When day dies, lone, forsaken,And joy is kissed asleep;When doubt's gray eyes awaken,And love, with music takenFrom hearts with sighings shaken,Sits in the dusk to weep:With ghostly lifted fingerWhat memory then shall rise?—Of dark regret the bringer—To tell the sorrowing singerOf days whose echoes linger,Till dawn unstars the skies.When night is gone and, beaming,Faith journeys forth to toil;When hope's blue eyes wake gleaming,And life is done with dreamingThe dreams that seem but seeming,Within the world's turmoil:Can we forget the presenceOf death who walks unseen?Whose scythe casts shadowy crescentsAround life's glittering essence,As lessens, slowly lessens,The space that lies between.
When day dies, lone, forsaken,And joy is kissed asleep;When doubt's gray eyes awaken,And love, with music takenFrom hearts with sighings shaken,Sits in the dusk to weep:
With ghostly lifted fingerWhat memory then shall rise?—Of dark regret the bringer—To tell the sorrowing singerOf days whose echoes linger,Till dawn unstars the skies.
When night is gone and, beaming,Faith journeys forth to toil;When hope's blue eyes wake gleaming,And life is done with dreamingThe dreams that seem but seeming,Within the world's turmoil:
Can we forget the presenceOf death who walks unseen?Whose scythe casts shadowy crescentsAround life's glittering essence,As lessens, slowly lessens,The space that lies between.
Bland was that October day,Calm and balmy as the spring,When we went a forest-way,'Neath paternal beeches gray,To a valleyed opening:Where the purple aster flowered,And, like torches shadow-held,Red the fiery sumach towered;And, where gum-trees sentineledVistas, robed in gold and garnet,Ripe the thorny chestnut shelledIts brown plumpness. Bee and hornetDroned around us; quick the cricket,Tireless in the wood-rose thicket,Tremoloed; and, to the windAll its moon-spun silver casting,Swung the milk-weed pod unthinned;And, its clean flame on the sodBy the fading golden-rod,Burned the white life-everlasting.It was not so much the time,Nor the place, nor way we went,That made all our moods to rhyme,Nor the season's sentiment,As it was the innocentCarefree childhood of our hearts,Reading each expression ofDeath and care as life and love:That impression joy impartsUnto others and retortsOn itself, which then made gladAll the sorrow of decay,As the memory of that dayMakes this day of spring, now, sad.
Bland was that October day,Calm and balmy as the spring,When we went a forest-way,'Neath paternal beeches gray,To a valleyed opening:Where the purple aster flowered,And, like torches shadow-held,Red the fiery sumach towered;And, where gum-trees sentineledVistas, robed in gold and garnet,Ripe the thorny chestnut shelledIts brown plumpness. Bee and hornetDroned around us; quick the cricket,Tireless in the wood-rose thicket,Tremoloed; and, to the windAll its moon-spun silver casting,Swung the milk-weed pod unthinned;And, its clean flame on the sodBy the fading golden-rod,Burned the white life-everlasting.It was not so much the time,Nor the place, nor way we went,That made all our moods to rhyme,Nor the season's sentiment,As it was the innocentCarefree childhood of our hearts,Reading each expression ofDeath and care as life and love:That impression joy impartsUnto others and retortsOn itself, which then made gladAll the sorrow of decay,As the memory of that dayMakes this day of spring, now, sad.
The balsam-breathed petuniasHang riven of the rain;And where the tiger-lily wasNow droops a tawny stain;While in the twilight's purple pauseEarth dreams of Heaven again.When one shall sit and sigh,And one lie all aloneBeneath the unseen sky—Whose love shall then deny?Whose love atone?With ragged petals round its podThe rain-wrecked poppy dies;And where the hectic rose did nodA crumbled crimson lies;While distant as the dreams of GodThe stars slip in the skies.When one shall lie asleep,And one be dead and gone—Within the unknown deep,Shall we the trysts then keepThat now are done?
The balsam-breathed petuniasHang riven of the rain;And where the tiger-lily wasNow droops a tawny stain;While in the twilight's purple pauseEarth dreams of Heaven again.
When one shall sit and sigh,And one lie all aloneBeneath the unseen sky—Whose love shall then deny?Whose love atone?
With ragged petals round its podThe rain-wrecked poppy dies;And where the hectic rose did nodA crumbled crimson lies;While distant as the dreams of GodThe stars slip in the skies.
When one shall lie asleep,And one be dead and gone—Within the unknown deep,Shall we the trysts then keepThat now are done?
Holding both your hands in mine,Often have we sat together,While, outside, the boisterous weatherHung the wild wind on the pineLike a black marauder, andWith a sudden warning handAt the casement rapped. The nightRead no sentiment of light,Starbeam-syllabled, withinHer romance of death and sin,Shadow-chaptered tragicly.—Looking in your eyes, ah me!Though I heard, I did not heedWhat the night read unto us,Threatening and ominous:For love helped my heart to readForward through unopened pagesTo a coming day, that heldMore for us than all the agesPast, that it epitomizedIn its sentence; where we spelledWhat our present realizedOnly—all the love that wasPast and yet to be for us.
Holding both your hands in mine,Often have we sat together,While, outside, the boisterous weatherHung the wild wind on the pineLike a black marauder, andWith a sudden warning handAt the casement rapped. The nightRead no sentiment of light,Starbeam-syllabled, withinHer romance of death and sin,Shadow-chaptered tragicly.—Looking in your eyes, ah me!Though I heard, I did not heedWhat the night read unto us,Threatening and ominous:For love helped my heart to readForward through unopened pagesTo a coming day, that heldMore for us than all the agesPast, that it epitomizedIn its sentence; where we spelledWhat our present realizedOnly—all the love that wasPast and yet to be for us.
'Though in the garden, gray with dew,All life lies withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knew,When buds were opening.Perhaps we shall not search in vainWithin its wreck and gloom;'Mid roses ruined of the rainThere still may live one bloom;One flower, whose heart may still retainThe long-lost soul-perfume.And then, perhaps, will come to usThe dreams we dreamed before;And song, who spoke so beauteous,Will speak to us once more;And love, with eyes all amorous,Will ope again his door.So 'though the garden's gray with dew,And flowers are withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knewWhen buds were opening.
'Though in the garden, gray with dew,All life lies withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knew,When buds were opening.
Perhaps we shall not search in vainWithin its wreck and gloom;'Mid roses ruined of the rainThere still may live one bloom;One flower, whose heart may still retainThe long-lost soul-perfume.
And then, perhaps, will come to usThe dreams we dreamed before;And song, who spoke so beauteous,Will speak to us once more;And love, with eyes all amorous,Will ope again his door.
So 'though the garden's gray with dew,And flowers are withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knewWhen buds were opening.
Looking on the desolate street,Where the March snow drifts and drives,Trodden black of hurrying feet,Where the athlete storm-wind strivesWith each tree and dangling light,—Centers, sphered with glittering white,—Hissing in the dancing snow ...Backward in my soul I goTo that tempest-haunted nightOf two autumns past, when we,Hastening homeward, were o'ertakenOf the storm; and 'neath a tree,With its wild leaves whisper-shaken,Sheltered us in that forsaken,Sad and ancient cemetery,—Where folk came no more to bury.—Haggard grave-stones, mossed and crumbled,Tottered 'round us, or o'ertumbledIn their sunken graves; and some,Urned and obelisked aboveIron-fenced in tombs, stood dumbRecords of forgotten love.And again I see the westYawning inward to its coreOf electric-spasmed ore,Swiftly, without pause or rest.And a great wind sweeps the dustUp abandoned sidewalks; and,In the rotting trees, the gustShouts again—a voice that wouldMake its gaunt self understoodMoaning over death's lean land.And we sat there, hand in hand;On the granite; where we read,By the leaping skies o'erhead,Something of one young and dead.Yet the words begot no fearIn our souls: you leaned your cheekSmiling on mine: very nearWere our lips: we did not speak.
Looking on the desolate street,Where the March snow drifts and drives,Trodden black of hurrying feet,Where the athlete storm-wind strivesWith each tree and dangling light,—Centers, sphered with glittering white,—Hissing in the dancing snow ...Backward in my soul I goTo that tempest-haunted nightOf two autumns past, when we,Hastening homeward, were o'ertakenOf the storm; and 'neath a tree,With its wild leaves whisper-shaken,Sheltered us in that forsaken,Sad and ancient cemetery,—Where folk came no more to bury.—Haggard grave-stones, mossed and crumbled,Tottered 'round us, or o'ertumbledIn their sunken graves; and some,Urned and obelisked aboveIron-fenced in tombs, stood dumbRecords of forgotten love.And again I see the westYawning inward to its coreOf electric-spasmed ore,Swiftly, without pause or rest.And a great wind sweeps the dustUp abandoned sidewalks; and,In the rotting trees, the gustShouts again—a voice that wouldMake its gaunt self understoodMoaning over death's lean land.And we sat there, hand in hand;On the granite; where we read,By the leaping skies o'erhead,Something of one young and dead.Yet the words begot no fearIn our souls: you leaned your cheekSmiling on mine: very nearWere our lips: we did not speak.
And suddenly alone I stoodWith scared eyes gazing through the wood.For some still sign of ill or good,To lead me from the solitude.The day was at its twilighting;One cloud o'erhead spread a vast wingOf rosy thunder; vanishingAbove the far hills' mystic ring.Some stars shone timidly o'erhead;And toward the west's cadaverous red—Like some wild dream that haunts the deadIn limbo—the lean moon was led.Upon the sad, debatableVague lands of twilight slowly fellA silence that I knew too well,A sorrow that I can not tell.What way to take, what path to go,Whether into the east's gray glow,Or where the west burnt red and low—What road to choose, I did not know.So, hesitating, there I stoodLost in my soul's uncertain wood:One sign I craved of ill or good,To lead me from its solitude.
And suddenly alone I stoodWith scared eyes gazing through the wood.For some still sign of ill or good,To lead me from the solitude.
The day was at its twilighting;One cloud o'erhead spread a vast wingOf rosy thunder; vanishingAbove the far hills' mystic ring.
Some stars shone timidly o'erhead;And toward the west's cadaverous red—Like some wild dream that haunts the deadIn limbo—the lean moon was led.
Upon the sad, debatableVague lands of twilight slowly fellA silence that I knew too well,A sorrow that I can not tell.
What way to take, what path to go,Whether into the east's gray glow,Or where the west burnt red and low—What road to choose, I did not know.
So, hesitating, there I stoodLost in my soul's uncertain wood:One sign I craved of ill or good,To lead me from its solitude.
It was autumn: and a night,Full of whispers and of mist,With a gray moon, wanly whist,Hanging like a phantom lightO'er the hills. We stood amongWindy fields of weed and flower,Where the withered seed pod hung,And the chill leaf-crickets sung.Melancholy was the hourWith the mystery and lonenessOf the year, that seemed to lookOn its own departed face;As our love then, in its oneness,All its dead past did retrace,And from that sad moment tookPresage of approaching parting.—Sorrowful the hour and dark:Low among the trees, now starting,Now concealed, a star's pale spark—Like a fen-fire—winked and luredOn to shuddering shadows; whereAll was doubtful, unassured,Immaterial; and the bareFacts of unideal dayChanged to substance such as dreams.And meseemed then, far away—Farther than remotest gleamsOf the stars—lost, separated,And estranged, and out of reach,Grew our lives away from each,Loving lives, that long had waited.
It was autumn: and a night,Full of whispers and of mist,With a gray moon, wanly whist,Hanging like a phantom lightO'er the hills. We stood amongWindy fields of weed and flower,Where the withered seed pod hung,And the chill leaf-crickets sung.Melancholy was the hourWith the mystery and lonenessOf the year, that seemed to lookOn its own departed face;As our love then, in its oneness,All its dead past did retrace,And from that sad moment tookPresage of approaching parting.—Sorrowful the hour and dark:Low among the trees, now starting,Now concealed, a star's pale spark—Like a fen-fire—winked and luredOn to shuddering shadows; whereAll was doubtful, unassured,Immaterial; and the bareFacts of unideal dayChanged to substance such as dreams.And meseemed then, far away—Farther than remotest gleamsOf the stars—lost, separated,And estranged, and out of reach,Grew our lives away from each,Loving lives, that long had waited.
There is no gladness in the dayNow you're away;Dull is the morn, the noon is dull,Once beautiful;And when the evening fills the skiesWith dusky dyes,With tired eyes and tired heartI sit alone, I sigh apart,And wish for you.Ah! darker now the night comes onSince you are gone;Sad are the stars, the moon is sad,Once wholly glad;And when the stars and moon are set,And earth lies wet,With heart's regret and soul's hard ache,I dream alone, I lie awake,And wish for you.These who once spake me, speak no more,Now all is o'er;Day hath forgot the language ofIts hopes of love;Night, whose sweet lips were burdensomeWith dreams, is dumb;Far different from what used to be,With silence and despondencyThey speak to me.
There is no gladness in the dayNow you're away;Dull is the morn, the noon is dull,Once beautiful;And when the evening fills the skiesWith dusky dyes,With tired eyes and tired heartI sit alone, I sigh apart,And wish for you.
Ah! darker now the night comes onSince you are gone;Sad are the stars, the moon is sad,Once wholly glad;And when the stars and moon are set,And earth lies wet,With heart's regret and soul's hard ache,I dream alone, I lie awake,And wish for you.
These who once spake me, speak no more,Now all is o'er;Day hath forgot the language ofIts hopes of love;Night, whose sweet lips were burdensomeWith dreams, is dumb;Far different from what used to be,With silence and despondencyThey speak to me.
So it ends—the path that creptThrough a land all slumber-kissed;Where the sickly moonlight sleptLike a pale antagonist.Now the star, that led us onward,—Reassuring with its light,—Fails and falters; dipping downwardLeaves us wandering in night,With old doubts we once disdained ...So it ends. The woods attained—Where our heart's desire buildedA fair temple, fire-gilded,With hope's marble shrine within,Where the lineaments of our loveShone, with lilies clad and crowned,'Neath white columns reared aboveSorrow and her sister sin,Columns, rose and ribbon-wound,—In the forest we have foundBut a ruin! All aroundLie the shattered capitals,And vast fragments of the walls ...Like a climbing cloud,—that plies,Wind-wrecked, o'er the moon that lies'Neath its blackness,—taking onGradual certainties of wan,Soft assaults of easy white,Pale-approaching; till the skies'Emptiness and hungry nightClaim its bulk again, while sheRides in lonely purity:So we found our temple, broken,And a musing moment's spaceLove, whose latest word was spoken,Seemed to meet us face to face,Making bright that ruined placeWith a strange effulgence; thenPassed, and left all black again.
So it ends—the path that creptThrough a land all slumber-kissed;Where the sickly moonlight sleptLike a pale antagonist.Now the star, that led us onward,—Reassuring with its light,—Fails and falters; dipping downwardLeaves us wandering in night,With old doubts we once disdained ...So it ends. The woods attained—Where our heart's desire buildedA fair temple, fire-gilded,With hope's marble shrine within,Where the lineaments of our loveShone, with lilies clad and crowned,'Neath white columns reared aboveSorrow and her sister sin,Columns, rose and ribbon-wound,—In the forest we have foundBut a ruin! All aroundLie the shattered capitals,And vast fragments of the walls ...Like a climbing cloud,—that plies,Wind-wrecked, o'er the moon that lies'Neath its blackness,—taking onGradual certainties of wan,Soft assaults of easy white,Pale-approaching; till the skies'Emptiness and hungry nightClaim its bulk again, while sheRides in lonely purity:So we found our temple, broken,And a musing moment's spaceLove, whose latest word was spoken,Seemed to meet us face to face,Making bright that ruined placeWith a strange effulgence; thenPassed, and left all black again.
Bee-bitten in the orchard hungThe peach; or, fallen in the weeds,Lay rotting: where still sucked and sungThe gray bee, boring to its seed'sPink pulp and honey blackly stung.The orchard path, which led aroundThe garden,—with its heat one twingeOf dinning locusts,—picket-bound,And ragged, brought me where one hingeHeld up the gate that scraped the ground.All seemed the same: the martin-box—Sun-warped with pigmy balconies—Still stood with all its twittering flocks,Perched on its pole above the peasAnd silvery-seeded onion-stocks.The clove-pink and the rose; the clumpOf coppery sunflowers, with the heatSick to the heart: the garden stump,Red with geranium-pots and sweetWith moss and ferns, this side the pump.I rested, with one hesitant handUpon the gate. The lonesome day,Droning with insects, made the landOne dry stagnation; soaked with hayAnd scents of weeds, the hot wind fanned.I breathed the sultry scents, my eyesParched as my lips. And yet I feltMy limbs were ice. As one who fliesTo some strange woe. How sleepy smeltThe hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer,For one long, plaintive, forestsideBird-quaver.—And I knew me nearSome heartbreak anguish ... She had died.I felt it, and no need to hear!I passed the quince and peartree; whereAll up the porch a grape-vine trails—How strange that fruit, whatever airOr earth it grows in, never failsTo find its native flavor there!And she was as a flower, too,That grows its proper bloom and scentNo matter what the soil: she, who,Born better than her place, still lentGrace to the lowliness she knew....They met me at the porch, and wereSad-eyed with weeping. Then the roomShut out the country's heat and purr,And left light stricken into gloom—So love and I might look on her.
Bee-bitten in the orchard hungThe peach; or, fallen in the weeds,Lay rotting: where still sucked and sungThe gray bee, boring to its seed'sPink pulp and honey blackly stung.
The orchard path, which led aroundThe garden,—with its heat one twingeOf dinning locusts,—picket-bound,And ragged, brought me where one hingeHeld up the gate that scraped the ground.
All seemed the same: the martin-box—Sun-warped with pigmy balconies—Still stood with all its twittering flocks,Perched on its pole above the peasAnd silvery-seeded onion-stocks.
The clove-pink and the rose; the clumpOf coppery sunflowers, with the heatSick to the heart: the garden stump,Red with geranium-pots and sweetWith moss and ferns, this side the pump.
I rested, with one hesitant handUpon the gate. The lonesome day,Droning with insects, made the landOne dry stagnation; soaked with hayAnd scents of weeds, the hot wind fanned.
I breathed the sultry scents, my eyesParched as my lips. And yet I feltMy limbs were ice. As one who fliesTo some strange woe. How sleepy smeltThe hay-sweet heat that soaked the skies!
Noon nodded; dreamier, lonesomer,For one long, plaintive, forestsideBird-quaver.—And I knew me nearSome heartbreak anguish ... She had died.I felt it, and no need to hear!
I passed the quince and peartree; whereAll up the porch a grape-vine trails—How strange that fruit, whatever airOr earth it grows in, never failsTo find its native flavor there!
And she was as a flower, too,That grows its proper bloom and scentNo matter what the soil: she, who,Born better than her place, still lentGrace to the lowliness she knew....
They met me at the porch, and wereSad-eyed with weeping. Then the roomShut out the country's heat and purr,And left light stricken into gloom—So love and I might look on her.
Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,And by your sheeted form stood all alone:Frail as a flow'r you lay upon your bed,And on your still face, through the casement, shoneThe moon, as lingering to kiss you thereFall'n asleep, white violets in your hair.Oh, sick to weeping was my soul, and sadTo breaking was my heart that would not break;And for my soul's great grief no tear I had,No lamentation for my heart's deep ache;Yet all I bore seemed more than I could bearBeside you dead, white violets in your hair.A white rose, blooming at your window-bar,And glimmering in it, like a fire-fly caughtUpon the thorns, the light of one white star,Looked on with me; as if they felt and thoughtAs did my heart,—"How beautiful and fairAnd young she lies, white violets in her hair!"And so we watched beside you, sad and still,The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past,Like a pale traveler, behind the hillWith all her echoed radiance. At lastThe darkness came to hide my tears and shareMy watch by you, white violets in your hair.
Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,And by your sheeted form stood all alone:Frail as a flow'r you lay upon your bed,And on your still face, through the casement, shoneThe moon, as lingering to kiss you thereFall'n asleep, white violets in your hair.
Oh, sick to weeping was my soul, and sadTo breaking was my heart that would not break;And for my soul's great grief no tear I had,No lamentation for my heart's deep ache;Yet all I bore seemed more than I could bearBeside you dead, white violets in your hair.
A white rose, blooming at your window-bar,And glimmering in it, like a fire-fly caughtUpon the thorns, the light of one white star,Looked on with me; as if they felt and thoughtAs did my heart,—"How beautiful and fairAnd young she lies, white violets in her hair!"
And so we watched beside you, sad and still,The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past,Like a pale traveler, behind the hillWith all her echoed radiance. At lastThe darkness came to hide my tears and shareMy watch by you, white violets in your hair.
I looked upon a dead girl's face and heardWhat seemed the voice of Love call unto meOut of her heart; whereon the characteryOf her lost dreams I read there word for word:—How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirredHer Life's sad depths to rippling melody,Or made the imaged longing, there, to beThe realization of a hope deferred.So in her life had Love behaved to her.Between the lonely chapters of her yearsAnd her young eyes making no golden blurWith god-bright face and hair; who led me toHer side at last, and bade me, through my tears,With Death's dumb face, too late, to see and know.
I looked upon a dead girl's face and heardWhat seemed the voice of Love call unto meOut of her heart; whereon the characteryOf her lost dreams I read there word for word:—How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirredHer Life's sad depths to rippling melody,Or made the imaged longing, there, to beThe realization of a hope deferred.So in her life had Love behaved to her.Between the lonely chapters of her yearsAnd her young eyes making no golden blurWith god-bright face and hair; who led me toHer side at last, and bade me, through my tears,With Death's dumb face, too late, to see and know.
Is it uneasy moonlight,On the restless field, that stirs?Or wild white meadow-blossomsThe night-wind bends and blurs?Is it the dolorous water,That sobs in the wood and sighs?Or heart of an ancient oak-tree,That breaks and, sighing, dies?The wind is vague with the shadowsThat wander in No-Man's Land;The water is dark with the voicesThat weep on the Unknown's strand.O ghosts of the winds who call me!O ghosts of the whispering waves!As sad as forgotten flowers,That die upon nameless graves!What is this thing you tell meIn tongues of a twilight race,Of death, with the vanished features,Mantled, of my own face?
Is it uneasy moonlight,On the restless field, that stirs?Or wild white meadow-blossomsThe night-wind bends and blurs?
Is it the dolorous water,That sobs in the wood and sighs?Or heart of an ancient oak-tree,That breaks and, sighing, dies?
The wind is vague with the shadowsThat wander in No-Man's Land;The water is dark with the voicesThat weep on the Unknown's strand.
O ghosts of the winds who call me!O ghosts of the whispering waves!As sad as forgotten flowers,That die upon nameless graves!
What is this thing you tell meIn tongues of a twilight race,Of death, with the vanished features,Mantled, of my own face?
The old enigmas of the deathless dawns,And riddles of the all immortal eves,—That still o'er Delphic lawnsSpeak as the gods spoke through oracular leaves—I read with new-born eyes,Remembering how, a slave,I lay with breast bared for the sacrifice,Once on a temple's pave.Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys,How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,—Hearing the magadisDirge through the pale amaracine perfume,—'Mid chanting priests I trod,With never a sigh or pause,To give my life to pacify a god,And save my country's cause.Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair,And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks,How with mad torches there—Reddening the cedars of Cithæron's peaks—With gesture and fierce glance,Lascivious Mænad bandsOnce drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance,With Bacchanalian hands.
The old enigmas of the deathless dawns,And riddles of the all immortal eves,—That still o'er Delphic lawnsSpeak as the gods spoke through oracular leaves—I read with new-born eyes,Remembering how, a slave,I lay with breast bared for the sacrifice,Once on a temple's pave.
Or, crowned with hyacinth and helichrys,How, towards the altar in the marble gloom,—Hearing the magadisDirge through the pale amaracine perfume,—'Mid chanting priests I trod,With never a sigh or pause,To give my life to pacify a god,And save my country's cause.
Again: Cyrenian roses on wild hair,And oil and purple smeared on breasts and cheeks,How with mad torches there—Reddening the cedars of Cithæron's peaks—With gesture and fierce glance,Lascivious Mænad bandsOnce drew and slew me in the Pyrrhic dance,With Bacchanalian hands.
The music now that laysDim lips against my ears,Some wild sad thing it says,Unto my soul, of yearsLong passed into the hazeOf tears.Meseems, before me areThe dark eyes of a queen,A queen of Istakhar:I seem to see her leanMore lovely than a starOf mien.A slave, I stand beforeHer jeweled throne; I kneel,And, in a song, once moreMy love for her reveal;How once I did adoreI feel.Again her dark eyes gleam;Again her red lips smile;And in her face the beamOf love that knows no guile;And so she seems to dreamA while.Out of her deep hair thenA rose she takes—and IAm made a god o'er men!Her rose, that here did lieWhen I, in th' wild-beasts' den,Did die.
The music now that laysDim lips against my ears,Some wild sad thing it says,Unto my soul, of yearsLong passed into the hazeOf tears.
Meseems, before me areThe dark eyes of a queen,A queen of Istakhar:I seem to see her leanMore lovely than a starOf mien.
A slave, I stand beforeHer jeweled throne; I kneel,And, in a song, once moreMy love for her reveal;How once I did adoreI feel.
Again her dark eyes gleam;Again her red lips smile;And in her face the beamOf love that knows no guile;And so she seems to dreamA while.
Out of her deep hair thenA rose she takes—and IAm made a god o'er men!Her rose, that here did lieWhen I, in th' wild-beasts' den,Did die.
Old paintings on its wainscots,And, in its oaken hall,Old arras; and the twilightOf slumber over all.Old grandeur on its stairways;And, in its haunted rooms,Old souvenirs of greatness,And ghosts of dead perfumes.The winds are phantom voicesAround its carven doors;The moonbeams, specter footstepsUpon its polished floors.Old cedars build around itA solitude of sighs;And the old hours pass through itWith immemorial eyes.But more than this I know not;Nor where the house may be;Nor what its ancient secretAnd ancient grief to me.All that my soul remembersIs that,—forgot almost,—Once, in a former lifetime,'Twas here I loved and lost.
Old paintings on its wainscots,And, in its oaken hall,Old arras; and the twilightOf slumber over all.
Old grandeur on its stairways;And, in its haunted rooms,Old souvenirs of greatness,And ghosts of dead perfumes.
The winds are phantom voicesAround its carven doors;The moonbeams, specter footstepsUpon its polished floors.
Old cedars build around itA solitude of sighs;And the old hours pass through itWith immemorial eyes.
But more than this I know not;Nor where the house may be;Nor what its ancient secretAnd ancient grief to me.
All that my soul remembersIs that,—forgot almost,—Once, in a former lifetime,'Twas here I loved and lost.
In eöns of the senses,My spirit knew of yore,I found the Isle of Circe,And felt her magic lore;And still the soul remembersWhat flesh would be once more.She gave me flowers to smell ofThat wizard branches bore,Of weird and sorcerous beauty,Whose stems dripped human gore—Their scent when I rememberI know that world once more.She gave me fruits to eat ofThat grew beside the shore,Of necromantic ripeness,With human flesh at core—Their taste when I rememberI know that life once more.And then, behold! a serpent,That glides my face before,With eyes of tears and fireThat glare me o'er and o'er—I look into its eyeballs,And know myself once more.
In eöns of the senses,My spirit knew of yore,I found the Isle of Circe,And felt her magic lore;And still the soul remembersWhat flesh would be once more.
She gave me flowers to smell ofThat wizard branches bore,Of weird and sorcerous beauty,Whose stems dripped human gore—Their scent when I rememberI know that world once more.
She gave me fruits to eat ofThat grew beside the shore,Of necromantic ripeness,With human flesh at core—Their taste when I rememberI know that life once more.
And then, behold! a serpent,That glides my face before,With eyes of tears and fireThat glare me o'er and o'er—I look into its eyeballs,And know myself once more.
I have looked in the eyes of poesy,And sat in song's high place;And the beautiful spirits of musicHave spoken me face to face;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowThey never can name nor trace.I have walked with the glamour gladness,And dreamed with the shadow sleep;And the presences, love and knowledge,Have smiled in my heart's red keep;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowFor the depth of their gaze too deep.The love and the hope God grants me,The beauty that lures me on,And the dreams of folly and wisdomThat thoughts of the spirit don,Are but masks of an ancient sorrowOf a life long dead and gone.Was it sin? or a crime forgotten?Of a love that loved too well?That sat on a throne of fireA thousand years in hell?That the soul with its nameless sorrowRemembers but can not tell?
I have looked in the eyes of poesy,And sat in song's high place;And the beautiful spirits of musicHave spoken me face to face;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowThey never can name nor trace.
I have walked with the glamour gladness,And dreamed with the shadow sleep;And the presences, love and knowledge,Have smiled in my heart's red keep;Yet here in my soul there is sorrowFor the depth of their gaze too deep.
The love and the hope God grants me,The beauty that lures me on,And the dreams of folly and wisdomThat thoughts of the spirit don,Are but masks of an ancient sorrowOf a life long dead and gone.
Was it sin? or a crime forgotten?Of a love that loved too well?That sat on a throne of fireA thousand years in hell?That the soul with its nameless sorrowRemembers but can not tell?
With her soft face half turned to me,Like an arrested moonbeam, sheStood in the cirque of that deep tree.I took her by the hands; she raisedHer face to mine; and, half amazed,Remembered; and we stood and gazed.How good to kiss her throat and hair,And say no word!—Her throat was bare;As some moon-fungus white and fair.Had God not giv'n us life for this?The world-old, amorous happinessOf arms that clasp, and lips that kiss!The eloquence of limbs and arms!The rhetoric of breasts, whose charmsSay to the sluggish blood what warms!Had God or Fiend assigned this hourThat bloomed,—where love had all of power,—The senses' aphrodisiac flower?The dawn was far away. Nude nightHung savage stars of sultry whiteAround her bosom's Ethiop light.Night! night, who gave us each to each,Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,With life's best gift within our reach.And here it was—between the goalsOf flesh and spirit, sex controls—Took place the marriage of our souls.
With her soft face half turned to me,Like an arrested moonbeam, sheStood in the cirque of that deep tree.
I took her by the hands; she raisedHer face to mine; and, half amazed,Remembered; and we stood and gazed.
How good to kiss her throat and hair,And say no word!—Her throat was bare;As some moon-fungus white and fair.
Had God not giv'n us life for this?The world-old, amorous happinessOf arms that clasp, and lips that kiss!
The eloquence of limbs and arms!The rhetoric of breasts, whose charmsSay to the sluggish blood what warms!
Had God or Fiend assigned this hourThat bloomed,—where love had all of power,—The senses' aphrodisiac flower?
The dawn was far away. Nude nightHung savage stars of sultry whiteAround her bosom's Ethiop light.
Night! night, who gave us each to each,Where heart with heart could hold sweet speech,With life's best gift within our reach.
And here it was—between the goalsOf flesh and spirit, sex controls—Took place the marriage of our souls.
A woman, fair to look upon,Where waters whiten with the moon;While down the glimmer of the lawnThe white moths swoon.A mouth of music; eyes of love;And hands of blended snow and scent,That touch the pearl-pale shadow ofAn instrument.And low and sweet that song of sleepAfter the song of love is hushed;While all the longing, here, to weep,Is held and crushed.Then leafy silence, that is muskWith breath of the magnolia-tree,While dwindles, moon-white, through the duskHer drapery.Let me remember how a heart,Romantic, wrote upon that night!My soul still helps me read each partOf it aright.And like a dead leaf shut betweenA book's dull chapters, stained and dark,That page, with immemorial green,Of life I mark.
A woman, fair to look upon,Where waters whiten with the moon;While down the glimmer of the lawnThe white moths swoon.
A mouth of music; eyes of love;And hands of blended snow and scent,That touch the pearl-pale shadow ofAn instrument.
And low and sweet that song of sleepAfter the song of love is hushed;While all the longing, here, to weep,Is held and crushed.
Then leafy silence, that is muskWith breath of the magnolia-tree,While dwindles, moon-white, through the duskHer drapery.
Let me remember how a heart,Romantic, wrote upon that night!My soul still helps me read each partOf it aright.
And like a dead leaf shut betweenA book's dull chapters, stained and dark,That page, with immemorial green,Of life I mark.
It is not well for me to hearThat song's appealing melody:The pain of loss comes all too near,Through it, to me.The loss of her whose love looks throughThe mist death's hand hath hung between:Within the shadow of the yewHer grave is green.Ah, dream that vanished long ago!Oh, anguish of remembered tears!And shadow of unlifted woeAthwart the years!That haunt the sad rooms of my days,As keepsakes of unperished love,Where pale the memory of her faceIs framed above.This olden song, she used to sing,Of love and sleep, is now a charmTo open mystic doors and bringHer spirit form.In music making visibleOne soul-assertive memory,That steals unto my side to tellMy loss to me.
It is not well for me to hearThat song's appealing melody:The pain of loss comes all too near,Through it, to me.
The loss of her whose love looks throughThe mist death's hand hath hung between:Within the shadow of the yewHer grave is green.
Ah, dream that vanished long ago!Oh, anguish of remembered tears!And shadow of unlifted woeAthwart the years!
That haunt the sad rooms of my days,As keepsakes of unperished love,Where pale the memory of her faceIs framed above.
This olden song, she used to sing,Of love and sleep, is now a charmTo open mystic doors and bringHer spirit form.
In music making visibleOne soul-assertive memory,That steals unto my side to tellMy loss to me.
In my dream last night it seemed I stoodWith a boy's glad heart in my boyhood's wood.The beryl green and the cairngorm brownOf the day through the deep leaves sifted down.The rippling drip of a passing showerRinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.The splash and urge of a waterfallSpread stairwayed rocks with a crystal caul.And I waded the pool where the gravel gray,And the last year's leaf, like a topaz lay.And searched the strip of the creek's dry bedFor the colored keel and the arrow-head.And I found the cohosh coigne the same,Tossing with torches of pearly flame.The owlet dingle of vine and brier,That the butterfly-weed flecked fierce with fire.The elder edge with its warm perfume,And the sapphire stars of the bluet bloom;The moss, the fern, and the touch-me-notI breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.And I saw the bird, that sang its best,In the moted sunlight building its nest.And I saw the chipmunk's stealthy face,And the rabbit crouched in a grassy place.And I watched the crows, that cawed and cried,Hunting the hawk at the forest-side;The bees that sucked in the blossoms slim,And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.And felt the silence, the dusk, the dreadOf the spot where they buried the unknown dead.The water murmur, the insect hum,And a far bird calling,Come, oh, come!—What sweeter music can mortals makeTo ease the heart of its human ache!—And it seemed in my dream, that was all too true,That I met in the woods again with you.A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees,And a hand stained red with dewberries.And we stood a moment some thing to tell,And then in the woods we said farewell.But once I met you; yet, lo! it seemsAgain and again we meet in dreams.And I ask my soul what it all may mean;If this is the love that should have been.And oft and again I wonder,CanWhat God intends be changed by man?
In my dream last night it seemed I stoodWith a boy's glad heart in my boyhood's wood.
The beryl green and the cairngorm brownOf the day through the deep leaves sifted down.
The rippling drip of a passing showerRinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.
The splash and urge of a waterfallSpread stairwayed rocks with a crystal caul.
And I waded the pool where the gravel gray,And the last year's leaf, like a topaz lay.
And searched the strip of the creek's dry bedFor the colored keel and the arrow-head.
And I found the cohosh coigne the same,Tossing with torches of pearly flame.
The owlet dingle of vine and brier,That the butterfly-weed flecked fierce with fire.
The elder edge with its warm perfume,And the sapphire stars of the bluet bloom;
The moss, the fern, and the touch-me-notI breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.
And I saw the bird, that sang its best,In the moted sunlight building its nest.
And I saw the chipmunk's stealthy face,And the rabbit crouched in a grassy place.
And I watched the crows, that cawed and cried,Hunting the hawk at the forest-side;
The bees that sucked in the blossoms slim,And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.
And felt the silence, the dusk, the dreadOf the spot where they buried the unknown dead.
The water murmur, the insect hum,And a far bird calling,Come, oh, come!—
What sweeter music can mortals makeTo ease the heart of its human ache!—
And it seemed in my dream, that was all too true,That I met in the woods again with you.
A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees,And a hand stained red with dewberries.
And we stood a moment some thing to tell,And then in the woods we said farewell.
But once I met you; yet, lo! it seemsAgain and again we meet in dreams.
And I ask my soul what it all may mean;If this is the love that should have been.
And oft and again I wonder,CanWhat God intends be changed by man?
Among the fields the camomileSeems blown steam in the lightning's glare.Unusual odors drench the air.Night speaks above; the angry smileOf storm within her stare.The way for me to-night?—To-night,Is through the wood whose branches fillThe road with dripping rain-drops. Till,Between the boughs, a star-like light—Our home upon the hill.The path for me to take?—It goesAround a trailer-tangled rock,'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock,Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose,And door whereat I knock.Bright on the old-time flower-placeThe lamp streams through the foggy pane.The door is opened to the rain;And in the door—her happy face,And eager hands again.
Among the fields the camomileSeems blown steam in the lightning's glare.Unusual odors drench the air.Night speaks above; the angry smileOf storm within her stare.
The way for me to-night?—To-night,Is through the wood whose branches fillThe road with dripping rain-drops. Till,Between the boughs, a star-like light—Our home upon the hill.
The path for me to take?—It goesAround a trailer-tangled rock,'Mid puckered pink and hollyhock,Unto a latch-gate's unkempt rose,And door whereat I knock.
Bright on the old-time flower-placeThe lamp streams through the foggy pane.The door is opened to the rain;And in the door—her happy face,And eager hands again.