MYthoughts of you ... although I strain and sighAt stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face,No plants in all my garden grow so high,Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place.It pleases me, and wakes an old delight,To go with wordy shears in idle timesAnd trim them as a patient gardener might,Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes.If these were all, opposing strength with strengthTo make my hurt an easier thing to bear;If these alone usurped my garden’s length,It would not be so hard—I should not care.But close against the ground, oh, small and weak!The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow.Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek....Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so.
MYthoughts of you ... although I strain and sighAt stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face,No plants in all my garden grow so high,Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place.It pleases me, and wakes an old delight,To go with wordy shears in idle timesAnd trim them as a patient gardener might,Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes.If these were all, opposing strength with strengthTo make my hurt an easier thing to bear;If these alone usurped my garden’s length,It would not be so hard—I should not care.But close against the ground, oh, small and weak!The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow.Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek....Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so.
MYthoughts of you ... although I strain and sighAt stubborn roots, at boughs that tear my face,No plants in all my garden grow so high,Nor fill with sturdier life a wider place.
It pleases me, and wakes an old delight,To go with wordy shears in idle timesAnd trim them as a patient gardener might,Clipping the thorny boughs to curves and rhymes.
If these were all, opposing strength with strengthTo make my hurt an easier thing to bear;If these alone usurped my garden’s length,It would not be so hard—I should not care.
But close against the ground, oh, small and weak!The trodden flowers, the little memories, grow.Uprooting fingers press them to my cheek....Dear heart, I love you, and I miss you so.
MINDsaid, “Pass by.The garden withers, for the spring is dry.For words of thine, for tears, it will not flow.The long road calls a wanderer: rise and go.”Heart said, “Pass by.The flowers were pale and scentless; let them die,And down the road Forget your pathway takeTo find beneath the Song my fine, small ache,And gather flowers blue and flowers redTo hear my whisper of the white ones dead.”
MINDsaid, “Pass by.The garden withers, for the spring is dry.For words of thine, for tears, it will not flow.The long road calls a wanderer: rise and go.”Heart said, “Pass by.The flowers were pale and scentless; let them die,And down the road Forget your pathway takeTo find beneath the Song my fine, small ache,And gather flowers blue and flowers redTo hear my whisper of the white ones dead.”
MINDsaid, “Pass by.The garden withers, for the spring is dry.For words of thine, for tears, it will not flow.The long road calls a wanderer: rise and go.”
Heart said, “Pass by.The flowers were pale and scentless; let them die,And down the road Forget your pathway takeTo find beneath the Song my fine, small ache,And gather flowers blue and flowers redTo hear my whisper of the white ones dead.”
HISlove is warm and constant as the sun,Like sunlight in the outer spaces spent,In empty courts where tumbling fountains run,And flowers bloom, and he is well content.To you my heart must turn for all its light—Alas, the grudging taper that you give!So small to make the inner temple bright,So dim to give the glow by which I live.He is the sun, for all the world to mark,So warm and fair he shines! nor understandsThat I must still be crouching in the dark,Shielding a little flame with loving hands.
HISlove is warm and constant as the sun,Like sunlight in the outer spaces spent,In empty courts where tumbling fountains run,And flowers bloom, and he is well content.To you my heart must turn for all its light—Alas, the grudging taper that you give!So small to make the inner temple bright,So dim to give the glow by which I live.He is the sun, for all the world to mark,So warm and fair he shines! nor understandsThat I must still be crouching in the dark,Shielding a little flame with loving hands.
HISlove is warm and constant as the sun,Like sunlight in the outer spaces spent,In empty courts where tumbling fountains run,And flowers bloom, and he is well content.
To you my heart must turn for all its light—Alas, the grudging taper that you give!So small to make the inner temple bright,So dim to give the glow by which I live.
He is the sun, for all the world to mark,So warm and fair he shines! nor understandsThat I must still be crouching in the dark,Shielding a little flame with loving hands.
BREAKcamp, the dawn is here!A sea has swept beneath us in the night—Poured outward in a wrinkled floor of white,And left our eyrie clear.There in the deeps the little trail is curled—We plunge like divers to the under-world.The manzanita stirs!Look, in that little thicket just ahead!Down, down, the covey whirrs,Mocking us, careful, led,Slow-slipping beads along a slender thread.Here the stream flows;Here we tread yellow leaves.(Sun in the sycamores,Sun on the granite walls.)All is so still,Never wind blows,Only the singing streamShouts little waterfalls.We round the mighty shoulder of a hill—Oh, sweet airs damp with ferns!The day is old, the lengthening shadows chill—The wanderer returns.Traffic, and wakeful eyes of little lights;The black crowd passing near; and far awayA fading rose of sunset hanging lowAbove the roofs of indigo and grey.
BREAKcamp, the dawn is here!A sea has swept beneath us in the night—Poured outward in a wrinkled floor of white,And left our eyrie clear.There in the deeps the little trail is curled—We plunge like divers to the under-world.The manzanita stirs!Look, in that little thicket just ahead!Down, down, the covey whirrs,Mocking us, careful, led,Slow-slipping beads along a slender thread.Here the stream flows;Here we tread yellow leaves.(Sun in the sycamores,Sun on the granite walls.)All is so still,Never wind blows,Only the singing streamShouts little waterfalls.We round the mighty shoulder of a hill—Oh, sweet airs damp with ferns!The day is old, the lengthening shadows chill—The wanderer returns.Traffic, and wakeful eyes of little lights;The black crowd passing near; and far awayA fading rose of sunset hanging lowAbove the roofs of indigo and grey.
BREAKcamp, the dawn is here!A sea has swept beneath us in the night—Poured outward in a wrinkled floor of white,And left our eyrie clear.There in the deeps the little trail is curled—We plunge like divers to the under-world.
The manzanita stirs!Look, in that little thicket just ahead!Down, down, the covey whirrs,Mocking us, careful, led,Slow-slipping beads along a slender thread.
Here the stream flows;Here we tread yellow leaves.(Sun in the sycamores,Sun on the granite walls.)All is so still,Never wind blows,Only the singing streamShouts little waterfalls.
We round the mighty shoulder of a hill—Oh, sweet airs damp with ferns!The day is old, the lengthening shadows chill—The wanderer returns.
Traffic, and wakeful eyes of little lights;The black crowd passing near; and far awayA fading rose of sunset hanging lowAbove the roofs of indigo and grey.
OH, when the afternoon is long and hazy,So still the valley lies, so still, so still,With sweeping smoky spirals blue and lazy,With yellow light aglow from hill to hill.Sometimes the echoes startle with my singing;Sometimes a bird the heavy silence fills,And always I can hear them ringing, ringing,My mocking bells, my Bells from over the Hills.Sweetly, faintly ring they, cruel ring they:“Captive in your prison hear us call!”Message from a life of action bring they,Life beyond these hills more sweet than all.Would that I could heed their call and follow,Waking while this drowsy valley sleeps,Follow Fortune over hill and hollow,Wrest from her the treasures that she keeps!My freedom gained, what fate would be for telling?Still hills and hills beyond would stretch for aye.Peace in this little valley has its dwelling,And that the chase would profit who shall say?For hopes and dear delights, ah, who can near them?Something ungained, the heart with longing fills,And follow though I might I still should hear them,The mocking bells, the Bells from over the Hills.
OH, when the afternoon is long and hazy,So still the valley lies, so still, so still,With sweeping smoky spirals blue and lazy,With yellow light aglow from hill to hill.Sometimes the echoes startle with my singing;Sometimes a bird the heavy silence fills,And always I can hear them ringing, ringing,My mocking bells, my Bells from over the Hills.Sweetly, faintly ring they, cruel ring they:“Captive in your prison hear us call!”Message from a life of action bring they,Life beyond these hills more sweet than all.Would that I could heed their call and follow,Waking while this drowsy valley sleeps,Follow Fortune over hill and hollow,Wrest from her the treasures that she keeps!My freedom gained, what fate would be for telling?Still hills and hills beyond would stretch for aye.Peace in this little valley has its dwelling,And that the chase would profit who shall say?For hopes and dear delights, ah, who can near them?Something ungained, the heart with longing fills,And follow though I might I still should hear them,The mocking bells, the Bells from over the Hills.
OH, when the afternoon is long and hazy,So still the valley lies, so still, so still,With sweeping smoky spirals blue and lazy,With yellow light aglow from hill to hill.Sometimes the echoes startle with my singing;Sometimes a bird the heavy silence fills,And always I can hear them ringing, ringing,My mocking bells, my Bells from over the Hills.
Sweetly, faintly ring they, cruel ring they:“Captive in your prison hear us call!”Message from a life of action bring they,Life beyond these hills more sweet than all.Would that I could heed their call and follow,Waking while this drowsy valley sleeps,Follow Fortune over hill and hollow,Wrest from her the treasures that she keeps!
My freedom gained, what fate would be for telling?Still hills and hills beyond would stretch for aye.Peace in this little valley has its dwelling,And that the chase would profit who shall say?For hopes and dear delights, ah, who can near them?Something ungained, the heart with longing fills,And follow though I might I still should hear them,The mocking bells, the Bells from over the Hills.
THElong street where the people go—It is not like the paths I know,Yet can I find the morning there,All crystal light and early air.Sharp-angled roofs in slanting sunGrow dimmer as they slope and blend,Until they crowd no more, and oneMay see his mountains at the end.Then, when the day has had her will,I lean upon my window-sill,And watch them floating, clean and high—My sunset ships across the sky.
THElong street where the people go—It is not like the paths I know,Yet can I find the morning there,All crystal light and early air.Sharp-angled roofs in slanting sunGrow dimmer as they slope and blend,Until they crowd no more, and oneMay see his mountains at the end.Then, when the day has had her will,I lean upon my window-sill,And watch them floating, clean and high—My sunset ships across the sky.
THElong street where the people go—It is not like the paths I know,Yet can I find the morning there,All crystal light and early air.
Sharp-angled roofs in slanting sunGrow dimmer as they slope and blend,Until they crowd no more, and oneMay see his mountains at the end.
Then, when the day has had her will,I lean upon my window-sill,And watch them floating, clean and high—My sunset ships across the sky.
SWEETgrasses, tasseled, bent and tall;And sweet last light across the meadow—The wind has tangled, left them allIn webs of green, in silver shadow.And to your speech my heart replies,Still silvering to each word that passes,Until a tangled joy it lies,A shining web of wind-blown grasses.
SWEETgrasses, tasseled, bent and tall;And sweet last light across the meadow—The wind has tangled, left them allIn webs of green, in silver shadow.And to your speech my heart replies,Still silvering to each word that passes,Until a tangled joy it lies,A shining web of wind-blown grasses.
SWEETgrasses, tasseled, bent and tall;And sweet last light across the meadow—The wind has tangled, left them allIn webs of green, in silver shadow.
And to your speech my heart replies,Still silvering to each word that passes,Until a tangled joy it lies,A shining web of wind-blown grasses.
AMEMORYof tears that day,Of small and piteous lives misused:The fallen bird we could not save,The butterfly we helped—and bruised.And last, to fill repentant eyes,Most bright and frail of winged things—A moment’s faith, an hour’s love,Grieving the dust with broken wings.
AMEMORYof tears that day,Of small and piteous lives misused:The fallen bird we could not save,The butterfly we helped—and bruised.And last, to fill repentant eyes,Most bright and frail of winged things—A moment’s faith, an hour’s love,Grieving the dust with broken wings.
AMEMORYof tears that day,Of small and piteous lives misused:The fallen bird we could not save,The butterfly we helped—and bruised.
And last, to fill repentant eyes,Most bright and frail of winged things—A moment’s faith, an hour’s love,Grieving the dust with broken wings.
LOW-arched above me as I moved the hollowed air was clear;Beyond was whiteness dim and strange, and spectral shapes drew near.Upon the little shore of brown that touched the misty sea,Upon the shadowy borderland, one paused and looked at me;Then hurried on with greeting smile and sudden vivid face:A friend had started into life within my magic space!Into the world of ghosts again I watched him fade away—First black he was, then dim he was, then merged in formless grey.
LOW-arched above me as I moved the hollowed air was clear;Beyond was whiteness dim and strange, and spectral shapes drew near.Upon the little shore of brown that touched the misty sea,Upon the shadowy borderland, one paused and looked at me;Then hurried on with greeting smile and sudden vivid face:A friend had started into life within my magic space!Into the world of ghosts again I watched him fade away—First black he was, then dim he was, then merged in formless grey.
LOW-arched above me as I moved the hollowed air was clear;Beyond was whiteness dim and strange, and spectral shapes drew near.
Upon the little shore of brown that touched the misty sea,Upon the shadowy borderland, one paused and looked at me;
Then hurried on with greeting smile and sudden vivid face:A friend had started into life within my magic space!
Into the world of ghosts again I watched him fade away—First black he was, then dim he was, then merged in formless grey.
YOUlove the chant of green,The low-voiced trees, the meadow’s monotone.O friend of mine, it is for these you pray.This alien land must call unheard, unseen,While one beloved note your heart has known,To hunger for it, half a world away.Come with me to my height,And stand at sunset when the winds are still,Watching the hollow valleys brim with light,The red and brown and yellow hills—they shout,And on the shoulders of the marching hostThe bayonets are gleaming points of white.Pressing beyond to deep and gradual blues,Their lessening voices die in distance pale—Ineffably dissolved in opal hues;Against the sky the last sweet echoes failWhile all the West is quivering, fold on foldTo one great voice—one vibrant peal of gold.
YOUlove the chant of green,The low-voiced trees, the meadow’s monotone.O friend of mine, it is for these you pray.This alien land must call unheard, unseen,While one beloved note your heart has known,To hunger for it, half a world away.Come with me to my height,And stand at sunset when the winds are still,Watching the hollow valleys brim with light,The red and brown and yellow hills—they shout,And on the shoulders of the marching hostThe bayonets are gleaming points of white.Pressing beyond to deep and gradual blues,Their lessening voices die in distance pale—Ineffably dissolved in opal hues;Against the sky the last sweet echoes failWhile all the West is quivering, fold on foldTo one great voice—one vibrant peal of gold.
YOUlove the chant of green,The low-voiced trees, the meadow’s monotone.O friend of mine, it is for these you pray.This alien land must call unheard, unseen,While one beloved note your heart has known,To hunger for it, half a world away.
Come with me to my height,And stand at sunset when the winds are still,Watching the hollow valleys brim with light,The red and brown and yellow hills—they shout,And on the shoulders of the marching hostThe bayonets are gleaming points of white.
Pressing beyond to deep and gradual blues,Their lessening voices die in distance pale—Ineffably dissolved in opal hues;Against the sky the last sweet echoes failWhile all the West is quivering, fold on foldTo one great voice—one vibrant peal of gold.
THEbrook flowed through a bending arch of leaves—Flowed through an arch of leaves into the sun;But all was shadow where it left my feet—A shade with netted ripples overrun,A brook that flowed in coolness to the sun.Beyond the arch of shadow color lay—Vivid to narrowed eyelids, fiercely bright,And bright the happy water slipped awayIn gleaming pools and broken lines of light.
THEbrook flowed through a bending arch of leaves—Flowed through an arch of leaves into the sun;But all was shadow where it left my feet—A shade with netted ripples overrun,A brook that flowed in coolness to the sun.Beyond the arch of shadow color lay—Vivid to narrowed eyelids, fiercely bright,And bright the happy water slipped awayIn gleaming pools and broken lines of light.
THEbrook flowed through a bending arch of leaves—Flowed through an arch of leaves into the sun;But all was shadow where it left my feet—A shade with netted ripples overrun,A brook that flowed in coolness to the sun.
Beyond the arch of shadow color lay—Vivid to narrowed eyelids, fiercely bright,And bright the happy water slipped awayIn gleaming pools and broken lines of light.
ACROSSmy thought has trailed your beautiful passing,As a wild bird ruffles the motionless brink of the water,Moving in gradual path on its mirror of shadow,After him streaking and trembling long ripples of silver.
ACROSSmy thought has trailed your beautiful passing,As a wild bird ruffles the motionless brink of the water,Moving in gradual path on its mirror of shadow,After him streaking and trembling long ripples of silver.
ACROSSmy thought has trailed your beautiful passing,As a wild bird ruffles the motionless brink of the water,Moving in gradual path on its mirror of shadow,After him streaking and trembling long ripples of silver.
ISthis the world I knew? Beneath the dayIt glowed with golden heat, with vivid hues—Mountains and sky that merged in melting bluesAnd hazy air that shimmered far away.This world is white beneath a silver sky—White with pale brightness, luminously chill.The moon reigns queen, but faintly shining stillThe dim stars glimmer on the hilltops high.Here, where long grasses touch across the streamThat threads with babbling laugh its narrow way,My face turned upward to pale gleams that strayThrough whispering willow boughs ... I dream and dream.
ISthis the world I knew? Beneath the dayIt glowed with golden heat, with vivid hues—Mountains and sky that merged in melting bluesAnd hazy air that shimmered far away.This world is white beneath a silver sky—White with pale brightness, luminously chill.The moon reigns queen, but faintly shining stillThe dim stars glimmer on the hilltops high.Here, where long grasses touch across the streamThat threads with babbling laugh its narrow way,My face turned upward to pale gleams that strayThrough whispering willow boughs ... I dream and dream.
ISthis the world I knew? Beneath the dayIt glowed with golden heat, with vivid hues—Mountains and sky that merged in melting bluesAnd hazy air that shimmered far away.
This world is white beneath a silver sky—White with pale brightness, luminously chill.The moon reigns queen, but faintly shining stillThe dim stars glimmer on the hilltops high.
Here, where long grasses touch across the streamThat threads with babbling laugh its narrow way,My face turned upward to pale gleams that strayThrough whispering willow boughs ... I dream and dream.
THElevels where the trail beganWere sown with silver-grey.We bruised the leaves with hurrying feetTo wafts of strong and tarry sweet,A moment’s pleasure as we ran,Forgotten on our way.Above, along the farthest crest,In every brief and breathless restThe spice of sage was ours,Crushed from the dull and slender leaves—The tiny yellow flowers,When day was doneNo more remembered than the wind and sun.
THElevels where the trail beganWere sown with silver-grey.We bruised the leaves with hurrying feetTo wafts of strong and tarry sweet,A moment’s pleasure as we ran,Forgotten on our way.Above, along the farthest crest,In every brief and breathless restThe spice of sage was ours,Crushed from the dull and slender leaves—The tiny yellow flowers,When day was doneNo more remembered than the wind and sun.
THElevels where the trail beganWere sown with silver-grey.We bruised the leaves with hurrying feetTo wafts of strong and tarry sweet,A moment’s pleasure as we ran,Forgotten on our way.
Above, along the farthest crest,In every brief and breathless restThe spice of sage was ours,Crushed from the dull and slender leaves—The tiny yellow flowers,When day was doneNo more remembered than the wind and sun.
BYman forgotten,Nature remembers, with her fitful tears.The wooden slabs lose name and date with years,And crumble, rotten.The Padre there,On Saint’s day, from an evening rite returning,Set for each unknown soul a candle burning,With muttered prayer.Glow-worms, they shone—Strange, spectral-gleaming through the lonely dark.Whose nameless dust did each faint glimmer mark—Skull, crumbling bone?Ah, the Dead knew!The grateful Dead, far-called from voids of space,Each by the tiny spark that gave him grace,Watched, the night through.
BYman forgotten,Nature remembers, with her fitful tears.The wooden slabs lose name and date with years,And crumble, rotten.The Padre there,On Saint’s day, from an evening rite returning,Set for each unknown soul a candle burning,With muttered prayer.Glow-worms, they shone—Strange, spectral-gleaming through the lonely dark.Whose nameless dust did each faint glimmer mark—Skull, crumbling bone?Ah, the Dead knew!The grateful Dead, far-called from voids of space,Each by the tiny spark that gave him grace,Watched, the night through.
BYman forgotten,Nature remembers, with her fitful tears.The wooden slabs lose name and date with years,And crumble, rotten.
The Padre there,On Saint’s day, from an evening rite returning,Set for each unknown soul a candle burning,With muttered prayer.
Glow-worms, they shone—Strange, spectral-gleaming through the lonely dark.Whose nameless dust did each faint glimmer mark—Skull, crumbling bone?
Ah, the Dead knew!The grateful Dead, far-called from voids of space,Each by the tiny spark that gave him grace,Watched, the night through.
THEtrack has led me out beyond the townTo follow day across the waning fields,The crisping weeds and wastes of tender brown.On either side the feathered tops are high,A tracery of broken arabesquesUpon the sullen crimson of the sky.Into the west the narrowing rails are sped.They cut the crayon softness of the duskWith thin converging gleams of bloody red.
THEtrack has led me out beyond the townTo follow day across the waning fields,The crisping weeds and wastes of tender brown.On either side the feathered tops are high,A tracery of broken arabesquesUpon the sullen crimson of the sky.Into the west the narrowing rails are sped.They cut the crayon softness of the duskWith thin converging gleams of bloody red.
THEtrack has led me out beyond the townTo follow day across the waning fields,The crisping weeds and wastes of tender brown.
On either side the feathered tops are high,A tracery of broken arabesquesUpon the sullen crimson of the sky.
Into the west the narrowing rails are sped.They cut the crayon softness of the duskWith thin converging gleams of bloody red.
HEREwill we drink content, comrade of mine—Here, where the little stream, to meet the sun,Flows down a yellow rock like yellow wine.Here will we launch a leaf to distant shores,And in it shut a word for Wonderland—The blue Unknown beyond the sycamores.
HEREwill we drink content, comrade of mine—Here, where the little stream, to meet the sun,Flows down a yellow rock like yellow wine.Here will we launch a leaf to distant shores,And in it shut a word for Wonderland—The blue Unknown beyond the sycamores.
HEREwill we drink content, comrade of mine—Here, where the little stream, to meet the sun,Flows down a yellow rock like yellow wine.
Here will we launch a leaf to distant shores,And in it shut a word for Wonderland—The blue Unknown beyond the sycamores.
Think not, O Lilias, that the love of this night will endure in the sun. Hast thou beheld fungi, white, evil, rosy-lined, poisonous, shrivel in the eyes of day?In this wilderness of strange hearts it is not thine alone that concerns me. Many brave hearts of men are more to me than thine. The hearts of men breathe deeply. As for thy heart, it runs from me, it is quicksilver, it does not concern me greatly.
Think not, O Lilias, that the love of this night will endure in the sun. Hast thou beheld fungi, white, evil, rosy-lined, poisonous, shrivel in the eyes of day?
In this wilderness of strange hearts it is not thine alone that concerns me. Many brave hearts of men are more to me than thine. The hearts of men breathe deeply. As for thy heart, it runs from me, it is quicksilver, it does not concern me greatly.
TOrosy buds in orchards of the spring,To melting clouds in endless deeps of air,My love shall lift a swelling throat and sing,Akin to all things fugitive and fair.They shut love from his heaven and he sings?But captive eyes are pitiful to see!Oh, flashing sun on upward-beating wings—Oh, tumbling notes of joy—my bird is free!Dear love, forever strange, beloved most!Dear fleeting buds, bear not your fruit and die!Be this a path forever found and lost,A drift of bloom upon an April sky.
TOrosy buds in orchards of the spring,To melting clouds in endless deeps of air,My love shall lift a swelling throat and sing,Akin to all things fugitive and fair.They shut love from his heaven and he sings?But captive eyes are pitiful to see!Oh, flashing sun on upward-beating wings—Oh, tumbling notes of joy—my bird is free!Dear love, forever strange, beloved most!Dear fleeting buds, bear not your fruit and die!Be this a path forever found and lost,A drift of bloom upon an April sky.
TOrosy buds in orchards of the spring,To melting clouds in endless deeps of air,My love shall lift a swelling throat and sing,Akin to all things fugitive and fair.
They shut love from his heaven and he sings?But captive eyes are pitiful to see!Oh, flashing sun on upward-beating wings—Oh, tumbling notes of joy—my bird is free!
Dear love, forever strange, beloved most!Dear fleeting buds, bear not your fruit and die!Be this a path forever found and lost,A drift of bloom upon an April sky.
NOWall my thoughts were crisped and thinnedTo elfin threads, to gleaming browns.Like tawny grasses lean with windThey drew your heart across the downs.Your will of all the winds that blewThey drew across the world to me,To thread my whimsey thoughts of youAlong the downs, above the sea.Beneath a pool beyond the dune—So green it was and amber-walledA face would glimmer like a moonSeen whitely through an emerald—And there my mermaid fancy layAnd dreamed the light and you were one,And flickered in her sea-weed’s swayA broken largesse of the sun.Above the world as evening fellI made my heart into a sky,And through a twilight like a shellI saw the shining sea-gulls fly.I found between the sea and landAnd lost again, unwrit, unheard,A song that fluttered in my handAnd vanished like a silver bird.
NOWall my thoughts were crisped and thinnedTo elfin threads, to gleaming browns.Like tawny grasses lean with windThey drew your heart across the downs.Your will of all the winds that blewThey drew across the world to me,To thread my whimsey thoughts of youAlong the downs, above the sea.Beneath a pool beyond the dune—So green it was and amber-walledA face would glimmer like a moonSeen whitely through an emerald—And there my mermaid fancy layAnd dreamed the light and you were one,And flickered in her sea-weed’s swayA broken largesse of the sun.Above the world as evening fellI made my heart into a sky,And through a twilight like a shellI saw the shining sea-gulls fly.I found between the sea and landAnd lost again, unwrit, unheard,A song that fluttered in my handAnd vanished like a silver bird.
NOWall my thoughts were crisped and thinnedTo elfin threads, to gleaming browns.Like tawny grasses lean with windThey drew your heart across the downs.Your will of all the winds that blewThey drew across the world to me,To thread my whimsey thoughts of youAlong the downs, above the sea.
Beneath a pool beyond the dune—So green it was and amber-walledA face would glimmer like a moonSeen whitely through an emerald—And there my mermaid fancy layAnd dreamed the light and you were one,And flickered in her sea-weed’s swayA broken largesse of the sun.
Above the world as evening fellI made my heart into a sky,And through a twilight like a shellI saw the shining sea-gulls fly.I found between the sea and landAnd lost again, unwrit, unheard,A song that fluttered in my handAnd vanished like a silver bird.
BECAUSEmy love has wave and foam for speech,And never words, and yearns as water grieves,With white arms curving on a listless beach,And murmurs inarticulate as leaves—I am become beloved of the night—Her huge sea-lands ineffable and farHold crouched and splendid Sorrow, eyed with light,And Pain who beads his forehead with a star.
BECAUSEmy love has wave and foam for speech,And never words, and yearns as water grieves,With white arms curving on a listless beach,And murmurs inarticulate as leaves—I am become beloved of the night—Her huge sea-lands ineffable and farHold crouched and splendid Sorrow, eyed with light,And Pain who beads his forehead with a star.
BECAUSEmy love has wave and foam for speech,And never words, and yearns as water grieves,With white arms curving on a listless beach,And murmurs inarticulate as leaves—
I am become beloved of the night—Her huge sea-lands ineffable and farHold crouched and splendid Sorrow, eyed with light,And Pain who beads his forehead with a star.
ITgathers where the moody sky is bending;It stirs the air along familiar ways—A sigh for strange things dear forever ending,For beauty shrinking in these alien days.Now nothing is the same, old visions move me:I wander silent through the waning land,And find for youth and little leaves to love meThe old, old lichen crumbling in my hand.What shifting films of distance fold you, blind you,This windy eve of dreams, I cannot tell.I know they grope through some strange mist to find you,My hands that give you Greeting and Farewell.
ITgathers where the moody sky is bending;It stirs the air along familiar ways—A sigh for strange things dear forever ending,For beauty shrinking in these alien days.Now nothing is the same, old visions move me:I wander silent through the waning land,And find for youth and little leaves to love meThe old, old lichen crumbling in my hand.What shifting films of distance fold you, blind you,This windy eve of dreams, I cannot tell.I know they grope through some strange mist to find you,My hands that give you Greeting and Farewell.
ITgathers where the moody sky is bending;It stirs the air along familiar ways—A sigh for strange things dear forever ending,For beauty shrinking in these alien days.
Now nothing is the same, old visions move me:I wander silent through the waning land,And find for youth and little leaves to love meThe old, old lichen crumbling in my hand.
What shifting films of distance fold you, blind you,This windy eve of dreams, I cannot tell.I know they grope through some strange mist to find you,My hands that give you Greeting and Farewell.
[1]This poem, so distinctly prophetic, was written a year and four months before her death.
[1]This poem, so distinctly prophetic, was written a year and four months before her death.
[2]“The Rose” was written for Mr. Porter Garnett on the occasion of his marriage.
[2]“The Rose” was written for Mr. Porter Garnett on the occasion of his marriage.
[3]These lines were in response to a long telegram dispatched at night by a distant friend.
[3]These lines were in response to a long telegram dispatched at night by a distant friend.
[4]Of this poem, “Just a Dog,” a letter says: “My cousin, who used often to play on the piano, died; and after his death his dog, when anyone touched the instrument, used to come from wherever he might be to see if the player were not his master. Then he would slink away again. The dog died after a few grieving months. I loved him, and made these verses.”
[4]Of this poem, “Just a Dog,” a letter says: “My cousin, who used often to play on the piano, died; and after his death his dog, when anyone touched the instrument, used to come from wherever he might be to see if the player were not his master. Then he would slink away again. The dog died after a few grieving months. I loved him, and made these verses.”
[5]“Mirage” is an endeavor to portray the alien attitude of one who had long vainly sought love.
[5]“Mirage” is an endeavor to portray the alien attitude of one who had long vainly sought love.
[6]“My Nook” was written at the age of sixteen.
[6]“My Nook” was written at the age of sixteen.
[7]“Think Not, O Lilias.” These prose lines were recalled out of a dream. They are included here because of their singular beauty.
[7]“Think Not, O Lilias.” These prose lines were recalled out of a dream. They are included here because of their singular beauty.
[8]“Yesterday,” and “The Mourner” which follows it, are the last poems. “Ave atque Vale” was written some two years before.
[8]“Yesterday,” and “The Mourner” which follows it, are the last poems. “Ave atque Vale” was written some two years before.
The responsibility for these notes lies with Mr. Henry Anderson Lafler, who has edited this book. Thanks are due to Mr. George Sterling and Mr. Porter Garnett, who have lightened the labor of its preparation.