Down the palm-way from Eden in the mid-nightLay dreaming Eve by her outdriven mate,Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweetOf birth within the Garden's ecstasy.Pitiful round her face that could not loseIts memory of God's perfecting was strewnHer troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sighAlong her loveliness in the white moon.Then sudden her dream, too cruelly impentWith pain, broke and a cry fled shudderingInto the wounded stillness from her lips—As, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,And tears, that had before ne'er visitedHer lids with anguish, drew from her the moan:"Oh, Adam! What have I dreamed?Now do I understand His words, so dimTo creatures that had quivered but with bliss!Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and IWept at caresses that were once all joy,I have slept, seeing through FuturityThe uncreated ages visibly!Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the wombOf Time, and all with lamentable mienAccusing without mercy, thee and me!And without pity! for tho' some were farFrom birth, and without name, others were near—Sodom and dark Gomorrah—from whose flamesFleeing one turned ... how like her look to mineWhen the tree's horror trembled on my taste!And Babylon upbuilded on our sin;And Nineveh, a city sinking slowUnder a shroud of sandy centuriesThat hid me not from the buried cursing eyesOf women who e'er-bitterly gave birth!Ah, to be mother of all misery!To be first-called out of the earth and failFor a whole world! To shame maternityFor women evermore—women whose tearsFlooding the night, no hope can wipe away!To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thouHast not, endlessly beating, and to hearThe swooning ages suffer up to God!And Oh, that birth-cry of a guiltless childIn it are sounding of our sin and woe,With prophesy of ill beyond all years!Yearning for beauty never to be seen—Beatitude redeemless evermore!"And I whose dream mourned with all motherhoodMust hear it soon! Already do soft skill,Assuasive lulls, enticings and quick tonesOf tenderness—that will like light awakeThe folded memory children shall bringOut of the dark—move in me longingly.Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God,Thou, when thou too shall hear humanityCry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the worldBack in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fillGod's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissedThe fever from her lips. Over the palmsThe sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,Folded again dark wings above their rest.
Down the palm-way from Eden in the mid-nightLay dreaming Eve by her outdriven mate,Pillowed on lilies that still told the sweetOf birth within the Garden's ecstasy.Pitiful round her face that could not loseIts memory of God's perfecting was strewnHer troubled hair, and sigh grieved after sighAlong her loveliness in the white moon.Then sudden her dream, too cruelly impentWith pain, broke and a cry fled shudderingInto the wounded stillness from her lips—As, cold, she fearfully felt for his hand,And tears, that had before ne'er visitedHer lids with anguish, drew from her the moan:
"Oh, Adam! What have I dreamed?Now do I understand His words, so dimTo creatures that had quivered but with bliss!Since at the dusk thy kiss to me, and IWept at caresses that were once all joy,I have slept, seeing through FuturityThe uncreated ages visibly!Foresuffering phantoms crowded in the wombOf Time, and all with lamentable mienAccusing without mercy, thee and me!And without pity! for tho' some were farFrom birth, and without name, others were near—Sodom and dark Gomorrah—from whose flamesFleeing one turned ... how like her look to mineWhen the tree's horror trembled on my taste!And Babylon upbuilded on our sin;And Nineveh, a city sinking slowUnder a shroud of sandy centuriesThat hid me not from the buried cursing eyesOf women who e'er-bitterly gave birth!Ah, to be mother of all misery!To be first-called out of the earth and failFor a whole world! To shame maternityFor women evermore—women whose tearsFlooding the night, no hope can wipe away!To see the wings of Death, as, Adam, thouHast not, endlessly beating, and to hearThe swooning ages suffer up to God!And Oh, that birth-cry of a guiltless childIn it are sounding of our sin and woe,With prophesy of ill beyond all years!Yearning for beauty never to be seen—Beatitude redeemless evermore!
"And I whose dream mourned with all motherhoodMust hear it soon! Already do soft skill,Assuasive lulls, enticings and quick tonesOf tenderness—that will like light awakeThe folded memory children shall bringOut of the dark—move in me longingly.Yet thou, Adam, dear fallen thought of God,Thou, when thou too shall hear humanityCry in thy child, wilt groaning wish the worldBack in unsummoned Void! and, woe! wilt fillGod's ear with troubled wonder and unrest!"
Softly he soothed her straying hair, and kissedThe fever from her lips. Over the palmsThe sad moon poured her peace into their eyes,Till Sleep, the angel of forgetfulness,Folded again dark wings above their rest.
I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him—Thou art so good to me!—But Thou hast only lent Him,His heart's for Thee!I dared—Thy poor hand-maiden—Not ask a prophet-child:Only a boy-babe ladenFor earth—and mild.But this one Thou hast givenSeems not for earth—or me!His lips flame truth from heaven,And vanitySeem all my thoughts and prayersWhen He but speaks Thy Law;Out of my heart the taresAre torn by awe!I cannot look upon Him,So strangely burn His eyes—Hath not some grieving drawn HimFrom Paradise?For Thee, for Thee I'd live, Lord!Yet oft I almost fallBefore Him—Oh, forgive, Lord,My sinful thrall!But e'en when He was nursing,A baby at my breast,It seemed He was dispersingThe world's unrest.Thou bad'st me call Him "Jesus,"And from our heavy sinI know He shall release us,From Sheol win.But, Lord, forgive! the yearningThat He may sometimes beLike other children, learningBeside my knee,Or playing, prattling, seekingFor help—comes to my heart....Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking—How good Thou art!
I know, Lord, Thou hast sent Him—Thou art so good to me!—But Thou hast only lent Him,His heart's for Thee!
I dared—Thy poor hand-maiden—Not ask a prophet-child:Only a boy-babe ladenFor earth—and mild.
But this one Thou hast givenSeems not for earth—or me!His lips flame truth from heaven,And vanity
Seem all my thoughts and prayersWhen He but speaks Thy Law;Out of my heart the taresAre torn by awe!
I cannot look upon Him,So strangely burn His eyes—Hath not some grieving drawn HimFrom Paradise?
For Thee, for Thee I'd live, Lord!Yet oft I almost fallBefore Him—Oh, forgive, Lord,My sinful thrall!
But e'en when He was nursing,A baby at my breast,It seemed He was dispersingThe world's unrest.
Thou bad'st me call Him "Jesus,"And from our heavy sinI know He shall release us,From Sheol win.
But, Lord, forgive! the yearningThat He may sometimes beLike other children, learningBeside my knee,
Or playing, prattling, seekingFor help—comes to my heart....Ah sinful, Lord, I'm speaking—How good Thou art!
Proud Adelil! Proud Adelil!Why does she lie so cold?(I made her shrink, I made her reel,I made her white lids fold.)We sat at banquet, many maids,She like a Valkyr free.(I hated the glitter of her braids,I hated her blue eye's glee!)In emerald cups was poured the mead;Icily blew the night.(But tears unshed and woes that bleedBrew bitterness and spite.)"A goblet to my love!" she cried,"Prince where the sea-winds fly!"(Her love!—it was for that he died,And for it she should die.)She lifted the cup and drank—she sawA heart within its lees.(I laughed like the dead who feel the thawOf summer in the breeze.)They looked upon her stricken still,And sudden they grew appalled.("It is thy lover's heart!" I shrillAs the sea-crow to her called.)Palely she took it—did it giveEase there against her breast?(Dead—dead she swooned, but I cannot live,And dead I shall not rest.)
Proud Adelil! Proud Adelil!Why does she lie so cold?(I made her shrink, I made her reel,I made her white lids fold.)
We sat at banquet, many maids,She like a Valkyr free.(I hated the glitter of her braids,I hated her blue eye's glee!)
In emerald cups was poured the mead;Icily blew the night.(But tears unshed and woes that bleedBrew bitterness and spite.)
"A goblet to my love!" she cried,"Prince where the sea-winds fly!"(Her love!—it was for that he died,And for it she should die.)
She lifted the cup and drank—she sawA heart within its lees.(I laughed like the dead who feel the thawOf summer in the breeze.)
They looked upon her stricken still,And sudden they grew appalled.("It is thy lover's heart!" I shrillAs the sea-crow to her called.)
Palely she took it—did it giveEase there against her breast?(Dead—dead she swooned, but I cannot live,And dead I shall not rest.)
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.All night—and when at dawnI woke with the blue-bird's 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.
All night—and when at dawnI woke with the blue-bird's 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.
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.
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 airFor 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 airFor 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!
Thou art late, O Moon,Late,I have waited thee long.The nightingale's flown to her nest,Sated with song.The champak hath no odour moreTo pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—But my heart it will not rest.Thou art late, O Love,Late,For the moon is a-wane.The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,Burns with my pain.The lotus leans her head on the stream—Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,Dream ere the night-cool dies?Thou art late, O Death,Late,For he did not come!A pariah is my heart,Cast from him—dumb!I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—Is it not time for the Tomb—and Sleep?O Death, strike with thy dart!
Thou art late, O Moon,Late,I have waited thee long.The nightingale's flown to her nest,Sated with song.The champak hath no odour moreTo pour on the wind as he passeth o'er—But my heart it will not rest.
Thou art late, O Love,Late,For the moon is a-wane.The kusa-grass sighs with my sighs,Burns with my pain.The lotus leans her head on the stream—Shall I not lean to thy breast and dream,Dream ere the night-cool dies?
Thou art late, O Death,Late,For he did not come!A pariah is my heart,Cast from him—dumb!I cannot cry in the jungle's deep—Is it not time for the Tomb—and Sleep?O Death, strike with thy dart!
Dim thro' the mist and cryptomeriaBooms the temple bell,Down from the tomb of IêyasüYearning, as a knell.Down from the tomb where many an æonSilently has knelt;Many a pilgrimage of millions—Still about it felt.Still, for I see them gather ghostlyNow, as the numb soundFloats, an unearthly necromancy,From 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 millionsMeek, entreat or praise?
Dim thro' the mist and cryptomeriaBooms the temple bell,Down from the tomb of IêyasüYearning, as a knell.
Down from the tomb where many an æonSilently has knelt;Many a pilgrimage of millions—Still about it felt.
Still, for I see them gather ghostlyNow, as the numb soundFloats, an unearthly necromancy,From 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 millionsMeek, entreat or praise?
"Give me a little childTo draw this dreary want out of my breast,"I cried to God."Give, for my days beat wildWith loneliness that will not restBut under the still sod!"It came—with groping lipsAnd little fingers stealing aimlesslyAbout my heart.I was like one who slipsA-sudden into EcstasyAnd thinks ne'er to depart."Soon he will smile," I said,"And babble baby love into my ears—How it will thrill!"I waited—Oh, the dread,The clutching agony, the fears!—He was so strange and still.Did I curse God and raveWhen they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twasA witless child?No ... I ... I only gaveOne cry ... just one ... I think ... because ...You know ... he never smiled.
"Give me a little childTo draw this dreary want out of my breast,"I cried to God."Give, for my days beat wildWith loneliness that will not restBut under the still sod!"
It came—with groping lipsAnd little fingers stealing aimlesslyAbout my heart.I was like one who slipsA-sudden into EcstasyAnd thinks ne'er to depart.
"Soon he will smile," I said,"And babble baby love into my ears—How it will thrill!"I waited—Oh, the dread,The clutching agony, the fears!—He was so strange and still.
Did I curse God and raveWhen they came shrinkingly to tell me 'twasA witless child?No ... I ... I only gaveOne cry ... just one ... I think ... because ...You know ... he never smiled.
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 stenchAnd 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 slave,He 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 's 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 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 stenchAnd 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 slave,He 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 's 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.
I who was learnèd in death's loreOft held her to my heartAnd spoke of days when we should love no more—In the long dust, apart."Immortal?" No—it could not be,Spirit with flesh must die.Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,Reason would still outcry.She died. They wrapped her in the dust—I heard the dull clod's dole,And then I knew she lived—that death's dark lustCould never touch her soul!
I who was learnèd in death's loreOft held her to my heartAnd spoke of days when we should love no more—In the long dust, apart.
"Immortal?" No—it could not be,Spirit with flesh must die.Tho' heart should pray and hope make endless plea,Reason would still outcry.
She died. They wrapped her in the dust—I heard the dull clod's dole,And then I knew she lived—that death's dark lustCould never touch her soul!
We are not lovers, you and I,Upon this sunny lane,But children who have never knownLove's joy or pain.The trees we pass, the summer brook,The bird that o'er us darts—We do not know 'tis they that thrillOur childish hearts.The earth-things have no name for us,The ploughing means no moreThan that they like to walk the fieldsWho plough them o'er.The road, the wood, the heaven, the hillsAre not a World to-day—But just a place God's made for usIn which to play.
We are not lovers, you and I,Upon this sunny lane,But children who have never knownLove's joy or pain.
The trees we pass, the summer brook,The bird that o'er us darts—We do not know 'tis they that thrillOur childish hearts.
The earth-things have no name for us,The ploughing means no moreThan that they like to walk the fieldsWho plough them o'er.
The road, the wood, the heaven, the hillsAre not a World to-day—But just a place God's made for usIn which to play.
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.
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,Lose no 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—Oh, 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,Lose no 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—Oh, hear it, Air,Ocean and Earth, and grant your grace!
Pale sampans up the river glide,With set sails vanishing and slow;In the blue west the mountains hide,As visions that too soon will go.Across the rice-lands, flooded deep,The peasant peacefully wades on—As, in unfurrowed vales of sleep,A phantom out of voidness drawn.Over the temple cawing fliesThe crow with carrion in his beak.Buddha within lifts not his eyesIn pity or reproval meek;Nor, in the bamboos, where they bowA respite from the blinding sun,The old priest—dreaming painless howNirvana's calm will come when won."All is illusion,Maya, allThe world of will," the spent East seemsWhispering in me; "and the callOf Life is but a call of dreams."
Pale sampans up the river glide,With set sails vanishing and slow;In the blue west the mountains hide,As visions that too soon will go.
Across the rice-lands, flooded deep,The peasant peacefully wades on—As, in unfurrowed vales of sleep,A phantom out of voidness drawn.
Over the temple cawing fliesThe crow with carrion in his beak.Buddha within lifts not his eyesIn pity or reproval meek;
Nor, in the bamboos, where they bowA respite from the blinding sun,The old priest—dreaming painless howNirvana's calm will come when won.
"All is illusion,Maya, allThe world of will," the spent East seemsWhispering in me; "and the callOf Life is but a call of dreams."
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 hang 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 hang 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!
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 within its void I thoughtI lay, 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 enwoundAs 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 within its void I thoughtI lay, 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 enwoundAs 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!"
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,And I will call to mine.Call to her by the meadow-gate,And I will call by the pine.Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,The windy wheat sways west.Whistle again, call clear and runTo lure her out of her nest.For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,With Mary down the laneI'll walk, in the dusk of the locust tops,And be her lover again.Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,And that our hair is gray.We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunsetThat summer's halcyon day.That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,Still calling—calling still?We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed,But glad with the old love's thrill!
O call to your mate, bob-white, bob-white,And I will call to mine.Call to her by the meadow-gate,And I will call by the pine.
Tell her the sun is hid, bob-white,The windy wheat sways west.Whistle again, call clear and runTo lure her out of her nest.
For when to the copse she comes, shy bird,With Mary down the laneI'll walk, in the dusk of the locust tops,And be her lover again.
Ay, we will forget our hearts are old,And that our hair is gray.We'll kiss as we kissed at pale sunsetThat summer's halcyon day.
That day, can it fade?... ah, bob, bob-white,Still calling—calling still?We're coming—a-coming, bent and weighed,But glad with the old love's thrill!
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,Drawing my heart with thee over the west!Done is its day as thy day is done,Fallen its quest!Swoon into purple and rose, then die:Tho' to arise again out of the dawn:Die as I praise thee, ere thro' the Dark LieOf death I am drawn!Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!I like a child could cry for it again—Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,Its women, its men!For, how I drained it with love and delight!Opened its heart with the magic of grief!Reaped every season—its day and its night!Loved every sheaf!Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,Never a flower swung sweet to my face,Never a heart that was touched of God,But taught me its grace.Off from my lids then a moment yet,Fingering Death, for again I must seeLifted by memory all that I metUnder Time's lee.There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?Speak they not vision—and frenzy to dare,That still in me yearn?...Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,Still you can answer with swirling the thought!Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,Joyous, distraught!...Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—Come, thou invisible Dark with thy mask!Shall I not learn if she lives? and couldI more of thee ask?...Turn me away from the ashen west,Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.Something is stealing like light from my breast—Soul from its husk ...Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,Bury me, near to the haunting treadOf life that o'errolls.
Swing in thy splendour, O silent sun,Drawing my heart with thee over the west!Done is its day as thy day is done,Fallen its quest!
Swoon into purple and rose, then die:Tho' to arise again out of the dawn:Die as I praise thee, ere thro' the Dark LieOf death I am drawn!
Sunk? art thou sunken? how great was life!I like a child could cry for it again—Cry for its beauty, pang, fleeting and strife,Its women, its men!
For, how I drained it with love and delight!Opened its heart with the magic of grief!Reaped every season—its day and its night!Loved every sheaf!
Aye, not a meadow my step has trod,Never a flower swung sweet to my face,Never a heart that was touched of God,But taught me its grace.
Off from my lids then a moment yet,Fingering Death, for again I must seeLifted by memory all that I metUnder Time's lee.
There!... I'm a child again—fair, so fair!Under the eyes does a marvel not burn?Speak they not vision—and frenzy to dare,That still in me yearn?...
Youth! my wild youth!—O, blood of my heart,Still you can answer with swirling the thought!Still like the mountain-born rapid can dart,Joyous, distraught!...
Love, and her face again! there by the wood!—Come, thou invisible Dark with thy mask!Shall I not learn if she lives? and couldI more of thee ask?...
Turn me away from the ashen west,Where love's sad planet unveils to the dusk.Something is stealing like light from my breast—Soul from its husk ...
Soft!... Where the dead feel the buried dead,Where the high hermit-bell hourly tolls,Bury me, near to the haunting treadOf life that o'errolls.
I did not fear,But crept close up to Christ and said,"Is he not here?"They drew me back—The seraphs who had never bledOf weary lack—But still I cried,With torn robe, clutching at His feet,"Dear Christ! He died"So long ago!Is he not here? Three days, unfleetAs mortal flow"Of time I've sought—Till Heaven's amaranthine waysSeem as sere nought!"A grieving stoleUp from His heart and waned the gazeOf His clear soulInto my eyes."He is not here," troubled He sighed."For none who dies"Beliefless mayBend lips to this sin-healing Tide,And live alway."Then darkness roseWithin me, and drear bitterness.Out of its throesI moaned, at last,"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,The charms Thou hast"Around me strown!Beliefless too am I withoutHis love—and lone!"Unto the GateThey led me, tho' with pitying doubt.I did not waitBut stepped acrossIts portal, turned not once to heedOr know my loss.Then my dream broke,And with it every loveless creed—Beneath love's stroke.
I did not fear,But crept close up to Christ and said,"Is he not here?"
They drew me back—The seraphs who had never bledOf weary lack—
But still I cried,With torn robe, clutching at His feet,"Dear Christ! He died
"So long ago!Is he not here? Three days, unfleetAs mortal flow
"Of time I've sought—Till Heaven's amaranthine waysSeem as sere nought!"
A grieving stoleUp from His heart and waned the gazeOf His clear soul
Into my eyes."He is not here," troubled He sighed."For none who dies
"Beliefless mayBend lips to this sin-healing Tide,And live alway."
Then darkness roseWithin me, and drear bitterness.Out of its throes
I moaned, at last,"Let me go hence! Take off the dress,The charms Thou hast
"Around me strown!Beliefless too am I withoutHis love—and lone!"
Unto the GateThey led me, tho' with pitying doubt.I did not wait
But stepped acrossIts portal, turned not once to heedOr know my loss.
Then my dream broke,And with it every loveless creed—Beneath love's stroke.
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!