Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noonThe sea-mists swoon:Wind-twisted pines, through which the crowGoes winging slow:Dim fields, the sower never sows,Or reaps or mows:And near the sea a ghostly house of stoneWhere all is old and lone.A garden, falling in decay,Where statues grayPeer, broken, out of tangled weedAnd thorny seed:Satyr and Nymph, that once made loveBy walk and grove:And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold,A sundial, lichen-old.Like some sad life bereft,To musing left,The house stands: love and youthBoth gone, in sooth:But still it sits and dreams:And round it seemsSome memory of the past, still young and fair,Haunting each crumbling stair.And suddenly one dimly sees,Come through the trees,A woman, like a wild moss-rose:A man, who goesSoftly: and by the dialThey kiss a while:Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,And they, like ghosts, are gone.
Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noonThe sea-mists swoon:Wind-twisted pines, through which the crowGoes winging slow:Dim fields, the sower never sows,Or reaps or mows:And near the sea a ghostly house of stoneWhere all is old and lone.
A garden, falling in decay,Where statues grayPeer, broken, out of tangled weedAnd thorny seed:Satyr and Nymph, that once made loveBy walk and grove:And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mold,A sundial, lichen-old.
Like some sad life bereft,To musing left,The house stands: love and youthBoth gone, in sooth:But still it sits and dreams:And round it seemsSome memory of the past, still young and fair,Haunting each crumbling stair.
And suddenly one dimly sees,Come through the trees,A woman, like a wild moss-rose:A man, who goesSoftly: and by the dialThey kiss a while:Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,And they, like ghosts, are gone.
A river binds the lonely land,A river like a silver band,To crags and shores of yellow sand.It is a place where kildees cry,And endless marches eastward lie,Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.A house stands gray and all aloneUpon a hill, as dim of tone,And lonely, as a lonely stone.There are no signs of life about:No barnyard bustle, cry and shoutOf children who run laughing out.No crow of cocks, no low of cows,No sheep-bell tinkling under boughsOf beech, or song in garth or house.Only the curlew's mournful call,Circling the sky at evenfall,And loon lamenting over all.A garden, where the sunflower diesAnd lily on the pathway lies,Looks blindly at the blinder skies.And round the place a lone wind blows,As when the Autumn grieving goes,Tattered and dripping, to its close.And on decaying shrubs and vinesThe moon's thin crescent, dwindling shines,Caught in the claws of sombre pines.And then a pale girl, like a flower,Enters the garden: for an hourShe waits beside a wild-rose bower.There is no other one around;No sound, except the cricket's soundAnd far-off baying of a hound.There is no fire or candle-lightTo flash its message through the nightOf welcome from some casement bright.Only the moon, that thinly throwsA shadow on the girl and rose,As to its setting slow it goes.And when 'tis gone, from shore and streamThere steals a mist, that turns to dreamThat place where all things merely seem.And through the mist there goes a cry,Not of the earth nor of the sky,But of the years that have passed by.And with the cry there comes the rain,Whispering of all that was in vainAt every door and window-pane.And she, who waits beside the rose,Hears, with her heart, a hoof that goes,Galloping afar to where none knows.And then she bows her head and weeps....And suddenly a shadow sweepsAround, and in its darkening deeps.The house, the girl, the cliffs and streamAre gone.—And they, and all things seemBut phantoms, merely, in a dream.
A river binds the lonely land,A river like a silver band,To crags and shores of yellow sand.
It is a place where kildees cry,And endless marches eastward lie,Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.
A house stands gray and all aloneUpon a hill, as dim of tone,And lonely, as a lonely stone.
There are no signs of life about:No barnyard bustle, cry and shoutOf children who run laughing out.
No crow of cocks, no low of cows,No sheep-bell tinkling under boughsOf beech, or song in garth or house.
Only the curlew's mournful call,Circling the sky at evenfall,And loon lamenting over all.
A garden, where the sunflower diesAnd lily on the pathway lies,Looks blindly at the blinder skies.
And round the place a lone wind blows,As when the Autumn grieving goes,Tattered and dripping, to its close.
And on decaying shrubs and vinesThe moon's thin crescent, dwindling shines,Caught in the claws of sombre pines.
And then a pale girl, like a flower,Enters the garden: for an hourShe waits beside a wild-rose bower.
There is no other one around;No sound, except the cricket's soundAnd far-off baying of a hound.
There is no fire or candle-lightTo flash its message through the nightOf welcome from some casement bright.
Only the moon, that thinly throwsA shadow on the girl and rose,As to its setting slow it goes.
And when 'tis gone, from shore and streamThere steals a mist, that turns to dreamThat place where all things merely seem.
And through the mist there goes a cry,Not of the earth nor of the sky,But of the years that have passed by.
And with the cry there comes the rain,Whispering of all that was in vainAt every door and window-pane.
And she, who waits beside the rose,Hears, with her heart, a hoof that goes,Galloping afar to where none knows.
And then she bows her head and weeps....And suddenly a shadow sweepsAround, and in its darkening deeps.
The house, the girl, the cliffs and streamAre gone.—And they, and all things seemBut phantoms, merely, in a dream.
The wind that met her in the park,Came hurrying to my side—It ran to me, it leapt to me,And nowhere would abide.It whispered in my ear a word,So sweet a word, I swear,It smelt of honey and the kissIt'd stolen from her hair.Then shouted me the flowery wayWhereon she walked with dreams,And bade me wait and watch her passAmong the glooms and gleams.It ran to meet her as she cameAnd clasped her to its breast;It kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth,And laughed its merriest.Then to my side it leapt again,And took me by surprise:The kiss it'd stolen from her lipsIt blew into my eyes.Since then, it seems, I have grown blindTo every face but hers:It haunts me sleeping or awake,And is become my curse.The spell, that kiss has laid on me,Shall hold my eyes the same,Until I give it back againTo lips from which it came.
The wind that met her in the park,Came hurrying to my side—It ran to me, it leapt to me,And nowhere would abide.
It whispered in my ear a word,So sweet a word, I swear,It smelt of honey and the kissIt'd stolen from her hair.
Then shouted me the flowery wayWhereon she walked with dreams,And bade me wait and watch her passAmong the glooms and gleams.
It ran to meet her as she cameAnd clasped her to its breast;It kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth,And laughed its merriest.
Then to my side it leapt again,And took me by surprise:The kiss it'd stolen from her lipsIt blew into my eyes.
Since then, it seems, I have grown blindTo every face but hers:It haunts me sleeping or awake,And is become my curse.
The spell, that kiss has laid on me,Shall hold my eyes the same,Until I give it back againTo lips from which it came.
Clove-spicy pinks and phlox that fill the senseWith drowsy indolence;And in the evening skiesInterior splendor, pregnant with surprise,As if in some new wiseThe full moon soon would rise.Hung with the crimson aigrets of its seedsThe purple monkshood bleeds;The dewy crickets chirr,And everywhere are lights of lavender;And scents of musk and myrrhTo guide the foot of her.She passes like a misty glimmer onTo where the rose blooms wan,—A twilight moth in flight,—As in the west its streak of chrysoliteThe dusk erases quite,And ushers in the night.And now another shadow passes slow,With firefly light a-glow:The scent of a cigar,And two who kiss beneath the evening-star,Where, in a moonbeam bar,A whippoorwill cries afar.Again the tale is told, that has been toldSo often here of old:Ghosts of dead lovers they?Or memories only of some perished day?—Old ghosts, no time shall lay,That haunt the place alway.
Clove-spicy pinks and phlox that fill the senseWith drowsy indolence;And in the evening skiesInterior splendor, pregnant with surprise,As if in some new wiseThe full moon soon would rise.
Hung with the crimson aigrets of its seedsThe purple monkshood bleeds;The dewy crickets chirr,And everywhere are lights of lavender;And scents of musk and myrrhTo guide the foot of her.
She passes like a misty glimmer onTo where the rose blooms wan,—A twilight moth in flight,—As in the west its streak of chrysoliteThe dusk erases quite,And ushers in the night.
And now another shadow passes slow,With firefly light a-glow:The scent of a cigar,And two who kiss beneath the evening-star,Where, in a moonbeam bar,A whippoorwill cries afar.
Again the tale is told, that has been toldSo often here of old:Ghosts of dead lovers they?Or memories only of some perished day?—Old ghosts, no time shall lay,That haunt the place alway.
I saw a name carved on a tree—"Julia";A simpler name there could not be—Julia:But seeing it I seemed to seeA Devon garden,—pleasantlyAbout a parsonage,—the beeMade drowsy-sweet; where rosemaryAnd pink and phlox and peonyBowed down to oneWhom Herrick made to bloom in Poetry.A moment there I saw her stand,—Julia;A gillyflower in her hand,—Julia:And then, kind-faced and big and bland,As raised by some magician's wand,Herrick himself passed by, sun-tanned,And smiling; and the quiet landSeemed to take on and understandA dream long dreamed,And for the lives of two some gladness planned.And then I seemed to hear a sigh,—"Julia!"And someone softly walking nigh,—Julia:The leaves shook; and a butterflyTrailed past; and through the sleepy skyA bird flew, crying strange its cry—Then suddenly before my eyeTwo lovers strolled—They knew not whyI looked amazed,—But I had seen old ghosts of long dead loves go by.
I saw a name carved on a tree—"Julia";A simpler name there could not be—Julia:But seeing it I seemed to seeA Devon garden,—pleasantlyAbout a parsonage,—the beeMade drowsy-sweet; where rosemaryAnd pink and phlox and peonyBowed down to oneWhom Herrick made to bloom in Poetry.
A moment there I saw her stand,—Julia;A gillyflower in her hand,—Julia:And then, kind-faced and big and bland,As raised by some magician's wand,Herrick himself passed by, sun-tanned,And smiling; and the quiet landSeemed to take on and understandA dream long dreamed,And for the lives of two some gladness planned.
And then I seemed to hear a sigh,—"Julia!"And someone softly walking nigh,—Julia:The leaves shook; and a butterflyTrailed past; and through the sleepy skyA bird flew, crying strange its cry—Then suddenly before my eyeTwo lovers strolled—They knew not whyI looked amazed,—But I had seen old ghosts of long dead loves go by.
There a tattered marigoldAnd dead asters manifold,Showed him where the garden oldOf time bloomed:Briar and thistle overgrewCorners where the rose once blew,Where the phlox of every hueLay entombed.Here a coreopsis flowerPushed its disc above a bower,Where once poured a starry shower,Bronze and gold:And a twisted hollyhock,And the remnant of a stock,Struggled up, 'mid burr and dock,Through the mold.Flower-pots, with mossy cloak,Strewed a place beneath an oak,Where the garden-bench lay brokeBy the tree:And he thought ofher, who hereSat with him but yesteryear;Her, whose presence now seemed nearStealthily.And the garden seemed to lookFor her coming. Petals shookOn the spot where, with her book,Oft she sat.—Suddenly there blew a wind:And across the garden blind,Like a black thought in a mind,Stole a cat.Lean as hunger; like the shadeOf a dream; a ghost unlaid;Through the weeds its way it made,Gaunt and old:Once 't washers. He looked to seeIfshefollowed to the tree.—Then recalled how long since sheHad been mold.
There a tattered marigoldAnd dead asters manifold,Showed him where the garden oldOf time bloomed:Briar and thistle overgrewCorners where the rose once blew,Where the phlox of every hueLay entombed.
Here a coreopsis flowerPushed its disc above a bower,Where once poured a starry shower,Bronze and gold:And a twisted hollyhock,And the remnant of a stock,Struggled up, 'mid burr and dock,Through the mold.
Flower-pots, with mossy cloak,Strewed a place beneath an oak,Where the garden-bench lay brokeBy the tree:And he thought ofher, who hereSat with him but yesteryear;Her, whose presence now seemed nearStealthily.
And the garden seemed to lookFor her coming. Petals shookOn the spot where, with her book,Oft she sat.—Suddenly there blew a wind:And across the garden blind,Like a black thought in a mind,Stole a cat.
Lean as hunger; like the shadeOf a dream; a ghost unlaid;Through the weeds its way it made,Gaunt and old:Once 't washers. He looked to seeIfshefollowed to the tree.—Then recalled how long since sheHad been mold.
Shut it out of the heart—this grief,O Love, with the years grown old and hoary!And let in joy that life is brief,And give God thanks for the end of the story.The bond of the flesh is transitory,And beauty goes with the lapse of years—The brow's white rose and the hair's dark glory—God be thanked for the severing shears!Over the past, Heart, waste no tears!Over the past, and all its madness,Its wine and wormwood, hopes and fears,That never were worth a moment's sadness.Here she lies who was part o' its gladness,Wife and mistress, and shared its woe,The good of life as well as its badness,—Look on her face and see if you know.Is this the face?—yea, ask it slow!—The hair, the form, that we used to cherish?—Where is the glory of long-ago?The beauty we said would never perish.—Like a dream we dream, or a thought we nourish,Nothing of earth immortal is:This is the end however we flourish—All that is fair must come to this.
Shut it out of the heart—this grief,O Love, with the years grown old and hoary!And let in joy that life is brief,And give God thanks for the end of the story.The bond of the flesh is transitory,And beauty goes with the lapse of years—The brow's white rose and the hair's dark glory—God be thanked for the severing shears!
Over the past, Heart, waste no tears!Over the past, and all its madness,Its wine and wormwood, hopes and fears,That never were worth a moment's sadness.Here she lies who was part o' its gladness,Wife and mistress, and shared its woe,The good of life as well as its badness,—Look on her face and see if you know.
Is this the face?—yea, ask it slow!—The hair, the form, that we used to cherish?—Where is the glory of long-ago?The beauty we said would never perish.—Like a dream we dream, or a thought we nourish,Nothing of earth immortal is:This is the end however we flourish—All that is fair must come to this.
He found the long room as it was of old,Glimmering with sunset's gold;That made the tapestries seem full of eyesStrange with a wild surmise:Glaring upon a Psyche where she shoneCarven of stainless stone,Holding a crystal heart where many a sunSeemed starrily bound in one:And near her, grim in rigid metal, stoodAn old knight in a wood,Groping his way: the bony wreck, that wasHis steed, at weary pause.And over these a canvas—one mad meshOf Chrysoprase tints of fleshAnd breasts—Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamedFor one who, brutish, seemedA hideous Troll, unto whose lustful armsShe yielded glad her charms.Then he remembered allhershame; and knewThe thing that he must do:These were but records ofhislife: the wholePortrayed to him his soul.—So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial,He drained it with a smile.And 'twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died;The arras, evil-eyed,Glared grimly at him where all night he lay,And where a stealthy rayPointed her tohim—her, that nymph above,Who gave the Troll her love.
He found the long room as it was of old,Glimmering with sunset's gold;That made the tapestries seem full of eyesStrange with a wild surmise:Glaring upon a Psyche where she shoneCarven of stainless stone,Holding a crystal heart where many a sunSeemed starrily bound in one:And near her, grim in rigid metal, stoodAn old knight in a wood,Groping his way: the bony wreck, that wasHis steed, at weary pause.And over these a canvas—one mad meshOf Chrysoprase tints of fleshAnd breasts—Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamedFor one who, brutish, seemedA hideous Troll, unto whose lustful armsShe yielded glad her charms.
Then he remembered allhershame; and knewThe thing that he must do:These were but records ofhislife: the wholePortrayed to him his soul.—So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial,He drained it with a smile.And 'twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died;The arras, evil-eyed,Glared grimly at him where all night he lay,And where a stealthy rayPointed her tohim—her, that nymph above,Who gave the Troll her love.
When pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk,The moon curves, silvering the dusk,—As in a garden, dreaming,A lily slips its dewy huskA firefly in its gleaming,—I of my garden am a guest;My garden, that, in beauty dressedOf simple shrubs and oldtime flowers,Chats with me of the perished hours,Whenshecompanioned me in life,Living remote from care and strife.It says to me: "How sad and slowThe hours of daylight come and go,Until the Night walks here againWith moon and starlight in her train,And she and I with perfumed wordsOf winds and waters, dreaming birds,And flowers and crickets and the moon,For hour on hour, in soul commune.—"And you, and you,Sit here and listen in the dewFor her, the love, you used to know,Who often walked here, long ago,Long ago;The young, sweet love you used to knowLong agoWhom oft I watched with violet eye,Or eye of dew, as she passed by:As she passed by.And I reply, with half a sigh:—"You knew her too as well as I,That young sweet love of long-ago!That young sweet love, who walked here slow.—Oh, speak no more of the days gone by,Dear days gone by,Lest I lay me down on your heart and die!"
When pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk,The moon curves, silvering the dusk,—As in a garden, dreaming,A lily slips its dewy huskA firefly in its gleaming,—I of my garden am a guest;My garden, that, in beauty dressedOf simple shrubs and oldtime flowers,Chats with me of the perished hours,Whenshecompanioned me in life,Living remote from care and strife.
It says to me: "How sad and slowThe hours of daylight come and go,Until the Night walks here againWith moon and starlight in her train,And she and I with perfumed wordsOf winds and waters, dreaming birds,And flowers and crickets and the moon,For hour on hour, in soul commune.—"And you, and you,Sit here and listen in the dewFor her, the love, you used to know,Who often walked here, long ago,Long ago;The young, sweet love you used to knowLong agoWhom oft I watched with violet eye,Or eye of dew, as she passed by:As she passed by.
And I reply, with half a sigh:—"You knew her too as well as I,That young sweet love of long-ago!That young sweet love, who walked here slow.—Oh, speak no more of the days gone by,Dear days gone by,Lest I lay me down on your heart and die!"
The moon, a circle of gold,O'er the crowded housetops rolled,And peeped in an attic, where,'Mid sordid things and bare,A sick child lay and gazedAt a road to the far-away,A road he followed, mazed,That grew from a moonbeam-ray,A road of light that ledFrom the foot of his garret-bedOut of that room of hate,Where Poverty slept by his mate,Sickness—out of the street,Into a wonderland,Where a voice called, far and sweet,"Come, follow our Fairy band!"A purple shadow, sprinkledWith golden star-dust, twinkledSuddenly into the roomOut of the winter gloom:And it wore a face to himOf a dream he'd dreamed: a formOf Joy, whose face was dim,Yet bright with a magic charm.And the shadow seemed to trail,Sounds that were green and frail:Dew-dripples; notes that fellLike drops in a ferny dell;A whispered lisp and stir,Like winds among the leaves,Blent with a cricket-chirr,And coo of a dove that grieves.And the Elfin bore on its backA little faery packOf forest scents: of loamAnd mossy sounds of foam;And of its contents breathedAs might a clod of groundFeeling a bud unsheathedThere in its womb profound.And the shadow smiled and gazedAt the child; then softly raisedIts arms and seemed to growTo a tree in the attic low:And from its glimmering handsShook emerald seeds of dreams,From which grew fairy bands,Like firefly motes and gleams.The child had seen them beforeIn his dreams of Fairy lore:The Elves, each with a lightTo guide his feet a-right,Out of this world to a worldWhere Magic built him towers,And Fable old, unfurled,flags like wonderful flowers.And the child, who knew this, smiled,And rose, a different child:No more he knew of pain,Or fear of heart and brain.—At Poverty there that sleptHe never even glanced,But into the moon-road stept,And out of the garret danced.Out of the earthly gloom,Out of the sordid room,Out, on a moonbeam ray!—Now at last to playThere with comrades found!Children of the moon,There on faery ground,Where none would find him soon!
The moon, a circle of gold,O'er the crowded housetops rolled,And peeped in an attic, where,'Mid sordid things and bare,A sick child lay and gazedAt a road to the far-away,A road he followed, mazed,That grew from a moonbeam-ray,
A road of light that ledFrom the foot of his garret-bedOut of that room of hate,Where Poverty slept by his mate,Sickness—out of the street,Into a wonderland,Where a voice called, far and sweet,"Come, follow our Fairy band!"
A purple shadow, sprinkledWith golden star-dust, twinkledSuddenly into the roomOut of the winter gloom:And it wore a face to himOf a dream he'd dreamed: a formOf Joy, whose face was dim,Yet bright with a magic charm.
And the shadow seemed to trail,Sounds that were green and frail:Dew-dripples; notes that fellLike drops in a ferny dell;A whispered lisp and stir,Like winds among the leaves,Blent with a cricket-chirr,And coo of a dove that grieves.
And the Elfin bore on its backA little faery packOf forest scents: of loamAnd mossy sounds of foam;And of its contents breathedAs might a clod of groundFeeling a bud unsheathedThere in its womb profound.
And the shadow smiled and gazedAt the child; then softly raisedIts arms and seemed to growTo a tree in the attic low:And from its glimmering handsShook emerald seeds of dreams,From which grew fairy bands,Like firefly motes and gleams.
The child had seen them beforeIn his dreams of Fairy lore:The Elves, each with a lightTo guide his feet a-right,Out of this world to a worldWhere Magic built him towers,And Fable old, unfurled,flags like wonderful flowers.
And the child, who knew this, smiled,And rose, a different child:No more he knew of pain,Or fear of heart and brain.—At Poverty there that sleptHe never even glanced,But into the moon-road stept,And out of the garret danced.
Out of the earthly gloom,Out of the sordid room,Out, on a moonbeam ray!—Now at last to playThere with comrades found!Children of the moon,There on faery ground,Where none would find him soon!
Febrile perfumes as of faded rosesIn the old house speak of love to-day,Love long past; and where the soft day closes,Down the west gleams, golden-red, a ray.Pointing where departed splendor perished,And the path that night shall walk, and hang,On blue boughs of heaven, gold, long cherished—Fruit Hesperian,—that the ancients sang.And to him, who sits there dreaming, musing,At the window in the twilight wan,Like old scent of roses interfusing,Comes a vision of a day that's gone.And he sees Youth, walking brave but dimly'Mid the roses, in the afterglow;And beside him, like a star seen slimly,Love, who used to meet him long-ago.And again he seems to hear the flowersWhispering faintly of what no one knows—Of the dreams they dreamed there for long hours,Youth and Love, between their hearts a rose.Youth is dead; and Love, oh, where departed!Like the last streak of the dying day,Somewhere yonder, in a world uncharted,Calling him, with memories, away.
Febrile perfumes as of faded rosesIn the old house speak of love to-day,Love long past; and where the soft day closes,Down the west gleams, golden-red, a ray.
Pointing where departed splendor perished,And the path that night shall walk, and hang,On blue boughs of heaven, gold, long cherished—Fruit Hesperian,—that the ancients sang.
And to him, who sits there dreaming, musing,At the window in the twilight wan,Like old scent of roses interfusing,Comes a vision of a day that's gone.
And he sees Youth, walking brave but dimly'Mid the roses, in the afterglow;And beside him, like a star seen slimly,Love, who used to meet him long-ago.
And again he seems to hear the flowersWhispering faintly of what no one knows—Of the dreams they dreamed there for long hours,Youth and Love, between their hearts a rose.
Youth is dead; and Love, oh, where departed!Like the last streak of the dying day,Somewhere yonder, in a world uncharted,Calling him, with memories, away.
What is the gold of mortal-kindTo that men findDeep in the poet's mind!—That magic purseOf Dreams from whichGod builds His universe!That makes life richWith many a vision;Taking the soul from out its prisonOf facts with the precisionA wildflower donsWhen Spring comes knocking at the doorOf Earth across the windy lawns;Calling to Joy to rise and dance beforeHer happy feet:Or with the beatAnd bright exactness of a star,Hanging its punctual point afar,When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor,Leaving a gate ajar.That leads the Heart from all its achingFar above where day is breaking;Out of the doubts, the agonies,The strife and sin, to join with these—Hope and Beauty and Joy that buildTheir golden wallsOf sunset where, with spirits filled,A Presence calls,And points a landWhere Love walks, silent; hand in handWith the Spirit of God, and leads Man rightOut of the darkness into the light.
What is the gold of mortal-kindTo that men findDeep in the poet's mind!—That magic purseOf Dreams from whichGod builds His universe!That makes life richWith many a vision;Taking the soul from out its prisonOf facts with the precisionA wildflower donsWhen Spring comes knocking at the doorOf Earth across the windy lawns;Calling to Joy to rise and dance beforeHer happy feet:Or with the beatAnd bright exactness of a star,Hanging its punctual point afar,When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor,Leaving a gate ajar.That leads the Heart from all its achingFar above where day is breaking;Out of the doubts, the agonies,The strife and sin, to join with these—Hope and Beauty and Joy that buildTheir golden wallsOf sunset where, with spirits filled,A Presence calls,And points a landWhere Love walks, silent; hand in handWith the Spirit of God, and leads Man rightOut of the darkness into the light.
The sunset was a sleepy gold,And stars were in the skiesWhen down a weedy lane he strolledIn vague and thoughtless wise.And then he saw it, near a wood,An old house, gabled brown,Like some old woman, in a hood,Looking toward the town.A child stood at its broken gate,Singing a childish song,And weeping softly as if FateHad done her child's heart wrong.He spoke to her:—"Now tell me, dear,Why do you sing and weep?"—But she—she did not seem to hear,But stared as if asleep.Then suddenly she turned and fledAs if with soul of fear.He followed; but the house looked dead,And empty many a year.The light was wan: the dying dayGrew ghostly suddenly:And from the house he turned away,Wrapped in its mystery.* * * *They told him no one dwelt there now:It was a haunted place.—And then it came to him, somehow,The memory of a face.That child's—like hers, whose name was Joy—For whom his heart was fain:The face of her whom, when a boy,He played with in that lane.
The sunset was a sleepy gold,And stars were in the skiesWhen down a weedy lane he strolledIn vague and thoughtless wise.
And then he saw it, near a wood,An old house, gabled brown,Like some old woman, in a hood,Looking toward the town.
A child stood at its broken gate,Singing a childish song,And weeping softly as if FateHad done her child's heart wrong.
He spoke to her:—"Now tell me, dear,Why do you sing and weep?"—But she—she did not seem to hear,But stared as if asleep.
Then suddenly she turned and fledAs if with soul of fear.He followed; but the house looked dead,And empty many a year.
The light was wan: the dying dayGrew ghostly suddenly:And from the house he turned away,Wrapped in its mystery.
* * * *
They told him no one dwelt there now:It was a haunted place.—And then it came to him, somehow,The memory of a face.
That child's—like hers, whose name was Joy—For whom his heart was fain:The face of her whom, when a boy,He played with in that lane.
The black night showed its hungry teeth,And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane;Beneath the door I heard it breathe—A beast that growled in vain.The hunter wind stalked up and down,And crashed his ice-spears through each tree;Before his rage, in tattered gown,I saw the maid moon flee.There stole a footstep to my door;A voice cried in my room and—there!A shadow cowled and gaunt and hoar,Death, leaned above my chair.He beckoned me; he bade me rise,And follow through the madman night;Into my heart's core pierced his eyes,And lifted me with might.I rose; I made no more delay;And followed where his eyes compelled;And through the darkness, far away,They lit me and enspelled.Until we reached an ancient wood,That flung its twisted arms around,As if in anguish that it stoodOn dark, unhallowed ground.And then I saw it—cold and blind—The dream, that had my heart to share,That fell, before its feet could findIts home, and perished there.
The black night showed its hungry teeth,And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane;Beneath the door I heard it breathe—A beast that growled in vain.
The hunter wind stalked up and down,And crashed his ice-spears through each tree;Before his rage, in tattered gown,I saw the maid moon flee.
There stole a footstep to my door;A voice cried in my room and—there!A shadow cowled and gaunt and hoar,Death, leaned above my chair.
He beckoned me; he bade me rise,And follow through the madman night;Into my heart's core pierced his eyes,And lifted me with might.
I rose; I made no more delay;And followed where his eyes compelled;And through the darkness, far away,They lit me and enspelled.
Until we reached an ancient wood,That flung its twisted arms around,As if in anguish that it stoodOn dark, unhallowed ground.
And then I saw it—cold and blind—The dream, that had my heart to share,That fell, before its feet could findIts home, and perished there.
This world is made a witchcraft placeWith gazing on a woman's face.Now 'tis her smile, whose sorceryTurns all my thoughts to melody.Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,That makes my day a page of prose.And now her laugh, or but a word,That in my heart frees wild a bird.Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,Will lift from my dumb life the curseOf longing, inarticulate,That keeps me sad and celibate.
This world is made a witchcraft placeWith gazing on a woman's face.
Now 'tis her smile, whose sorceryTurns all my thoughts to melody.
Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes,That makes my day a page of prose.
And now her laugh, or but a word,That in my heart frees wild a bird.
Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers,Will lift from my dumb life the curse
Of longing, inarticulate,That keeps me sad and celibate.
The gentian and the bluebell soCan change my calendar,I know not how the year may go,Or what the seasons are:The months, in some mysterious wise,Take their expression from her eyes.The gentian speaks to memoryOf autumns long since gone,Whenherblue eyes smiled up at me,And heaven was flushed with dawn:'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.The bluebell says a message tooOf springs long passed away,When in my eyes her eyes of blueGazed and 't was close of day:Spring spread around her fragrant chart,But it was autumn in my heart.
The gentian and the bluebell soCan change my calendar,I know not how the year may go,Or what the seasons are:The months, in some mysterious wise,Take their expression from her eyes.
The gentian speaks to memoryOf autumns long since gone,Whenherblue eyes smiled up at me,And heaven was flushed with dawn:'T was autumn then and leaves were sere,But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.
The bluebell says a message tooOf springs long passed away,When in my eyes her eyes of blueGazed and 't was close of day:Spring spread around her fragrant chart,But it was autumn in my heart.
Come, let's climb into our attic,In our house that's old and gray!Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic,And—it's close of day.Lay aside your rags and tatters,Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay!They're no use now. Nothing matters—It is close of day.Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.And no lamp to make a ray.—Where's our servant, young Desire?—Gone at close of day.Oft she served us with fine glances,Helped us out at work and play:She is gone now; better chances;And it's close of day.Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?Hope, who led us oft astray?Has she proved herself a harlotAt the close of day?What's become of Dream and Vision?Friends we thought were here to stay?Has life clapped the two in prisonAt the close of day?They are gone; and how we miss them!They who made our garret gay.How we used to hug and kiss them!—But—'tis close of day.Where's friend Love now?—Who supposes?—Has he flung himself away?Left us for a wreath of rosesAt the close of day?And where's Song? the soul elected—Has he quit us too for aye?—Was it poverty he suspectedNear the close of day?How our attic rang their laughter!How it echoed laugh and lay!None may take their place hereafter?—It is close of day.We have done the best we could do.Let us kneel awhile and pray.Now, no matter what we would do,It is close of day.Let's to bed then! It's December.Long enough since it was May!—Let's forget it, and rememberNow 'tis close of day.
Come, let's climb into our attic,In our house that's old and gray!Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic,And—it's close of day.
Lay aside your rags and tatters,Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay!They're no use now. Nothing matters—It is close of day.
Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire.And no lamp to make a ray.—Where's our servant, young Desire?—Gone at close of day.
Oft she served us with fine glances,Helped us out at work and play:She is gone now; better chances;And it's close of day.
Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet?Hope, who led us oft astray?Has she proved herself a harlotAt the close of day?
What's become of Dream and Vision?Friends we thought were here to stay?Has life clapped the two in prisonAt the close of day?
They are gone; and how we miss them!They who made our garret gay.How we used to hug and kiss them!—But—'tis close of day.
Where's friend Love now?—Who supposes?—Has he flung himself away?Left us for a wreath of rosesAt the close of day?
And where's Song? the soul elected—Has he quit us too for aye?—Was it poverty he suspectedNear the close of day?
How our attic rang their laughter!How it echoed laugh and lay!None may take their place hereafter?—It is close of day.
We have done the best we could do.Let us kneel awhile and pray.Now, no matter what we would do,It is close of day.
Let's to bed then! It's December.Long enough since it was May!—Let's forget it, and rememberNow 'tis close of day.
Oh, for some cup of consummating might,Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!A wine of darkness, that with death shall cureThis sickness called existence!—Oh to findSurcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind,An end of thought in something dark and sure!Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure!—Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams!—No more, no more, with patience, to endureThe wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems;Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time,And lamentations and the boasts of man!To hear no more the wild complaints of toil,And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve:To see no more life's disregard for Art!Oh God! to know no longer anything!Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!Nor hear the changing tides of customs rollOn the dark shores of Time! No more to hearThe stream of Life that furies on the shoalsOf hard necessity! No more to seeThe unavailing battle waged of NeedAgainst adversity!—Merely to lie, at last,Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!To think and dream no more! no more to hope!At rest at last! at last at peace and rest,Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of rootBearing me upward in its large embraceTo gentler things and fairer—clouds and winds,And stars and sun and moon! To undergoThe change the great trees know when Spring comes inWith shoutings and rejoicings of the rain,To swiftly rise an atom in a host,The myriad army of the leaves; and standA handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!To pulse in sap that beats unfevered inThe life we call inanimate—the heartOf some great tree. And so, unconsciously,As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm,Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace,To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.
Oh, for some cup of consummating might,Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night!A wine of darkness, that with death shall cureThis sickness called existence!—Oh to findSurcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind,An end of thought in something dark and sure!Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure!—Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams!—No more, no more, with patience, to endureThe wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems;Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time,And lamentations and the boasts of man!To hear no more the wild complaints of toil,And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve:To see no more life's disregard for Art!Oh God! to know no longer anything!Nor good, nor evil, or what either means!Nor hear the changing tides of customs rollOn the dark shores of Time! No more to hearThe stream of Life that furies on the shoalsOf hard necessity! No more to seeThe unavailing battle waged of NeedAgainst adversity!—Merely to lie, at last,Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod!To think and dream no more! no more to hope!At rest at last! at last at peace and rest,Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of rootBearing me upward in its large embraceTo gentler things and fairer—clouds and winds,And stars and sun and moon! To undergoThe change the great trees know when Spring comes inWith shoutings and rejoicings of the rain,To swiftly rise an atom in a host,The myriad army of the leaves; and standA handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God!To pulse in sap that beats unfevered inThe life we call inanimate—the heartOf some great tree. And so, unconsciously,As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm,Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace,To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.
A shadow glided down the wayWhere sunset groped among the trees,And all the woodland bower, aswayWith trouble of the evening breeze.A shape, it moved with head held down;I knew it not, yet seemed to knowIts form, its carriage of a clown,Its raiment of the long-ago.It never turned or spoke a word,But fixed its gaze on something far,As if within its heart it heardThe summons of the evening star.I turned to it and tried to speak;To ask it of the thing it saw,Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak—The dream, the splendor, and the awe.What beauty or what terror thereStill bade its purpose to ascendAbove the sunset's sombre glare,The twilight and the long day's end.It looked at me but said no word:Then suddenly I saw the truth:—Thiswas the call that once I heardAnd failed to follow in my youth.Now well I saw that this was I—My own dead self who walked with me,Who died in that dark hour gone byWith all the dreams that used to be.
A shadow glided down the wayWhere sunset groped among the trees,And all the woodland bower, aswayWith trouble of the evening breeze.
A shape, it moved with head held down;I knew it not, yet seemed to knowIts form, its carriage of a clown,Its raiment of the long-ago.
It never turned or spoke a word,But fixed its gaze on something far,As if within its heart it heardThe summons of the evening star.
I turned to it and tried to speak;To ask it of the thing it saw,Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak—The dream, the splendor, and the awe.
What beauty or what terror thereStill bade its purpose to ascendAbove the sunset's sombre glare,The twilight and the long day's end.
It looked at me but said no word:Then suddenly I saw the truth:—Thiswas the call that once I heardAnd failed to follow in my youth.
Now well I saw that this was I—My own dead self who walked with me,Who died in that dark hour gone byWith all the dreams that used to be.
Let us bid the world good-by,Now while sun and cloud's above us,While we've nothing to deny,Nothing but our selves to love us:Let us fancy, I and you,All the dreams we dreamed came true.We have gone but half the road,Rugged road of root and bowlder;Made the best of Life's dark load,Cares, that helped us to grow older:We, my dear, have done our best—Let us stop awhile and rest.Let us, by this halfway stile,Put away the world's desire,And sit down, a little while,With our hearts, and light a fire:Sing the songs that once we sungIn the days when we were young.Haply they will bring again,From the Lands of Song and Story,To our sides the elfin trainOf the dreams we dreamed of glory,That are one now with the crewOf the deeds we did not do.Here upon the road of LifeLet us rest us; take our pleasure:Free from care and safe from strife,Count again our only treasure—Love, that helped us on our way,Our companion night and day.
Let us bid the world good-by,Now while sun and cloud's above us,While we've nothing to deny,Nothing but our selves to love us:Let us fancy, I and you,All the dreams we dreamed came true.
We have gone but half the road,Rugged road of root and bowlder;Made the best of Life's dark load,Cares, that helped us to grow older:We, my dear, have done our best—Let us stop awhile and rest.
Let us, by this halfway stile,Put away the world's desire,And sit down, a little while,With our hearts, and light a fire:Sing the songs that once we sungIn the days when we were young.
Haply they will bring again,From the Lands of Song and Story,To our sides the elfin trainOf the dreams we dreamed of glory,That are one now with the crewOf the deeds we did not do.
Here upon the road of LifeLet us rest us; take our pleasure:Free from care and safe from strife,Count again our only treasure—Love, that helped us on our way,Our companion night and day.