SHINTO

The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops,Down on the brink of the river.My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse—The bamboo copse where the rice field stops:The bamboos sigh and shiver.The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill;I must pray to Inari.I hear her calling me low and chill—Low and chill when the wind is stillAt night and the skies are starry.And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead!Your lord who went to battle.How shall your baby now be fed,Ukibo fed, with rice and bread—What if I hush his prattle?"The red moon rises as I slip back,And the bamboo stems are swaying.Inari was deaf—and yet the lack,The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack,I know not why—with praying.For though Inari cared not at all,Some other god was kinder.I wonder why he has heard my call,My giftless call—and what shall befall?...Hope has but left me blinder!

The young stork sleeps in the pine-tree tops,Down on the brink of the river.My baby sleeps by the bamboo copse—The bamboo copse where the rice field stops:The bamboos sigh and shiver.

The white fox creeps from his hole in the hill;I must pray to Inari.I hear her calling me low and chill—Low and chill when the wind is stillAt night and the skies are starry.

And ever she says, "He's dead! he's dead!Your lord who went to battle.How shall your baby now be fed,Ukibo fed, with rice and bread—What if I hush his prattle?"

The red moon rises as I slip back,And the bamboo stems are swaying.Inari was deaf—and yet the lack,The fear and lack, are gone, and the rack,I know not why—with praying.

For though Inari cared not at all,Some other god was kinder.I wonder why he has heard my call,My giftless call—and what shall befall?...Hope has but left me blinder!

(Miyajima, Japan, 1905)

Lowly temple and torii,Shrine where the spirits of wind and waveFind the worship and glory weGive to the one God great and grave—Lowly temple and torii,Shrine of the dead, I hang my prayerHere on your gates—the story seeAnd answer out of the earth and air.For I am Nature's child, and youWere by the children of Nature built.Ages have on you smiled—and dewOn you for ages has been spilt—Till you are beautiful as TimeMossy and mellowing ever makes:Wrapped as you are in lull—or rhymeOf sounding drum that sudden breaks.This is my prayer then, this, that IToo may reverence all of life,Beauty, and power and miss no highAwe of a world with wonder rife.That I may build in spirit fairTemples and torii on each placeThat I have loved—O hear it, Air,Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!

Lowly temple and torii,Shrine where the spirits of wind and waveFind the worship and glory weGive to the one God great and grave—

Lowly temple and torii,Shrine of the dead, I hang my prayerHere on your gates—the story seeAnd answer out of the earth and air.

For I am Nature's child, and youWere by the children of Nature built.Ages have on you smiled—and dewOn you for ages has been spilt—

Till you are beautiful as TimeMossy and mellowing ever makes:Wrapped as you are in lull—or rhymeOf sounding drum that sudden breaks.

This is my prayer then, this, that IToo may reverence all of life,Beauty, and power and miss no highAwe of a world with wonder rife.

That I may build in spirit fairTemples and torii on each placeThat I have loved—O hear it, Air,Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!

(Nikko, Japan, 1905)

Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeriaBooms the temple bell,Down from the tomb of IëyasuYearning, as a knell.Down from the tomb where many an aeonSilently has knelt,Many a pilgrimage of millions—Still about it felt.Still, for see them gather ghostlyNow, as the numb soundFloats as unearthly necromancyFrom the past's dead ground.See the invisible vast millions,Hear their soundless feetClimbing the shrine-ways to the gildedCarven temple's seat.And, one among them—pale among them—Passes waning by.What is it tells me mysticallyThat strange one was I?...Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeriaDies the bell—'tis dumb.After how many lives returningShall I hither come?Hither again! and climb the votiveEver mossy ways?Who shall the gods be then, the millions,Meek, entreat or praise?

Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeriaBooms the temple bell,Down from the tomb of IëyasuYearning, as a knell.

Down from the tomb where many an aeonSilently has knelt,Many a pilgrimage of millions—Still about it felt.

Still, for see them gather ghostlyNow, as the numb soundFloats as unearthly necromancyFrom the past's dead ground.

See the invisible vast millions,Hear their soundless feetClimbing the shrine-ways to the gildedCarven temple's seat.

And, one among them—pale among them—Passes waning by.What is it tells me mysticallyThat strange one was I?...

Weird thro' the mist and cryptomeriaDies the bell—'tis dumb.After how many lives returningShall I hither come?

Hither again! and climb the votiveEver mossy ways?Who shall the gods be then, the millions,Meek, entreat or praise?

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashesHis limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven(Sins of the revelrous days of June)—Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging—Till the dark beads of his days are told.

Winter has come in sackcloth and ashes(Penance for Summer's enverdured sheaves).Bitterly, cruelly, bleakly he lashesHis limbs that are naked of grass and leaves.

He moans in the forest for sins unforgiven(Sins of the revelrous days of June)—Moans while the sun drifts dull from the heaven,Giftless of heat's beshriving boon.

Long must he mourn, and long be his scourging,(Long will the day-god aloof frown cold),Long will earth listen the rue of his dirging—Till the dark beads of his days are told.

All night I smiled as I slept,For I heard the March-wind feelBlindly about in the trees withoutFor buds to heal.All night in dreams, for I smelt,In the rain-wet woods and fields,The coming flowers and the glad green hoursThat summer yields.And when at dawn I awoke,At the blue-bird's wooing cheep,Winter with all its chill and pallSeemed but a sleep.

All night I smiled as I slept,For I heard the March-wind feelBlindly about in the trees withoutFor buds to heal.

All night in dreams, for I smelt,In the rain-wet woods and fields,The coming flowers and the glad green hoursThat summer yields.

And when at dawn I awoke,At the blue-bird's wooing cheep,Winter with all its chill and pallSeemed but a sleep.

This path will tell me where dark daisies danceTo the white sycamores that dell them in;Where crow and flicker cry melodious din,And blackberries in ebon ripeness glanceLuscious enticings under briery green.It will slip under coppice limbs that leanBrushingly as the slow-belled heifer pantsToward weedy water-plantsThat shade the pool-sunk creek's reluctant trance.I shall find bell-flower spires beside the gapAnd lady phlox within the hollow's cool;Cedar with sudden memories of YuleAbove the tangle tipped with blue skullcap.The high hot mullein fond of the full sunWill watch and tell the low mint when I've wonThe hither wheat where idle breezes nap,And fluffy quails entrapMe from their brood that crouch to escape mishap.Then I shall reach the mossy water-wayThat gullies the dense hill up to its peak,There dally listening to the eerie ekeOf drops into cool chalices of clay.Then on, for elders odorously will stealMy senses till I climb up where they healThe livid heat of its malingering ray,And wooingly betrayTo memory many a long-forgotten day.There I shall rest within the woody peaceOf afternoon. The bending azure frothedWith silveryness, the sunny pastures swathed,Fragrant with morn-mown clover and seed-fleece;The hills where hung mists muse, and Silence callsTo Solitude thro' aged forest halls,Will waft into me their mysterious ease,And in the wind's soft ceaseI shall hear hintings of eternities.

I shall find bell-flower spires beside the gapAnd lady phlox within the hollow's cool;Cedar with sudden memories of YuleAbove the tangle tipped with blue skullcap.The high hot mullein fond of the full sunWill watch and tell the low mint when I've wonThe hither wheat where idle breezes nap,And fluffy quails entrapMe from their brood that crouch to escape mishap.

Then I shall reach the mossy water-wayThat gullies the dense hill up to its peak,There dally listening to the eerie ekeOf drops into cool chalices of clay.Then on, for elders odorously will stealMy senses till I climb up where they healThe livid heat of its malingering ray,And wooingly betrayTo memory many a long-forgotten day.

There I shall rest within the woody peaceOf afternoon. The bending azure frothedWith silveryness, the sunny pastures swathed,Fragrant with morn-mown clover and seed-fleece;The hills where hung mists muse, and Silence callsTo Solitude thro' aged forest halls,Will waft into me their mysterious ease,And in the wind's soft ceaseI shall hear hintings of eternities.

What do I care if the trees are bareAnd the hills are darkAnd the skies are gray.What do I care for chill in the air,For crows that carkAt the rough wind's way.What do I care for the dead leaves there—Or the sullen roadBy the sullen wood.There's heart in my heartTo bear my load!So enough, the day is good!

What do I care if the trees are bareAnd the hills are darkAnd the skies are gray.

What do I care for chill in the air,For crows that carkAt the rough wind's way.

What do I care for the dead leaves there—Or the sullen roadBy the sullen wood.

There's heart in my heartTo bear my load!So enough, the day is good!

The world may hearThe wind at his trees,The lark in her skies,The sea on his leas;May hear the song riseFrom the breast of a womanAnd think it as dearAs heaven tho' human.But I have a music they can never know—The touch of you, soul of you, heart of you. Oh!All else that is said or sung 's but a part of you—Ever to me 'tis so!

Not only the lark but the robin too(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)Is singing the air to gladness newAs the breaking budAnd the freshet's flood!Not only the peeping grass and the scent—(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)Of violets coming ere April's spent—But the frog's shrill cheerAnd the crow's wild jeer!Not only the blue, not only the breeze,(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)But sun that is sweeter upon the treesThan rills that throngTo the brooklet's song!Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)For spring is below and God is above—But all is a wasteWithout thee—Haste!

Not only the lark but the robin too(Oh, heart o' my heart, come into the wood!)Is singing the air to gladness newAs the breaking budAnd the freshet's flood!

Not only the peeping grass and the scent—(Oh, love o' my life, fly unto me here!)Of violets coming ere April's spent—But the frog's shrill cheerAnd the crow's wild jeer!

Not only the blue, not only the breeze,(Oh, soul o' my heart, why tarry so long!)But sun that is sweeter upon the treesThan rills that throngTo the brooklet's song!

Oh, heart o' my heart, oh, heart o' my love,(Oh soul o' my soul, haste unto me, haste!)For spring is below and God is above—But all is a wasteWithout thee—Haste!

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!What shall we do with the April days!Kingcups soon will be up and swinging—What shall we do with May's!The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.Thrush-flutes echo "For mating's elating!Love is its other name!"They know! know it! but better, oh, better,Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,Know we to make each moment a debtorUnto love's burgeoning!

The bliss of the wind in the redbud ringing!What shall we do with the April days!Kingcups soon will be up and swinging—What shall we do with May's!

The cardinal flings, "They are made for mating!"Out on the bough he flutters, a flame.Thrush-flutes echo "For mating's elating!Love is its other name!"

They know! know it! but better, oh, better,Dearest, than ever a bird in Spring,Know we to make each moment a debtorUnto love's burgeoning!

Could I, a poet,Implant the truth of you,Seize it and sow itAs Spring on the world.There were no needTo fling (forsooth) of youFancies that only lovers heed!No, but unfurled,The bloom, the sweet of you,(As unto me they are opened oft)Would with their beauty's breath repeat of youAll that my heart breathes loud or soft!

My love's a guardian-angelWho camps about thy heart,Never to flee thine enemy,Nor from thee turn apart.Whatever dark may shroud theeAnd hide thy stars away,With vigil sweet his wings shall beatAbout thee till the day.

My love's a guardian-angelWho camps about thy heart,Never to flee thine enemy,Nor from thee turn apart.

Whatever dark may shroud theeAnd hide thy stars away,With vigil sweet his wings shall beatAbout thee till the day.

Dark hair—dark eyes—But heart of sun,Pity and hopeThat rill and runWith flowing fleetTo heal the defeatOf all Life has undone.Dark hair—dark eyes—But soul as clear,Trusty and fairAs e'er drew nearTo clasp its mateAnd enter the gateOf Love that casts out fear.Dark hair—dark eyes—But, there is seenIn them the mostThat earth can mean;The most that deathCan bring—or breathThere—in the bright Unseen!

Dark hair—dark eyes—But heart of sun,Pity and hopeThat rill and runWith flowing fleetTo heal the defeatOf all Life has undone.

Dark hair—dark eyes—But soul as clear,Trusty and fairAs e'er drew nearTo clasp its mateAnd enter the gateOf Love that casts out fear.

Dark hair—dark eyes—But, there is seenIn them the mostThat earth can mean;The most that deathCan bring—or breathThere—in the bright Unseen!

Come to the window, you who are mine.Waken! the night is calling.Sit by me here—with the moon's fair shineInto your deep eyes falling.The sea afar is a fearful gloom;Lean from the casement, listen!Anear, it breaks with a faery spume,Spraying the moon-path's glisten.The little white town below lies deepAs eternity in slumber.O, you who are mine, how a glance can reapBeauties beyond all number!"Amalfi!" say it—as the stars setO'er yon far promontory."Amalfi!" ... Shall we ever forgetEven Above this glory?No; as twin sails at anchor ride,Our spirits rock togetherOn a sea of love—lit as this tideWith tenderest star-weather!And the quick ecstasy withinYour breast is against me beating.Amalfi!... Never a night shall winFrom God again such fleeting.Ah—but the dawn is redd'ning upOver the moon low-dying.Come, come away—we have drunk the cup:Ours is the dream undying!

Come to the window, you who are mine.Waken! the night is calling.Sit by me here—with the moon's fair shineInto your deep eyes falling.

The sea afar is a fearful gloom;Lean from the casement, listen!Anear, it breaks with a faery spume,Spraying the moon-path's glisten.

The little white town below lies deepAs eternity in slumber.O, you who are mine, how a glance can reapBeauties beyond all number!

"Amalfi!" say it—as the stars setO'er yon far promontory."Amalfi!" ... Shall we ever forgetEven Above this glory?

No; as twin sails at anchor ride,Our spirits rock togetherOn a sea of love—lit as this tideWith tenderest star-weather!

And the quick ecstasy withinYour breast is against me beating.Amalfi!... Never a night shall winFrom God again such fleeting.

Ah—but the dawn is redd'ning upOver the moon low-dying.Come, come away—we have drunk the cup:Ours is the dream undying!

A storm broods far on the foam of the deep;The moon-path gleams before.A day and a night, a night and a day,And the way, love, will be o'er.Six thousand wandering miles we have comeAnd never a sail have seen.The sky above and the sea belowAnd the drifting clouds between.Yet in our hearts unheaving hopeAnd light and joy have slept.Nor ever lonely has seemed the waveTho' heaving wild it leapt.For there is talismanic mightWithin our vows of loveTo breathe us over all seas of life—On to that Port aboveWhere the great Captain of all shipsShall anchor them or sendThem forth on a vaster Voyage, yea,On one that shall not end.And uponthatwe two, I think,Together still shall sail.O may it be, my own, or mayWe perish in death's gale!

A storm broods far on the foam of the deep;The moon-path gleams before.A day and a night, a night and a day,And the way, love, will be o'er.

Six thousand wandering miles we have comeAnd never a sail have seen.The sky above and the sea belowAnd the drifting clouds between.

Yet in our hearts unheaving hopeAnd light and joy have slept.Nor ever lonely has seemed the waveTho' heaving wild it leapt.

For there is talismanic mightWithin our vows of loveTo breathe us over all seas of life—On to that Port above

Where the great Captain of all shipsShall anchor them or sendThem forth on a vaster Voyage, yea,On one that shall not end.

And uponthatwe two, I think,Together still shall sail.O may it be, my own, or mayWe perish in death's gale!

The East Wind is a Bedouin,And Nimbus is his steed;Out of the dusk with the lightning's thinBlue scimitar he flies afar,Whither his rovings lead.The Dead Sea wavesAnd Egypt cavesOf mummied silence laughWhen he mounts to quench the Siroc's stench,And to wrenchFrom his clutch the tyrant's staff.The West Wind is an Indian braveWho scours the Autumn's crest.Dashing the forest down as a slaveHe tears the leaves from its limbs and weavesA maelstrom for his breast.Out of the nightCrying to frightThe earth he swoops to spoil—There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath,In his pathThere is misery and moil.The North Wind is a Viking—coldAnd cruel, armed with death!Born in the doomful deep of the oldIce Sea that froze ere Ymir roseFrom Niflheim's ebon breath.And with him sailSnow, Frost, and Hail,Thanes mighty as their lord,To plunder the shores of Summer's stores—And his roar'sLike the sound of Chaos' horde.The South Wind is a Troubadour;The Spring, his serenade.Over the mountain, over the moor,He blows to bloom from the winter's tombBlossom and leaf and blade.He ripples the throatOf the lark with a noteOf lilting love and bliss,And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon,Are a-swoon—When he woos them with his kiss.

The West Wind is an Indian braveWho scours the Autumn's crest.Dashing the forest down as a slaveHe tears the leaves from its limbs and weavesA maelstrom for his breast.Out of the nightCrying to frightThe earth he swoops to spoil—There is furious scathe in the whirl of his wrath,In his pathThere is misery and moil.

The North Wind is a Viking—coldAnd cruel, armed with death!Born in the doomful deep of the oldIce Sea that froze ere Ymir roseFrom Niflheim's ebon breath.And with him sailSnow, Frost, and Hail,Thanes mighty as their lord,To plunder the shores of Summer's stores—And his roar'sLike the sound of Chaos' horde.

The South Wind is a Troubadour;The Spring, his serenade.Over the mountain, over the moor,He blows to bloom from the winter's tombBlossom and leaf and blade.He ripples the throatOf the lark with a noteOf lilting love and bliss,And the sun and the moon, the night and the noon,Are a-swoon—When he woos them with his kiss.

So wan, so unavailing,Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!Last night, sphered in thy shining,A Circe—mystic destinies divining;To-day but as a featherTorn from a seraph's wing in sinful weather,Down-drifting from the portalsOf Paradise, unto the land of mortals.Yet do I feel thee awingMy heart with mystery, as thy updrawingMoves thro' the tides of OceanAnd leaves lorn beaches barren of its motion;Or strands upon near shallowsThe wreck whose weirded form at night unhallowsThe fisher maiden's prayers—"Forhim!—that storms may take not unawares!"So wan, so unavailing,Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!But Night shall come atoningThy phantom life thro' day, and high enthroningThee in her chambers arrassedWith star-hieroglyphs, leave thee unharassedTo glide with silvery passion,Till in earth's shadow swept thy glowings ashen.

So wan, so unavailing,Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

Last night, sphered in thy shining,A Circe—mystic destinies divining;

To-day but as a featherTorn from a seraph's wing in sinful weather,

Down-drifting from the portalsOf Paradise, unto the land of mortals.

Yet do I feel thee awingMy heart with mystery, as thy updrawing

Moves thro' the tides of OceanAnd leaves lorn beaches barren of its motion;

Or strands upon near shallowsThe wreck whose weirded form at night unhallows

The fisher maiden's prayers—"Forhim!—that storms may take not unawares!"

So wan, so unavailing,Across the vacant day-blue dimly trailing!

But Night shall come atoningThy phantom life thro' day, and high enthroning

Thee in her chambers arrassedWith star-hieroglyphs, leave thee unharassed

To glide with silvery passion,Till in earth's shadow swept thy glowings ashen.

"Beauty! all—all—is beauty?"Was ever a bird so wrong!"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"Ribald! is this your song?"Glad it is ended," are you?The Spring and its nuptial fear?"Freedom is better than love?" beware youThere will be May next year!"Beauty!" again? still "beauty"?Wait till the winter comes!Till kestrel and hungry kite seek bootyAnd there are so few crumbs!Wait? nay, fling it unbidden,The false little song you prate!Too sweet are its fancies to be chidden,E'en of the rudest fate!

"Beauty! all—all—is beauty?"Was ever a bird so wrong!"No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?"Ribald! is this your song?

"Glad it is ended," are you?The Spring and its nuptial fear?"Freedom is better than love?" beware youThere will be May next year!

"Beauty!" again? still "beauty"?Wait till the winter comes!Till kestrel and hungry kite seek bootyAnd there are so few crumbs!

Wait? nay, fling it unbidden,The false little song you prate!Too sweet are its fancies to be chidden,E'en of the rudest fate!

Art thou enraged, O sea, with the blue peaceOf heaven, so to uplift thine armèd waves,Thy billowing rebellion 'gainst its ease,And with Tartarean mutter from cold caves,From shuddering profundities where shapesOf awe glide through entangled leagues of ooze,To hoot thy watery omens evermore,And evermore thy moanings interfuseWith seething necromancy and mad lore?Or, dost thou labour with the drifting bonesOf countless dead, thou mighty Alchemist,Within whose stormy crucible the stonesOf sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,Are crumbled by thine all-abrasive beat?With immemorial chanting to the moon,And cosmic incantation dost thou craveRest to be found not till thy wild be strewnFrigid and desert over earth's last grave?Thou seemest with immensity mad, blind—With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn;Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mindIs night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scornOf the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.Bound in thy briny bed and gnawing earthWith foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,Thou art as Fate in torment of a dearthOf black disaster and destruction's strides.And how thou dost drive silence from the world,Incarnate Motion of all mystery!Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurledWhither thy Ghost tempestuous can seeA desolate apocalypse of death.Oh, how thou dost drive silence from the world,With emerald overflowing, waste on wasteOf flashing susurration, dashed and swirled'Gainst isles and continents and airs o'erspaced!Nay, frustrate Hope art thou of the Unknown,Gathered from primal mist and firmament;A surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,Whelming humanity with fears unmeant.Yet do I love thee, O, above all fear,And loving thee unconquerably trustThe runes that from thy ageless surfing startWould read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,That Immortality is might of heart!

Or, dost thou labour with the drifting bonesOf countless dead, thou mighty Alchemist,Within whose stormy crucible the stonesOf sunk primordial shores, granite and schist,Are crumbled by thine all-abrasive beat?With immemorial chanting to the moon,And cosmic incantation dost thou craveRest to be found not till thy wild be strewnFrigid and desert over earth's last grave?

Thou seemest with immensity mad, blind—With raving deaf, with wandering forlorn;Parent of Demogorgon whose dire mindIs night and earthquake, shapeless shame and scornOf the o'ermounting birth of Harmony.Bound in thy briny bed and gnawing earthWith foamy writhing and fierce-panted tides,Thou art as Fate in torment of a dearthOf black disaster and destruction's strides.

And how thou dost drive silence from the world,Incarnate Motion of all mystery!Whose waves are fury-wings, whose winds are hurledWhither thy Ghost tempestuous can seeA desolate apocalypse of death.Oh, how thou dost drive silence from the world,With emerald overflowing, waste on wasteOf flashing susurration, dashed and swirled'Gainst isles and continents and airs o'erspaced!

Nay, frustrate Hope art thou of the Unknown,Gathered from primal mist and firmament;A surging shape of Life's unfathomed moan,Whelming humanity with fears unmeant.Yet do I love thee, O, above all fear,And loving thee unconquerably trustThe runes that from thy ageless surfing startWould read, were they revealed, gust upon gust,That Immortality is might of heart!

I thought I plunged into that dire AbyssWhich is Oblivion, the house of Death.I thought there blew upon my soul the breathOf time that was but never more can be.Ten thousand years I thought I lay withinIts Void, blind, deaf, and motionless, until—Though with no eye nor ear—I felt the thrillOf seeing, heard its phantoms move and sigh.First one beside me spoke, in tones that toldHe once had been a god,—"Persephone,Tear from thy brow its withered crown, for weAre king and queen of Tartarus no more;And that wan, shrivelled sceptre in thy hand,Why dost thou clasp it still? Cast it away,For now it hath no virtue that can swayDull shades or drive the Furies to their spoil.Cast it away, and give thy palm to mine:Perchance some unobliterated sparkOf memory shall warm this dismal Dark.Perchance—vain! vain! love could not light such gloom."He sank.... Then in great ruin by him movedAnother as in travail of some thoughtNear unto birth; and soon from lips distraughtBy aged silence, fell, with hollow woe:"Ah, Pluto, dost thou, one time lord of StyxAnd Acheron make moan of night and cold?Were we upon Olympus as of oldLaughter of thee would rock its festal height.But think, think thee of me, to whom or gloomOr cold were more unknown than impotence!See the unhurlèd thunderbolt brought henceTo mock me when I dream I still am Jove!"Too much it was: I withered in the breath;And lay again ten thousand lifeless years;And then my soul shook, woke—and saw three biersChiselled of solid night majestically.The forms outlaid upon them were unwoundAs with the silence of eternity.Numbing repose dwelt o'er them like a sea,That long hath lost tide, wave and roar, in death."Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris are their names,"A spirit hieroglyphed unto my soul,"Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris—they who stoleThe heart of Egypt from the God of gods:"Aye, they! and these;" pointing to many wraithsThat stood around—Baal, Ormuzd, Indra, allWhom frightened ignorance and sin's appallHad given birth, close-huddled in despair.Their eyes were fixed upon a cloven slopeDown whose descent still other forms a-freshFrom earth were drawn, by the unceasing meshOf Time to their irrevocable end."They are the gods," one said—"the gods whom menStill taunt with wails for help."—Then a deep lightUpbore me from the Gulf, and thro' its mightI heard the worlds cry, "God alone is God!"

I thought I plunged into that dire AbyssWhich is Oblivion, the house of Death.I thought there blew upon my soul the breathOf time that was but never more can be.

Ten thousand years I thought I lay withinIts Void, blind, deaf, and motionless, until—Though with no eye nor ear—I felt the thrillOf seeing, heard its phantoms move and sigh.

First one beside me spoke, in tones that toldHe once had been a god,—"Persephone,Tear from thy brow its withered crown, for weAre king and queen of Tartarus no more;

And that wan, shrivelled sceptre in thy hand,Why dost thou clasp it still? Cast it away,For now it hath no virtue that can swayDull shades or drive the Furies to their spoil.

Cast it away, and give thy palm to mine:Perchance some unobliterated sparkOf memory shall warm this dismal Dark.Perchance—vain! vain! love could not light such gloom."

He sank.... Then in great ruin by him movedAnother as in travail of some thoughtNear unto birth; and soon from lips distraughtBy aged silence, fell, with hollow woe:

"Ah, Pluto, dost thou, one time lord of StyxAnd Acheron make moan of night and cold?Were we upon Olympus as of oldLaughter of thee would rock its festal height.

But think, think thee of me, to whom or gloomOr cold were more unknown than impotence!See the unhurlèd thunderbolt brought henceTo mock me when I dream I still am Jove!"

Too much it was: I withered in the breath;And lay again ten thousand lifeless years;And then my soul shook, woke—and saw three biersChiselled of solid night majestically.

The forms outlaid upon them were unwoundAs with the silence of eternity.Numbing repose dwelt o'er them like a sea,That long hath lost tide, wave and roar, in death.

"Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris are their names,"A spirit hieroglyphed unto my soul,"Ptah, Ammon, and Osiris—they who stoleThe heart of Egypt from the God of gods:

"Aye, they! and these;" pointing to many wraithsThat stood around—Baal, Ormuzd, Indra, allWhom frightened ignorance and sin's appallHad given birth, close-huddled in despair.

Their eyes were fixed upon a cloven slopeDown whose descent still other forms a-freshFrom earth were drawn, by the unceasing meshOf Time to their irrevocable end.

"They are the gods," one said—"the gods whom menStill taunt with wails for help."—Then a deep lightUpbore me from the Gulf, and thro' its mightI heard the worlds cry, "God alone is God!"

The weedy fallows winter-worn,Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.The plough-lands long and lorn—The fading day.The sullen shudder of the brook,And winds that wring the writhen trees in vainFor drearier sound or look—The lonely rain.The crows that train o'er desert skiesIn endless caravans that have no goalBut flight—where darkness flies—From Pole to Pole.The sombre zone of hills aroundThat shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,With sunset aureoles crowned—Before the night.

The weedy fallows winter-worn,Where cattle shiver under sodden hay.The plough-lands long and lorn—The fading day.

The sullen shudder of the brook,And winds that wring the writhen trees in vainFor drearier sound or look—The lonely rain.

The crows that train o'er desert skiesIn endless caravans that have no goalBut flight—where darkness flies—From Pole to Pole.

The sombre zone of hills aroundThat shrink in misty mournfulness from sight,With sunset aureoles crowned—Before the night.

A laughter of wind and a leaping of cloud,And April, oh, out under the blue!The brook is awake and the blackbird loudIn the dew!But how does the robin high in the beech,Beside the wood with its shake and toss,Know it—the frenzy of bluets to reachThro' the moss!And where did the lark ever learn his speech?Up wildly sweet he's over the mead!Is more than the rapture of earth can teachIn its creed?I never shall know—I never shall care!'Tis, oh, enough to live and to love!To laugh and warble and dream and dareAre to prove!

A laughter of wind and a leaping of cloud,And April, oh, out under the blue!The brook is awake and the blackbird loudIn the dew!

But how does the robin high in the beech,Beside the wood with its shake and toss,Know it—the frenzy of bluets to reachThro' the moss!

And where did the lark ever learn his speech?Up wildly sweet he's over the mead!Is more than the rapture of earth can teachIn its creed?

I never shall know—I never shall care!'Tis, oh, enough to live and to love!To laugh and warble and dream and dareAre to prove!

The wind slipt over the hillAnd down the valley.He dimpled the cheek of the rillWith a cooling kiss.Then hid on the bank a-gleeAnd began to rallyThe rushes—Oh,I love the wind for this!A cloud blew out of the westAnd spilt his showerUpon the lily-bud crestAnd the clematis.Then over the virgin cornBesprinkled a dowerOf dew-gems—And,I love the cloud for this!

The wind slipt over the hillAnd down the valley.He dimpled the cheek of the rillWith a cooling kiss.Then hid on the bank a-gleeAnd began to rallyThe rushes—Oh,I love the wind for this!

A cloud blew out of the westAnd spilt his showerUpon the lily-bud crestAnd the clematis.Then over the virgin cornBesprinkled a dowerOf dew-gems—And,I love the cloud for this!

I know her not by fallen leavesOr resting heaps of hay;Or by the sheathing mists of mauveThat soothe the fiery day.I know her not by plumping nuts,By redded hips and haws,Or by the silence hanging sadUnder the wind's sere pause.But by her sighs I know her well—They are like Sorrow's breath;And by this longing, strangely still,For something after death.

I know her not by fallen leavesOr resting heaps of hay;Or by the sheathing mists of mauveThat soothe the fiery day.

I know her not by plumping nuts,By redded hips and haws,Or by the silence hanging sadUnder the wind's sere pause.

But by her sighs I know her well—They are like Sorrow's breath;And by this longing, strangely still,For something after death.

Vox desperans.The World is a wind—on which are blownAll mysteries that are.Out of a Void it sprang—and toA Void shall spring, afar.Vox sperans.The World is Visible God—who isIts Soul invisible.There is no Void beyond that HeAbiding fills not full.

Vox desperans.

The World is a wind—on which are blownAll mysteries that are.Out of a Void it sprang—and toA Void shall spring, afar.

Vox sperans.

The World is Visible God—who isIts Soul invisible.There is no Void beyond that HeAbiding fills not full.

Thy mellow passioning amid the leavesTrembles around me in the summer duskThat falls along the oatlands' sallow sheavesAnd haunts above the runnel's voice a-huskWith plashy willow and bold-wading reed.The solitude's dim spell it breaketh not,But softer mourns unto me from the meadThan airs within the dead primrose's heart,Or breath of silences in dells begotTo soothe some grief-wan maid with love a-mort.

On many sylvan eves of childhood thouDidst woo my homeward path with tenderness,Woo till the awing owlet ceased to cowWith his chill screech of quavering distress.At phantom midnight wakened I have heardThy mated dreams from the wind-eerie elm,And as a potion medicined and myrrhed,As an enchantment's runic utterance,It would draw sleep back to her lulling realmOver my lids till day should disentrance.

A priestess art thou of Simplicity,Who hath one fane—the heaven above thy nest;One incense—love; one stealing litanyOf peace from rivered vale and upland crest.Yea, thou art Hers, who makes prayer of the breeze,Hope of the cool upwelling from sweet soils,Faith of the dark'ning distance, charitiesOf vesper scents, and of the glow-worm's throbJoy whose first leaping rends the care-wound coilsThat would earth of its heavenliness rob.

But few, how few her worshippers! For weCast at a myriad shrines our souls, to riseBeliefless, unanointed, bound not free,To sacrificing a vain sacrifice!Let thy lone innocence then quickly nullWithin our veins doubt-led and wrong desireOr drugging knowledge that but fills o'erfullOf feverous mystery the days we drain!Be thy warm notes like an Orphean lyreTo lead us to life's Arcady again!

(June, 1903)

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