Adieu! and the sun goes awearily down,The mist creeps up o'er the sleepy town,The white sails bend to the shuddering mere,And the reapers have reaped, and the night is here.
Adieu! and the years are a broken song,The right grows weak in the strife with wrong,The lilies of love have a crimson stain,And the old days never will come again.
Adieu! where the mountains afar are dim'Neath the tremulous tread of the seraphim,Shall not our querulous hearts prevail,That have prayed for the peace of the Holy Grail?
Adieu! Some time shall the veil betweenThe things that are, and that might have beenBe folded back for our eyes to see,And the meaning of all be clear to me.
What you have done may never be undoneBy day or night,What I have seen may never be unseenIn my sad sight.
The days swing on, the sun glows and is gone,From span to span;The tides sweep scornfully the shore, as whenThe tides began.
What we have known is but a bitter pledgeOf Ignorance,The human tribute to an ageless dream,A timeless trance.
Through what great cycles hath this circumstanceSwept on and on,Known not by thee or me, till it should come,A vision wan,
To our two lives, and yours would seem to meThe hand that kills,Though you have wept to strike, and but have cried,"The mad Fate wills!"
You could not, if you would, give what had beenPeace, not distress;Some warping cords of destiny had heldYou in duress.
Nay, not the Fates, look higher; is God blind?Doth He not well?Our eyes see but a little space behind,If it befell,
That they saw but a little space before,Shall we then say,Unkind is the Eternal, if He knewThis from alway,
And called us into being but to giveTo mother EarthTwo blasted lives, to make the watered landA place of dearth?
The life that feeds upon itself is mad—Is it not thus?Have I not held but one poor broken reedFor both of us?
Keep but your place and simply meetThe needs of life;Mine is the sorrow, mine the prayerless pain:The world is rife
With spectres seen and spectres all unseenBy human eyes,Who stand upon the threshold, at the gates,Of Paradise.
Well do they who have felt the spectres' handsUpon their hearts,And have not fled, but with firm faith have borneTheir brothers' parts,
Upheld the weary head, or fanned the browOf some sick soul,Pointed the way for tired pilgrim eyesTo their far goal.
So let it be with us: perchance will comeIn after days,The benison of happiness for usAlways, always.
One more dream in the slow night watches,One more sleep when the world is dumb,And his soul leans out to the sweet wild snatchesOf song that up from dreamland come.
Pale, pale face with a golden setting,Deep, deep glow of stedfast eyes;Form of one there is no forgetting,Wandering out of Paradise.
Breath of balm, and a languor fallingOut of the gleam of a sunset sky;Peace, deep peace and a seraph's calling,Folded hands and a pleading cry.
One more dream for the patient singer,Weary with songs he loved so well;Sleeping now—will the vision bring her?Hark, 'tis the sound of the passing bell!
When shall I see thee again?Weary the years and so long;When shall be buried the wrong,Phantom-like rising between?Seeking for surcease of pain,Pilgrim to Lethe I came;Drank not, for pride was too keen—Stung by the sound of a name.
Soft, ardent skies of my youthCome to me over the sea,Come in a vision to me,Come with your shimmer and song;Ye have known all of the truth,Witness to both shall ye bear;Read me the riddle of wrong,Solve me the cords of the snare.
Love is not won in a breath,Idle, impassioned and sure;Why should not love then endure,Challenging doubt to the last?True love is true till the death,Though it bear aloes and myrrh;Try me and judge me, O Past,Have I been true unto her?
What should I say if we met,Knowing not which should forbear?E'en if I plead would she care?—Sweet is the refuge of scorn.Close by my side, O RegretLong we have watched for the light!Watchman, what of the morn?Well do we know of the night.
The apple blossoms glistenWithin the crowned trees;The meadow grasses listenThe din of busy bees;The wayward, woodland singerCarols along the leas,Not loth to be the bringerOf summer fantasies.
But you and I who neverMeet now but for regret,Forever and forever,Though flower-bonds were setIn Maytime, if you wonderThat falling leaves are ours,Yours was it cast asunder,Mine are the faded flowers.
The fluted wren is sobbingBeneath the mossy eaves;The throstle's chord is throbbingIn coronal of leaves;The home of love is lilies,And rose-hearts, flaming red,Red roses and white lilies—Lo, thus the gods were wed!
But we weep on, unheedingThe earth's joys spread for us;And ever, far receding,Our fair land fades from us:One waited, patient, broken,High-hearted but opprest,One lightly took the token—The mad Fates took the rest.
High mountains and low valleys,And shreds of silver seas,The lone brook's sudden sallies,And all the joys of these,—These were, but now the fireVolcanic seeks the sea,And dark wave walls retireTyrannic seeking me.
Spirit of dreams, a visionWell hast thou wrought for us;Fold high the veil Elysian,The past held naught for us;Years, what are they but spacesSet in a day for me?Lo, here are lilied places—My love comes back to me!
I knows a town, an' it's a fine town,And many a brig goes sailin' to its quay;I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn,An' a lass that's fair to see.I knows a town, an' it's a fine town;I knows an inn, an' it's a fine inn—But Oh my lass, an' Oh the gay gown,Which I have seen my pretty in!
I knows a port, an' it's a good port,An' many a brig is ridin' easy there;I knows a home, an' it's a good home,An' a lass that's sweet an' fair.I knows a port, an' it's a good port,I knows a home, an' it's a good home—But Oh the pretty that is my sort,What's wearyin' till I come!
I knows a day, an' it's a fine day,The day a sailor man comes back to town;I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide,The tide that gets you quick to anchors down.I knows a day, an' it's a fine day,I knows a tide, an' it's a good tide—And God help the lubber, I say,What's stole the sailor man's bride!
Mark the faces of the childrenFlooded with sweet innocence!God's smile on their foreheads glistenEre their heart-strings have grown tense.
And they know not of the sadness,Of the palpitating painDrawn through arid veins of manhood,Or the lusts that life disdain.
Little reek they of the shadowsFallen through the steep world's spaceGod hath touched them with His chrismAnd their sunlight is His grace.
And the green grooves of the meadowsThey are fair to look upon;And the silver thrush and robinSing most sweetly on and on.
But the faces of the children-They are fairer far than these;And the songs they sing are sweeterThan the thrushes' in the trees.
Little hands, our God has givenAll the flower-bloom for you;Gather violets in the meadows,Trailing your sweet fingers through.
The swift tears that sometimes glistenOn their faces dashed with painWeave a rosy bow of promise,Like the afterglow of rain.
The soft, verdant fields of childhood,Certes, are the softer forThe dissolving dew of morning,Noon's elate ambassador.
Looking skyward, do they wonder—They, the children palm to palm-What is out beyond the azureIn the infinite of calm?
Though they murmur soft "Our Father,"Angel wings to speed it onPast the bright wheels of the Pleiads,Have they thought of benison?
Nay! the undefiled childrenSay it bound by ignorance;But the saying is the merit,And the loving bans mischance.
Oh the mountain heights of childhood,And the waterfalls of dreams,And the sleeping in the shadowsOf the willows by the streams!
Toss your gleaming hair, O children,Back in waving of the wind!Flash the starlight 'heath your eyelidsFrom the sunlight of the mind!
See, we strain you to our bosoms,And we kiss your lip and brow;Human hearts must have some idols,And we shrine you idols now.
Time, the ruthless idol-breaker,Smileless, cold iconoclast,Though he rob us of our altars,Cannot rob us of the past.
Dull and dead the gods' bright nectar,Disencrowned of its foam;Duller, deader far the empty,Barren hearthstone of a home.
Smile out to our age and give us,Children, of the dawn's desire;We have passed morn's gold and opal,We have lost life's early fire.
"Where do the stars grow, little Garaine?The garden of moons, is it far away?The orchard of suns, my little Garaine,Will you take us there some day?"
"If you shut your eyes," quoth little Garaine,"I will show you the way to goTo the orchard of suns and the garden of moonsAnd the field where the stars do grow.
"But you must speak soft," quoth little Garaine,"And still must your footsteps be,For a great bear prowls in the field of the stars,And the moons they have men to see.
"And the suns have the Children of Signs to guard,And they have no pity at all—You must not stumble, you must not speak,When you come to the orchard wall.
"The gates are locked," quoth little Garaine,"But the way I am going to tell—The key of your heart it will open them all:And there's where the darlings dwell!"
When you were born, my dear, when you were born,A glorious Voice came singing from the sun,An Ariel with roses of the morn,And through the vales of Arcady danced oneAll golden as the corn.
These were the happy couriers of God,Bearing your gifts: a magic all your own,And Beauty with her tall divining rod;While tiny star-smiths, bending to your throne,Your feet with summer shod.
Into my heart, my dear, you flashed your way,Your rosy, golden way: a fairy hornProclaimed you dancing light and roundelay;—I thank my generous Fates that you were bornOne lofty joyous day.
My dear, I was thy lover,A man of spring-time years;I sang thee songs, gave gifts and songs most poor,But they were signs; and now, for evermore,Thou farest forth! My heart is full of tears,My dear, my very dear.
My dear, I was thy lover,I wrote thee on my shield,I cried thy name in goodly fealty,Thy champion I. And now, no more for meThy face, thy smile: thou goest far afield,My dear, my very dear.
My dear, I am thy lover:Afield thy spirit goes,And thou shalt find that Inn of God's delight,Where thou wilt wait for us who say good night,To thy sweet soul. The rest—the rest, God knows,My dear, my dear!
Phyllis, I knew you once when I was young,And travelled to your land of Arcady.Do you, of all the songs, wild songs, before you flung,Remember mine—its buoyant melody,Its hope, its pride; do you remember it?It was the song that makes the world go round;I bought it of a Boy: in scars I paid for it,Phyllis, to you who jested at my wound.
Did ye see the white cloud in the glint o' the sun?That's the brow and the eye o' my bairnie.Did ye ken the red bloom at the bend o' the crag?That's the rose in the cheek o' my bairnie.Did ye hear the gay lilt o' the lark by the burn?That's the voice of my bairnie, my dearie.Did ye smell the wild scent in the green o' the wood?That's the breath o' my ain, o' my bairnie.Sae I'll gang awa' hame, to the shine o' the fire,To the cot where I lie wi' my bairnie.