Within my veins it beatsAnd burns within my brain;For when the year is sad and searI dream the dream again.Ah! over young am IGod knows! yet in this sleepMore pain and woe than women knowI know, and doubly deep!...Seven towers of shaggy rockRise red to ragged skies,Built in a marsh that, black and harsh,To dead horizons lies.Eternal sunset pours,Around its warlock towers,A glowing urn where garnets burnWith fire-dripping flowers.O'er bat-like turrets high,Stretched in a scarlet line,The crimson cranes through rosy rainsDrop like a ruby wine.Once in the banquet-hallThese scarlet storks are heard:—I sit at board with men o' th' swordAnd knights of noble word;Cased all in silver mail;But he, I love and fear,In glittering gold beside me boldSits like a lover near.Wild music echoes inThe hollow towers there;Behind bright bars o' his visor, starsBeam in his eyes and glare.Wild music oozes fromArched ceilings, caked with whiteGroined pearl; and floors like mythic shoresThat sing to seas of light.Wild music and a feast,And one's belovèd nearIn burning mail—why am I pale,So pale with grief and fear?Red heavens and slaughter-redThe marsh to west and east;Seven slits of sky, seven casements high,Flare on the blood-red feast.Our torches tall are these,Our revel torches seven,That spill from gold soft splendors old—The hour of night—eleven.No word. The sparkle achesIn cups of diamond-spar,That prism the light of ruddy whiteIn royal wines of war.No word. Rich plate that rays,Splashes of splitting fires,Off beryl brims; while sobs and swimsEnchantment of lost lyres.I lean to him I love,And in the silence say:"Would thy dear grace reveal thy face,If love should crave and pray?"Grave Silence, like a king,At that strange feast is set;Grave Silence still as the soul's will,That rules the reason yet.But when I speak, behold!The charm is snapped, for lowSpeaks out the mask o' his golden casque,"At midnight be it so!"And Silence waits severe,Till one sonorous tower,Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,Sounds slow the midnight hour.Three strokes; the knights arise,The palsy from them flung,To meward mock like some hoarse rockWhen wrecking waves give tongue.Six strokes; and wailing outThe music hoots away;The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer,The red grows ghostly gray.Nine strokes; and dropping mouldThe crumbling hall is lead;The plate is rust, the feast is dust,The banqueters are dead.Twelve strokes pound out and roll;The huge walls writhe and shakeO'er hissing things with taloned wings—Christ Jesus, let me wake!Then rattling in the nightHisiron visor slips—In rotting mail a death's-head paleKisses my loathing lips.Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes,Sharp-pointed like a knife,That flaming seem to say, "No dream!No dream! the truth of Life!"
Within my veins it beatsAnd burns within my brain;For when the year is sad and searI dream the dream again.
Ah! over young am IGod knows! yet in this sleepMore pain and woe than women knowI know, and doubly deep!...
Seven towers of shaggy rockRise red to ragged skies,Built in a marsh that, black and harsh,To dead horizons lies.
Eternal sunset pours,Around its warlock towers,A glowing urn where garnets burnWith fire-dripping flowers.
O'er bat-like turrets high,Stretched in a scarlet line,The crimson cranes through rosy rainsDrop like a ruby wine.
Once in the banquet-hallThese scarlet storks are heard:—I sit at board with men o' th' swordAnd knights of noble word;
Cased all in silver mail;But he, I love and fear,In glittering gold beside me boldSits like a lover near.
Wild music echoes inThe hollow towers there;Behind bright bars o' his visor, starsBeam in his eyes and glare.
Wild music oozes fromArched ceilings, caked with whiteGroined pearl; and floors like mythic shoresThat sing to seas of light.
Wild music and a feast,And one's belovèd nearIn burning mail—why am I pale,So pale with grief and fear?
Red heavens and slaughter-redThe marsh to west and east;Seven slits of sky, seven casements high,Flare on the blood-red feast.
Our torches tall are these,Our revel torches seven,That spill from gold soft splendors old—The hour of night—eleven.
No word. The sparkle achesIn cups of diamond-spar,That prism the light of ruddy whiteIn royal wines of war.
No word. Rich plate that rays,Splashes of splitting fires,Off beryl brims; while sobs and swimsEnchantment of lost lyres.
I lean to him I love,And in the silence say:"Would thy dear grace reveal thy face,If love should crave and pray?"
Grave Silence, like a king,At that strange feast is set;Grave Silence still as the soul's will,That rules the reason yet.
But when I speak, behold!The charm is snapped, for lowSpeaks out the mask o' his golden casque,"At midnight be it so!"
And Silence waits severe,Till one sonorous tower,Owl-swarmed, that looms in glaring glooms,Sounds slow the midnight hour.
Three strokes; the knights arise,The palsy from them flung,To meward mock like some hoarse rockWhen wrecking waves give tongue.
Six strokes; and wailing outThe music hoots away;The fiery glimmer of eve dies dimmer,The red grows ghostly gray.
Nine strokes; and dropping mouldThe crumbling hall is lead;The plate is rust, the feast is dust,The banqueters are dead.
Twelve strokes pound out and roll;The huge walls writhe and shakeO'er hissing things with taloned wings—Christ Jesus, let me wake!
Then rattling in the nightHisiron visor slips—In rotting mail a death's-head paleKisses my loathing lips.
Two hell-fierce lusts its eyes,Sharp-pointed like a knife,That flaming seem to say, "No dream!No dream! the truth of Life!"
This is the tale they tell,Of an Hallowe'en;This is the thing that befellMe and the village Belle,Beautiful Aimee Dean.2.Did I love her?—God and she,They know and I!And love was the life of me—Whatever else may be,Would God that I could die!
This is the tale they tell,Of an Hallowe'en;This is the thing that befellMe and the village Belle,Beautiful Aimee Dean.
2.
Did I love her?—God and she,They know and I!And love was the life of me—Whatever else may be,Would God that I could die!
3.That All-Saints' eve was dim;The frost lay whiteUnder strange stars and a slimMoon in the graveyard grim,An Autumn ghost of light.4.They told her: "Go alone,With never a word,To the burial plot's unknownGrave with the grayest stone,When the clock on twelve is heard;5."Three times around it pass,With never a sound;Each time a wisp of grassAnd myrtle pluck, and passOut of the ghostly ground;
3.
That All-Saints' eve was dim;The frost lay whiteUnder strange stars and a slimMoon in the graveyard grim,An Autumn ghost of light.
4.
They told her: "Go alone,With never a word,To the burial plot's unknownGrave with the grayest stone,When the clock on twelve is heard;
5.
"Three times around it pass,With never a sound;Each time a wisp of grassAnd myrtle pluck, and passOut of the ghostly ground;
6."And the bridegroom that's to beAt smiling wait,With a face like mist to see,With graceful gallantryWill bow you to the gate."7.She laughed at this, and soBespoke us howTo the burial place she'd go:—And I was glad to know,For I'd be there to bow.8.An acre from the farmThe homestead gravesLay walled from sun and storm;Old cedars of priestly formAround like sentinel slaves.
6.
"And the bridegroom that's to beAt smiling wait,With a face like mist to see,With graceful gallantryWill bow you to the gate."
7.
She laughed at this, and soBespoke us howTo the burial place she'd go:—And I was glad to know,For I'd be there to bow.
8.
An acre from the farmThe homestead gravesLay walled from sun and storm;Old cedars of priestly formAround like sentinel slaves.
9.I loved, but never could saySuch words to her,And waited from day to day,Nursing the hope that layUnder the doubts that were.—10.She passed 'neath the iron archOf the legended ground,And the moon like a twisted torchBurned over one lonesome larch;She passed with never a sound.11.Three times had the circle traced,Three times had bentTo the grave that the myrtle graced;Three times, then softly facedHomeward, and slowly went.
9.
I loved, but never could saySuch words to her,And waited from day to day,Nursing the hope that layUnder the doubts that were.—
10.
She passed 'neath the iron archOf the legended ground,And the moon like a twisted torchBurned over one lonesome larch;She passed with never a sound.
11.
Three times had the circle traced,Three times had bentTo the grave that the myrtle graced;Three times, then softly facedHomeward, and slowly went.
12.Had the moonlight changed me so?Or fear undoneHer stepping strange and slow?Did she see and did not know?Or loved she another one?13.Who knows?—She turned to fleeWith a face so whiteThat it haunts and will haunt me;The wind blew gustily,The graveyard gate clanged tight.14.Did she think it me or—what,Clutching her dress?Her face so pinched that notA star in a stormy spotShows half as much distress.
12.
Had the moonlight changed me so?Or fear undoneHer stepping strange and slow?Did she see and did not know?Or loved she another one?
13.
Who knows?—She turned to fleeWith a face so whiteThat it haunts and will haunt me;The wind blew gustily,The graveyard gate clanged tight.
14.
Did she think it me or—what,Clutching her dress?Her face so pinched that notA star in a stormy spotShows half as much distress.
15.Did I speak? did she answer aught?O God! had I said"Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!—And the mist and the moon distraughtStared with me on her—dead....16.This is the tale they tellOf the Hallowe'en;This is the thing that befellMe and the village Belle,Beautiful Aimee Dean.
15.
Did I speak? did she answer aught?O God! had I said"Aimee, 't is I!" but naught!—And the mist and the moon distraughtStared with me on her—dead....
16.
This is the tale they tellOf the Hallowe'en;This is the thing that befellMe and the village Belle,Beautiful Aimee Dean.
The nuns sing, "ora pro nobis,"The lancets glitter above;And the beautiful Virgin whose robe isWoven of infinite love,Infinite love and sorrow,Prays for them there on high;—Who has most need of her prayers,—to-morrowShall tell them,—they or I?Up in the hills togetherWe loved, where the world seemed true;Our world of the whin and heather,Our skies of a nearer blue,A blue from which one borrowsA faith that helps one die—O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,None needs such more than I!We lived, we loved unwedded—Love's sin and its shame that slays!—No ill of the year we dreaded,No day of its coming days;Its coming days, their manyTrials by morn and night,And I know no land, not any,Where love's lilies grow so white!Was he false to me, my Mother!Or I to him, my God!—Who gave thee right, O brother!To take God's right and rod!God's rod of avenging morrows,And the life here in my side!O Mother, God's Mother of Sorrows,For both I would have died!By the wall of the Chantry kneeling,I pray and the organ rings,"Gloria! gloria!" pealing,"Sancta Maria" sings!They will find us dead to-morrowBy the wall of their nunnery,O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrow!His unborn babe and me.
The nuns sing, "ora pro nobis,"The lancets glitter above;And the beautiful Virgin whose robe isWoven of infinite love,Infinite love and sorrow,Prays for them there on high;—Who has most need of her prayers,—to-morrowShall tell them,—they or I?
Up in the hills togetherWe loved, where the world seemed true;Our world of the whin and heather,Our skies of a nearer blue,A blue from which one borrowsA faith that helps one die—O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrows,None needs such more than I!
We lived, we loved unwedded—Love's sin and its shame that slays!—No ill of the year we dreaded,No day of its coming days;Its coming days, their manyTrials by morn and night,And I know no land, not any,Where love's lilies grow so white!
Was he false to me, my Mother!Or I to him, my God!—Who gave thee right, O brother!To take God's right and rod!God's rod of avenging morrows,And the life here in my side!O Mother, God's Mother of Sorrows,For both I would have died!
By the wall of the Chantry kneeling,I pray and the organ rings,"Gloria! gloria!" pealing,"Sancta Maria" sings!They will find us dead to-morrowBy the wall of their nunnery,O Mother, sweet Mother of Sorrow!His unborn babe and me.
Red-winding from the sleepy town,One takes the lone, forgotten laneStraight through the hills. A brush-bird brownBubbles in thorn-flowers sweet with rain;Light shivers sink the gleaming grain;The cautious drip of higher leavesThe lower dips that drip again.—Above the tangled tops it heavesIts gables and its haunted eaves.2.One creeper, gnarled to bloomlessness,O'er-forests all its eastern wall;The sighing cedars rake and pressDark boughs along the panes they sprawl;While, where the sun beats, breaks a drawlOf hiving wasps; one bushy bee,Gold-dusty, hurls along the hallTo hum into a crack.—To meThe shadows seem too scared to flee.3.Of ragged chimneys martins makeHuge pipes of music; twittering hereBuild, breed, and roost.—My footfalls wakeStrange stealing echoes, till I fearI'll meet my pale self coming near;My phantom face as in a glass;Or one men murdered, buried—where?Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, passWith lips that seem to moan "Alas."
Red-winding from the sleepy town,One takes the lone, forgotten laneStraight through the hills. A brush-bird brownBubbles in thorn-flowers sweet with rain;Light shivers sink the gleaming grain;The cautious drip of higher leavesThe lower dips that drip again.—Above the tangled tops it heavesIts gables and its haunted eaves.
2.
One creeper, gnarled to bloomlessness,O'er-forests all its eastern wall;The sighing cedars rake and pressDark boughs along the panes they sprawl;While, where the sun beats, breaks a drawlOf hiving wasps; one bushy bee,Gold-dusty, hurls along the hallTo hum into a crack.—To meThe shadows seem too scared to flee.
3.
Of ragged chimneys martins makeHuge pipes of music; twittering hereBuild, breed, and roost.—My footfalls wakeStrange stealing echoes, till I fearI'll meet my pale self coming near;My phantom face as in a glass;Or one men murdered, buried—where?Dim in gray, stealthy glimmer, passWith lips that seem to moan "Alas."
Aye! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And mourning of the raining sky!Heartbreak and mourning, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!The brutal wind that herds the stormIn hail-big clouds that freeze along,As this gray heart are doubly warmWith thrice the joy of song.I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in limpid gold—What thief hath stole that gem awayTo leave me poor and old!The heartbreak of the hills be mine,Of trampled twig and mired leaf,Of rain that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief!The sorrow of the childless skies'Good-nights, long said, yet never said,As when I kissed my child's blue eyesAnd lips ice-dumb and dead.
Aye! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And mourning of the raining sky!Heartbreak and mourning, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!
The brutal wind that herds the stormIn hail-big clouds that freeze along,As this gray heart are doubly warmWith thrice the joy of song.
I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in limpid gold—What thief hath stole that gem awayTo leave me poor and old!
The heartbreak of the hills be mine,Of trampled twig and mired leaf,Of rain that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief!
The sorrow of the childless skies'Good-nights, long said, yet never said,As when I kissed my child's blue eyesAnd lips ice-dumb and dead.
In a kingdom of mist and moonlight,Or ever the world was known,Past leagues of unsailed water,There reigned a king with a daughterThat shone like a starry stone.The day grew out o' the moonlight;But never a day was there.The king was wise as hoary,And his daughter, like the gloryOf seven kingdoms, fair.And the night dimmed over the moonlight,—And ever the mist was gray,—With slips of dull stars, bluerWhere the princess met her wooer,A page like the month o' May.In her eyes the mist, and the moonlightIn hair of a crumpled gold;By day they wooed a-hawking,A-hawking laughed, a-mockingThe good, white king and old.On the sea the mist, and the moonlightPoured pale to the lilies' tips;—At eve, when the hawks were feeding,In courts to the kennels leading,He kissed her mouth and lips.On towers the mist, and the moonlightOn a dead face staring up;—His kingly couch was ready,But and her hand was steadyGiving the poisoned cup.
In a kingdom of mist and moonlight,Or ever the world was known,Past leagues of unsailed water,There reigned a king with a daughterThat shone like a starry stone.
The day grew out o' the moonlight;But never a day was there.The king was wise as hoary,And his daughter, like the gloryOf seven kingdoms, fair.
And the night dimmed over the moonlight,—And ever the mist was gray,—With slips of dull stars, bluerWhere the princess met her wooer,A page like the month o' May.
In her eyes the mist, and the moonlightIn hair of a crumpled gold;By day they wooed a-hawking,A-hawking laughed, a-mockingThe good, white king and old.
On the sea the mist, and the moonlightPoured pale to the lilies' tips;—At eve, when the hawks were feeding,In courts to the kennels leading,He kissed her mouth and lips.
On towers the mist, and the moonlightOn a dead face staring up;—His kingly couch was ready,But and her hand was steadyGiving the poisoned cup.
If it so befalls that the midnight hoversIn mist no moonlight breaks,The leagues of years my spirit covers,And myself myself forsakes.And I live in a land of stars and flowers,White cliffs by a silver sea;And the pearly points of her opal towersFrom the mountains beckon me.And I think that I know that I hear her callingFrom a casement bathed with light—The music of waters in waters fallingTo palms from a rocky height.And I feel that I think my love's awaitedBy the romance of her charms;That her feet are early and mine belatedIn a world that chains my arms.But I break my chains and the rest is easy—In the shadow of the roseSnow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,We meet and no one knows.To dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;The world—it may live or die;The world that forgets, the soul that missesThe life that has long gone by.We speak old vows that have long been spoken,And weep a long-gone woe,—For you must know our hearts were brokenHundreds of years ago.
If it so befalls that the midnight hoversIn mist no moonlight breaks,The leagues of years my spirit covers,And myself myself forsakes.
And I live in a land of stars and flowers,White cliffs by a silver sea;And the pearly points of her opal towersFrom the mountains beckon me.
And I think that I know that I hear her callingFrom a casement bathed with light—The music of waters in waters fallingTo palms from a rocky height.
And I feel that I think my love's awaitedBy the romance of her charms;That her feet are early and mine belatedIn a world that chains my arms.
But I break my chains and the rest is easy—In the shadow of the roseSnow-white, that blooms in her garden breezy,We meet and no one knows.
To dream sweet dreams and kiss sweet kisses;The world—it may live or die;The world that forgets, the soul that missesThe life that has long gone by.
We speak old vows that have long been spoken,And weep a long-gone woe,—For you must know our hearts were brokenHundreds of years ago.
"To arms!" the battle bugles blew.The daughter of their Earl was she,Lord of a thousand swords and true;He but a squire of low degree.The horns of war blew up to horse:He kissed her mouth; her face was white;"God grant they bear thee back no corse!"—"God give I win my spurs to-night!"Each watch-tower's blazing beacon scarredA blood-blot in the wounded dark:She heard knights gallop battleward,And from the turret leaned to mark."My God, deliver me and mine!My child! my God!" all night she prayed:She saw the battle beacons shine;She saw the battle beacons fade.They brought him on a bier of spears.—For him—the death-won spurs and name;For her—the sting of secret tears,And convent walls to hide her shame.
"To arms!" the battle bugles blew.The daughter of their Earl was she,Lord of a thousand swords and true;He but a squire of low degree.
The horns of war blew up to horse:He kissed her mouth; her face was white;"God grant they bear thee back no corse!"—"God give I win my spurs to-night!"
Each watch-tower's blazing beacon scarredA blood-blot in the wounded dark:She heard knights gallop battleward,And from the turret leaned to mark.
"My God, deliver me and mine!My child! my God!" all night she prayed:She saw the battle beacons shine;She saw the battle beacons fade.
They brought him on a bier of spears.—For him—the death-won spurs and name;For her—the sting of secret tears,And convent walls to hide her shame.
And thus it came my feet were ledTo wizard walls that hairy hungOld as their rock the moss made dead;And, like a ditch of fire flungAround it, uncouth flowers redThrust spur and fang and tongue.And here I harped. Did dead men list?Or was it hollow hinges gnarredHuge, iron scorn in donjon-twist?And when I thought a face sword-scarredWould curse me, lo! a woman kissedAt me hands ringed and starred.And so I sang; for she had leanedRare beauty to me, dark and tall;I sang of Love, whose Court is queenedOf Aliénor the virginal,Nor saw how rolled on me a fiendWolf-eyeballs from the wall.Oh, how I sang! until she laughedRed lips that made lute harmony;I sang of knights who fought and quaffedTo Love's own paragon, Marie—Nor saw the suzerain whose shaftWas bowed and bent on me.And I had harped until she wept;But when I sang of ErmengardeOf Anjou,—where her Court is keptBy brave, by beauty, and by bard,—She turned a raven there and sweptMe, like a fury, 'ward.A bleeding beak had pierced my sight;A crimson claw each cheek had lined;One glimpse: wild walls of threatening nightHeaped raven battlements behindA moat of blazing serpents bright—And then I wandered blind.
And thus it came my feet were ledTo wizard walls that hairy hungOld as their rock the moss made dead;And, like a ditch of fire flungAround it, uncouth flowers redThrust spur and fang and tongue.
And here I harped. Did dead men list?Or was it hollow hinges gnarredHuge, iron scorn in donjon-twist?And when I thought a face sword-scarredWould curse me, lo! a woman kissedAt me hands ringed and starred.
And so I sang; for she had leanedRare beauty to me, dark and tall;I sang of Love, whose Court is queenedOf Aliénor the virginal,Nor saw how rolled on me a fiendWolf-eyeballs from the wall.
Oh, how I sang! until she laughedRed lips that made lute harmony;I sang of knights who fought and quaffedTo Love's own paragon, Marie—Nor saw the suzerain whose shaftWas bowed and bent on me.
And I had harped until she wept;But when I sang of ErmengardeOf Anjou,—where her Court is keptBy brave, by beauty, and by bard,—She turned a raven there and sweptMe, like a fury, 'ward.
A bleeding beak had pierced my sight;A crimson claw each cheek had lined;One glimpse: wild walls of threatening nightHeaped raven battlements behindA moat of blazing serpents bright—And then I wandered blind.
The eve was a burning copper,The night was a boundless blackWhere wells of the lightning crumbledAnd boiled with blazing rack,When I came to the coal-black castleWith the wild rain on my back.Thrice under its goblin towers,Where the causey of rock was laid,Thrice, there at its spider portal,My scornful bugle brayed,But never a warder questioned,—An owl's was the answer made.When the heaven above was blisteredOne scald of blinding storm,And the blackness clanged like a cavernOf iron where demons swarm,I rode in the court of the castleWith the shield upon my arm.My sword unsheathed and certainOf the visor of my casque,My steel steps challenged the donjonMy gauntlet should unmask;But never a knight or varletTo stay or slay or ask.My heels on the stone ground iron,My fists on the bolts clashed steel;—In the hall, the roar of the torrent,In the turret, the thunder's peal;—And I found her there in the turretAlone by her spinning-wheel.She spun the flax of a spindle,And I wondered on her face;She spun the flax of a spindle,And I marvelled on her grace;She spun the flax of a spindle,And I watched a little space.But nerves of my manhood weakened;The heart in my breast was wax;Myself but the hide of an imageOut-stuffed with the hards of flax:—She spun and she smiled a-spinningA spindle of blood-red flax.She spun and she laughed a-spinningThe blood of my veins in a skein;But I knew how the charm was mastered,And snapped in the hissing vein;So she wove but a fiery scorpionThat writhed from her hands again....Fleeing in rain and in tempest,Saw by the cataract's bed,—Cancers of ulcerous fire,Wounds of a bloody red,—Its windows glare in the darknessEyes of a dragon's head.
The eve was a burning copper,The night was a boundless blackWhere wells of the lightning crumbledAnd boiled with blazing rack,When I came to the coal-black castleWith the wild rain on my back.
Thrice under its goblin towers,Where the causey of rock was laid,Thrice, there at its spider portal,My scornful bugle brayed,But never a warder questioned,—An owl's was the answer made.
When the heaven above was blisteredOne scald of blinding storm,And the blackness clanged like a cavernOf iron where demons swarm,I rode in the court of the castleWith the shield upon my arm.
My sword unsheathed and certainOf the visor of my casque,My steel steps challenged the donjonMy gauntlet should unmask;But never a knight or varletTo stay or slay or ask.
My heels on the stone ground iron,My fists on the bolts clashed steel;—In the hall, the roar of the torrent,In the turret, the thunder's peal;—And I found her there in the turretAlone by her spinning-wheel.
She spun the flax of a spindle,And I wondered on her face;She spun the flax of a spindle,And I marvelled on her grace;She spun the flax of a spindle,And I watched a little space.
But nerves of my manhood weakened;The heart in my breast was wax;Myself but the hide of an imageOut-stuffed with the hards of flax:—She spun and she smiled a-spinningA spindle of blood-red flax.
She spun and she laughed a-spinningThe blood of my veins in a skein;But I knew how the charm was mastered,And snapped in the hissing vein;So she wove but a fiery scorpionThat writhed from her hands again....
Fleeing in rain and in tempest,Saw by the cataract's bed,—Cancers of ulcerous fire,Wounds of a bloody red,—Its windows glare in the darknessEyes of a dragon's head.
She bewitched me in my childhood,And the witch's charm is hidden—Far beyond the wicked wildwoodI shall find it, I am bidden.She commands me, she who bound meWith soft sorcery to follow;In a golden snare who wound meTo her bosom's snowy hollow....Comes a night-dark stallion siredOf the wind; a mare his motherWhom Thessalian madness fired,And the hurricane his brother.Then my soul delays no longer:Though the night around is scowling,Keenly mount him blacker, strongerThan the tempest that is howling.At our ears wild shadows whistle;Brazen forks the lightning o'er usFlames; and huge the thunder's missileBursts behind us, drags before us.Over fire-scorched fields of stubble;Iron forests dark with wonder;Evil marshes black with trouble;Nightmare torrents thundering under:In the thorn that past us races,Harelipped hags like crows are rocking;Stunted oaks have dwarf-like facesGnarled that leer an impish mocking:Rocks, in which the storm is hooting,Thrust a humpbacked murder over;Bristling heaths, dead thistles shooting,Raven-haunted gibbets cover:Each and all are passed, like waterUnder-rolled into a cavern,Till we see the Devil's daughterWaiting at the Devil's tavern.And we stay; I drain the beakerIn her hand; the draught is fire;World-remembrances grow weaker,And my spirit, one desire.Course it! course it! Darkness passesLike an uprolled banner tattered;Walled before us mountain massesRise like centuries unscattered.And the storm flies ragged. SlowlyComes a moon of copper-color,And the evil night grows holy,Mists the wild ride growing duller.In the round moon's angry scanning,Demon-swift cross spider archesOf the web-thick bridges spanningChasms of her kingdom's marches.We have reached her kingdom, oldenAs the sea that sighs its sadness;Rocks and trees and sands are golden,And the air a golden gladness.Shapely ingots are the flowers,And the waters, amber brightness;Gold-bright, song-birds in the bowersSing with eyes of diamond whiteness.And she meets me with a chaliceLike the Giamschid ruby burning,And I drain it without malice,To her towers of topaz turning.Many hundred years forgettingAll that's earth: within her powerI possess her: naught regrettingSince each year is as an hour.
She bewitched me in my childhood,And the witch's charm is hidden—Far beyond the wicked wildwoodI shall find it, I am bidden.
She commands me, she who bound meWith soft sorcery to follow;In a golden snare who wound meTo her bosom's snowy hollow....
Comes a night-dark stallion siredOf the wind; a mare his motherWhom Thessalian madness fired,And the hurricane his brother.
Then my soul delays no longer:Though the night around is scowling,Keenly mount him blacker, strongerThan the tempest that is howling.
At our ears wild shadows whistle;Brazen forks the lightning o'er usFlames; and huge the thunder's missileBursts behind us, drags before us.
Over fire-scorched fields of stubble;Iron forests dark with wonder;Evil marshes black with trouble;Nightmare torrents thundering under:
In the thorn that past us races,Harelipped hags like crows are rocking;Stunted oaks have dwarf-like facesGnarled that leer an impish mocking:
Rocks, in which the storm is hooting,Thrust a humpbacked murder over;Bristling heaths, dead thistles shooting,Raven-haunted gibbets cover:
Each and all are passed, like waterUnder-rolled into a cavern,Till we see the Devil's daughterWaiting at the Devil's tavern.
And we stay; I drain the beakerIn her hand; the draught is fire;World-remembrances grow weaker,And my spirit, one desire.
Course it! course it! Darkness passesLike an uprolled banner tattered;Walled before us mountain massesRise like centuries unscattered.
And the storm flies ragged. SlowlyComes a moon of copper-color,And the evil night grows holy,Mists the wild ride growing duller.
In the round moon's angry scanning,Demon-swift cross spider archesOf the web-thick bridges spanningChasms of her kingdom's marches.
We have reached her kingdom, oldenAs the sea that sighs its sadness;Rocks and trees and sands are golden,And the air a golden gladness.
Shapely ingots are the flowers,And the waters, amber brightness;Gold-bright, song-birds in the bowersSing with eyes of diamond whiteness.
And she meets me with a chaliceLike the Giamschid ruby burning,And I drain it without malice,To her towers of topaz turning.
Many hundred years forgettingAll that's earth: within her powerI possess her: naught regrettingSince each year is as an hour.
Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,Over the stile the stars a-winking;He thought it was Mary—'t was Mary's sister—And love hath a way of thinking."Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry."—Over the stile the stars hang yellow.—"Just to the spring, my sweetheart Harry."—And love is a heartless fellow."Thou saidst meyeawhen the frost did showerOver the stile from stars a-shiver."—"I say theenaynow the cherry-trees flower,And love is taker and giver.""O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!"—Over the stile the stars a-glister."To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,I never was aught save Mary's sister."Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry,Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping:In a month or twain you two will marry—And I in my grave be sleeping."Alone among the meadows of millet,Over the stile the stars pursuing,Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it—And love hath a way of doing.
Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her,Over the stile the stars a-winking;He thought it was Mary—'t was Mary's sister—And love hath a way of thinking.
"Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry."—Over the stile the stars hang yellow.—"Just to the spring, my sweetheart Harry."—And love is a heartless fellow.
"Thou saidst meyeawhen the frost did showerOver the stile from stars a-shiver."—"I say theenaynow the cherry-trees flower,And love is taker and giver."
"O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!"—Over the stile the stars a-glister."To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart,I never was aught save Mary's sister.
"Sweet Mary's sister and thou my Harry,Her Harry and mine, but mine the weeping:In a month or twain you two will marry—And I in my grave be sleeping."
Alone among the meadows of millet,Over the stile the stars pursuing,Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it—And love hath a way of doing.
The times they had kissed and partedThat night were over a score;Each time that the cavalier started,Each time she would swear him o'er,"Thou art going to Barcelona!—To make Naxera thy bride!Seduce the Lady Yöna!—And thy lips have lied! have lied!"I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest!And thou shalt not give awayThe love to my life thou owest;And my heart commands thee stay!—"I say thou hast lied and liest!—For where is there war in the state?—Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!To choose thee a fairer mate."Wilt thou go to BarcelonaWhen thy queen in Toledo is?To wait on the haughty Yöna,When thou hast these lips to kiss?"And they stood in the balcony overThe old Toledo square:And weeping she took for her loverA red rose out of her hair.And they kissed farewell; and higherThe moon made amber the air:And she drew for the traitor and liarA stiletto out of her hair....When the night-watch lounged through the quietWith the stir of halberds and swords,Not a bravo was there to defy it,Not a gallant to brave with words.One man, at the corner's turning,Quite dead. And they stoop or stand—In his heart a dagger burning,And a red rose crushed in his hand.
The times they had kissed and partedThat night were over a score;Each time that the cavalier started,Each time she would swear him o'er,
"Thou art going to Barcelona!—To make Naxera thy bride!Seduce the Lady Yöna!—And thy lips have lied! have lied!
"I love thee! I love thee, thou knowest!And thou shalt not give awayThe love to my life thou owest;And my heart commands thee stay!—
"I say thou hast lied and liest!—For where is there war in the state?—Thou goest, by Heaven the highest!To choose thee a fairer mate.
"Wilt thou go to BarcelonaWhen thy queen in Toledo is?To wait on the haughty Yöna,When thou hast these lips to kiss?"
And they stood in the balcony overThe old Toledo square:And weeping she took for her loverA red rose out of her hair.
And they kissed farewell; and higherThe moon made amber the air:And she drew for the traitor and liarA stiletto out of her hair....
When the night-watch lounged through the quietWith the stir of halberds and swords,Not a bravo was there to defy it,Not a gallant to brave with words.
One man, at the corner's turning,Quite dead. And they stoop or stand—In his heart a dagger burning,And a red rose crushed in his hand.
To Don Odora says Donna De Vine:"I yield to thy long endeavor!—At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,And, Signor, am thine forever!"This beauty but once had the Don descriedAs she quit the confessional; followed;"What a foot for silk! a face for a bride—Hem—!" the rest Odora swallowed.And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweetHer heart he barricaded;And pressed this point with a present meet,And that point serenaded.What else could the enemy do but yieldTo a handsome importuning!A gallant blade with a lute for shieldAll night at her lattice mooning!"Que es estrella!O lily of girls!Here's that for thy fierce duenna:A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearlsAnd gold as yellow as henna."She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet!My seraph! this silken ladder;And then—sweet then!—my soul at thy feetNo lover of lovers gladder!"And the end of it was!—But I will not sayHow he won to the room of the lady:—Ah! to love is life and to live is gay,For the rest—a maravedi!Now comes her betrothed from the wars, and he,A Count of the Court Castilian,A Don Diabolus, sword at knee,And moustaches—uncivilian.And his is a jealous love; and—forHe marks that this marriage makes sadder—He watches, and sees a robber to her,Or gallant, ascend a ladder.So he pushes inquiry unto her room,With his naked sword demanding—An Alquazil with the face of Doom,Sure of a stout withstanding.And weapon to weapon they foined and fought;Diabolus' thrusts were vicious;Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought,A fourth was more malicious,Through the offered bosom of Donna De Vine—And this is the Count's condition ...Was he right, was he wrong? the question is mine,To judge—for the Inquisition.
To Don Odora says Donna De Vine:"I yield to thy long endeavor!—At my balcony be on the stroke of nine,And, Signor, am thine forever!"
This beauty but once had the Don descriedAs she quit the confessional; followed;"What a foot for silk! a face for a bride—Hem—!" the rest Odora swallowed.
And with vows as soft as his oaths were sweetHer heart he barricaded;And pressed this point with a present meet,And that point serenaded.
What else could the enemy do but yieldTo a handsome importuning!A gallant blade with a lute for shieldAll night at her lattice mooning!
"Que es estrella!O lily of girls!Here's that for thy fierce duenna:A purse of pistoles and a rosary o' pearlsAnd gold as yellow as henna.
"She will drop from thy balcony's rail, my sweet!My seraph! this silken ladder;And then—sweet then!—my soul at thy feetNo lover of lovers gladder!"
And the end of it was!—But I will not sayHow he won to the room of the lady:—Ah! to love is life and to live is gay,For the rest—a maravedi!
Now comes her betrothed from the wars, and he,A Count of the Court Castilian,A Don Diabolus, sword at knee,And moustaches—uncivilian.
And his is a jealous love; and—forHe marks that this marriage makes sadder—He watches, and sees a robber to her,Or gallant, ascend a ladder.
So he pushes inquiry unto her room,With his naked sword demanding—An Alquazil with the face of Doom,Sure of a stout withstanding.
And weapon to weapon they foined and fought;Diabolus' thrusts were vicious;Three thrusts to the floor Odora had brought,A fourth was more malicious,
Through the offered bosom of Donna De Vine—And this is the Count's condition ...Was he right, was he wrong? the question is mine,To judge—for the Inquisition.