey as fresh as thin

As the rain that's left in a flower,

And roll forth golden from feet to chin

In the god-flower's Danaë shower!

Or free, full-throated curve back the throatWith a vigorous look at the blue,And sing right staunch with a lusty noteLike the hawk hurled where he flew!

Or free, full-throated curve back the throat

With a vigorous look at the blue,

And sing right staunch with a lusty note

Like the hawk hurled where he flew!

God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!And the mood of the Earth I'll take,And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,And sing till my heart doth break!

God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine!

And the mood of the Earth I'll take,

And brim my soul with her wonderful wine,

And sing till my heart doth break!

LONGvollies of wind and of rainAnd the rain on the drizzled pane,And the eve falls chill and murk;But on yesterday's eve I knowHow a horned moon's thorn-like bowStabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,Like a rich barbaric dirk.

LONGvollies of wind and of rain

And the rain on the drizzled pane,

And the eve falls chill and murk;

But on yesterday's eve I know

How a horned moon's thorn-like bow

Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow,

Like a rich barbaric dirk.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,—Who hold in their hues cool dawns,Which a healthy yellow paints,—Are filled with a sweet rain fineOf a jaunty, jubilant shine,A faery vat of rare wine,Which the honey thinly taints.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,—

Who hold in their hues cool dawns,

Which a healthy yellow paints,—

Are filled with a sweet rain fine

Of a jaunty, jubilant shine,

A faery vat of rare wine,

Which the honey thinly taints.

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