My heart outstrips the flying of her feet,
And meets and greets him first—and greets him first.
WHEN PIERROT PASSES
High above his happy head
Little leaves of Spring were spread;
And adown the dewy lawn
Soft as moss the young green grass
Wooed his footsteps, and the dawn
Paused to watch him pass.
Even so he seemed in truth
Dancing between Love and Youth;
And his song as gay a thing
Still before him seemed to go
Light as any bird awing,
Blithe as jonquils in the Spring,
And we laughed and said, "Pierrot,
'Tis Pierrot."
"Oh," he sang, "Her hands are far
Sweeter than white roses are;
When I hold them to my lips,
Ere I dare a finer bliss,
Petal-like her finger-tips
Tremble 'neath my kiss.
And the mocking of her eyes
Lures me like blue butterflies
Falling—lifting—of their grace,
And her mouth—her mouth is wine."
And we laughed as though her face
Suddenly illumed the place,
And we said, "'Tis Columbine,
Columbine."
THE POET
He made him a love o' dreams—
He raised for his heart's delight—
(As the heart of June a crescent moon)
A frail, fair spirit of light.
He gave her the gift of joy—
The gift of the dancing feet—
He made her a thing of very Spring—
Virginal—wild and sweet.
But when he would draw her near
To his eager heart's content,
As a sunbeam slips from the finger-tips
She slipped from his hold and went.
Virginal—wild—and sweet—
So she eludes him still—
The love that he made of dawn and shade
Of dominant want and will.
For ever the dream of man
Is more than the dreamer is;
Though he form it whole of his inmost soul,
Yet never 'tis wholly his.
Only is given to him
The right to follow and yearn
The loveliness he may not possess,
The vision that may not turn.
Never to hold or to bind—
Only to know how fleet
The dream that is and yet is not his,—
Virginal—wild—and sweet.
MAGDALEN
My father took me by the hand
And led me home again;
(He brought me in from sorrow
As you'd bring a child from rain).
The child's place at the hearth-stone,
The child's place at the board,
And the picture at the bed's head
Of wee ones wi' the Lord.
It's just a child come home he sees
To nestle at his arm;
(He brought me in from sorrow
As you'd bring a child from harm).
And of the two of us who sit
By hearth and candle-light,
There's just one hears a woman's heart
Break—breaking in the night.
A SALEM MOTHER
I
They whisper at my very gate,
These clacking gossips every one,
"We saw them in the wood of late,
Her and the widow's son;
The horses at the forge may wait,
The wool may go unspun."
I spread the food he loves the best,
I light the lamp when day is done,
Yet still he stays another's guest—
Oh, my one son, my son.
I would it burned in mine own breast
The spell he may not shun.
She hath bewitched him with her eyes.
(No goodly maid hath eyes as bright.)
Pale in the morn I watch him rise,
As one who wanders far by night.
The gossips whisper and surmise—
I hide me from the light.
II
Her hair is yellow as the corn,
Her eyes are bluer than the sky;
Behind the casement yester-morn,
I watched her passing by.
My son not yet had broken bread,
Yet from the table did he rise,
She said no word nor turned her head,
What then the spell that bade him stir,
Nor heeding any word I said,
Put by my hands and follow her.
III
He was so strong and wise and good—
Was there no other she might take,
Nor other mothers' hearts to break?
What though she bade the harvest fail,
What though she willed the cattle die,
So my son's soul was spared thereby.
My cattle fill the pasture-land,
The ripe fruit thickens on the tree,
My son, my son is lost to me.
IV
They burned a witch in our town,
On hangman's hill to-day;
And black the ashes drifted down,
Ashes black and grey,
Not white like those o' martyred folk
Whose souls are clean as they.
They burned a witch in our town,
Upon a windy hill,
For that she made the wells sink down
And wrought a young man ill,
The smoke rose black against the sky,
And hangs before it still.
They burned a witch in our town,
And sure they did but right,
And yet I would the rain could drown
That blackened hill from sight,
And some great wind might drive that cloud
'Twixt God and me this night.
THE DAYS
I call my years back, I, grown old,
Recall them day by day;
And some are dressed in cloth o' gold
And some in humble grey.
And those in gold glance scornfully
Or pass me unawares;
But those in grey come close to me
And take my hands in theirs.
THE CALL
I must be off where the green boughs beckon—
Why should I linger to barter and reckon?
The mart may pay me—the mart may cheat me,
I have had enough of the huckster's din,
The calm of the deep woods waits to greet me,
(Heart of the high hills, take me in.)
I must be off where the brooks are waking,
Where birds are building and green leaves breaking.
Why should the hold of an old task bind me?
I know of an eyrie I fain would win
Where a wind of the West shall seek me and find me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)
I must be off where the stars are nearer,
Where feet go swifter and eyes see clearer,
Little I heed what the toilers name me—
I have heard the call that to miss were sin,
The April voices that clamour and claim me,
(Heart of my high hills, take me in.)
THE PARASITE
They brought to the little Princess, from her earliest hour of birth,
The lovely things, the beautiful things, the soft things of earth.
They covered her floor with crimson, they wrapped her in eiderdown;
They hung the windows with cloth of gold, lest her eyes look down;
(Lest the highway show an unlovely thing
And her eyes look down.)
They brought rare toys to her cradle, rich gems to her maidenhood;
All that she saw was beautiful, all that she heard was good.
When tumult rose in the city they bade her minstrels sing;
They drowned with the sound of music a people's clamouring;
(Lest she turn and hark to the highway,
And hear an unlovely thing.)
But there came a day of terror, when a cry too sharp and long
Tore through the streets of the city, through the soft, sweet song.
She bade her singers be silent—silent they stood in awe;
She raised the gold from the window; she looked down and saw.
(She leaned and looked on the highway,
She looked down and saw.)
She saw men driven like cattle, she heard the woman's cry,
She saw the white-faced children toil, and the weaklings die.
She saw the bound and the beaten beneath her like shifting sands,
And—she dropped the cloth on her window with her own white hands,
(She shut out her people's crying
With her own white hands.)
As a child may turn from a picture that he may not understand,
She turned to fragrance and music,—to soft things and bland.
If the Princess is blind to anguish, if the Princess is deaf to woe,
If the streets of her city may run with blood, and she not know,
Now theirs is the blame who have closed her in ease as in folded wings,
Who have barred the doors and windows, what time her minstrel sings,
Lest her eyes look down on the highway,
And look on unlovely things.
YOUTH
What do they know of youth, who still are young?
They but the singers of a golden song
Who may not guess its worth or wonder—flung
Like largesse to the throng.
We only,—young no longer,—old so long
Before its harmonies, stand marvelling—
Oh! we who listen—never they who sing.
Not for itself is beauty, but for us
Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes;
And youth which sheds its glory luminous,
Gives ever in this wise:—
Itself the joy it may not realise.
Only we know, who linger overlong
Youth that is made of beauty and of song.
THE EMPTY HOUSE
April will come to the quiet town
That I left long ago,
Scattering primroses up and down—
Row upon happy row.
(Oh, little green lane, will she come your way,