Come! look in the shadowy water here,The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,What is the thing that lies there?—A lily-pod half sunk from sight?Or spawn of the toad all water-white?Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?Or a woman's face and eyes there?Now lean to the water a listening ear,The haunted water of Ashly Mere:What is the sound that you seem to hearIn the ghostly hush of the deeps there?—A withered reed that the ripple lips?Or a night-bird's wing that the surface whips?Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?Or a woman's voice that weeps there?Now look and listen! but draw not nearThe lonely water of Ashly Mere!—For so it happens this time each yearAs you lean by the mere and listen:And the moaning voice I understand,—For oft I have watched it draw to land,And lift from the water a ghastly handAnd a face whose eyeballs glisten.And this is the reason why every yearTo the hideous water of Ashly MereI come when the woodland leaves are sear,And the autumn moon hangs hoary:For here by the mere was wrought a wrong ...But the old, old story is over long—And woman is weak and man is strong ...And the mere's and mine is the story.
Come! look in the shadowy water here,The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,What is the thing that lies there?—A lily-pod half sunk from sight?Or spawn of the toad all water-white?Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?Or a woman's face and eyes there?
Now lean to the water a listening ear,The haunted water of Ashly Mere:What is the sound that you seem to hearIn the ghostly hush of the deeps there?—A withered reed that the ripple lips?Or a night-bird's wing that the surface whips?Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?Or a woman's voice that weeps there?
Now look and listen! but draw not nearThe lonely water of Ashly Mere!—For so it happens this time each yearAs you lean by the mere and listen:And the moaning voice I understand,—For oft I have watched it draw to land,And lift from the water a ghastly handAnd a face whose eyeballs glisten.
And this is the reason why every yearTo the hideous water of Ashly MereI come when the woodland leaves are sear,And the autumn moon hangs hoary:For here by the mere was wrought a wrong ...But the old, old story is over long—And woman is weak and man is strong ...And the mere's and mine is the story.
The way went under cedared gloomTo moonlight, like a cactus bloom,Before the entrance of her tomb.I had an hour of night and thinSad starlight; and I set my chinAgainst the grating and looked in.A gleam, like moonlight, through a squareOf opening—I knew not where—Shone on her coffin resting there.And on its oval silver-plateI read her name and age and date,And smiled, soft-thinking on my hate.There was no insect sound to chirr;No wind to make a little stir.I stood and looked and thought on her.The gleam stole downward from her head,Till at her feet it rested redOn Gothic gold, that sadly said:—"God to her love lent a weak reedOf strength: and gave no light to lead:Pray for her soul; for it hath need."There was no night-bird's twitter near,No low vague water I might hearTo make a small sound in the ear.The gleam, that made a burning markOf each dim word, died to a spark;Then left the tomb and coffin dark.I had a little while to wait;And prayed with hands against the grate,And heart that yearned and knew too late.There was no light below, above,To point my soul the way thereof,—The way of hate that led to love.
The way went under cedared gloomTo moonlight, like a cactus bloom,Before the entrance of her tomb.
I had an hour of night and thinSad starlight; and I set my chinAgainst the grating and looked in.
A gleam, like moonlight, through a squareOf opening—I knew not where—Shone on her coffin resting there.
And on its oval silver-plateI read her name and age and date,And smiled, soft-thinking on my hate.
There was no insect sound to chirr;No wind to make a little stir.I stood and looked and thought on her.
The gleam stole downward from her head,Till at her feet it rested redOn Gothic gold, that sadly said:—
"God to her love lent a weak reedOf strength: and gave no light to lead:Pray for her soul; for it hath need."
There was no night-bird's twitter near,No low vague water I might hearTo make a small sound in the ear.
The gleam, that made a burning markOf each dim word, died to a spark;Then left the tomb and coffin dark.
I had a little while to wait;And prayed with hands against the grate,And heart that yearned and knew too late.
There was no light below, above,To point my soul the way thereof,—The way of hate that led to love.
It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near,I met her on the old mill-bridge we parted at last year.At first I deemed it but a mist that faltered in that place,An autumn mist beneath the trees that sentineled the race;Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.The waver of the summer-heat upon the drouth-dry leas;The shimmer of the thistle-drift a down the silences;The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees;They qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;The actual unreal of the things that only seem.Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes all loving-wise,She passed and gave no greeting that my heart might recognize,With far-set face unseeing and sad unremembering eyes.It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear,And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near,I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.
It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near,I met her on the old mill-bridge we parted at last year.
At first I deemed it but a mist that faltered in that place,An autumn mist beneath the trees that sentineled the race;Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.
The waver of the summer-heat upon the drouth-dry leas;The shimmer of the thistle-drift a down the silences;The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees;
They qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;The actual unreal of the things that only seem.
Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes all loving-wise,She passed and gave no greeting that my heart might recognize,With far-set face unseeing and sad unremembering eyes.
It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear,And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near,I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.
High up in the organ-storyA girl stands slim and fair;And touched with the casement's gloryGleams out her radiant hair.The young priest kneels at the altar,Then lifts the Host above;And the psalm intoned from the psalterIs pure with patient love.A sweet bell chimes; and a censerSwings gleaming in the gloom;The candles glimmer and denserRolls up the pale perfume.Then high in the organ choirA voice of crystal soars,Of patience and soul's desire,That suffers and adores.And out of the altar's dimnessAn answering voice doth swell,Of passion that cries from the grimnessAnd anguish of its own hell.High up in the organ-storyOne kneels with a girlish grace;And, touched with the vesper glory,Lifts her madonna face.One stands at the cloudy altar,A form bowed down and thin;The text of the psalm in the psalterHe reads, is sorrow and sin.
High up in the organ-storyA girl stands slim and fair;And touched with the casement's gloryGleams out her radiant hair.
The young priest kneels at the altar,Then lifts the Host above;And the psalm intoned from the psalterIs pure with patient love.
A sweet bell chimes; and a censerSwings gleaming in the gloom;The candles glimmer and denserRolls up the pale perfume.
Then high in the organ choirA voice of crystal soars,Of patience and soul's desire,That suffers and adores.
And out of the altar's dimnessAn answering voice doth swell,Of passion that cries from the grimnessAnd anguish of its own hell.
High up in the organ-storyOne kneels with a girlish grace;And, touched with the vesper glory,Lifts her madonna face.
One stands at the cloudy altar,A form bowed down and thin;The text of the psalm in the psalterHe reads, is sorrow and sin.
O cheerly, cheerly by the roadAnd merrily down the billet;And where the acre-field is sowedWith bristle-bearded millet.Then o'er a pebbled path that goes,Through vista and through dingle,Unto a farmstead's windowed rose,And roof of moss and shingle.O darkly, darkly through the bush,And dimly by the bowlder,Where cane and water-cress grow lush,And woodland wilds are older.Then o'er the cedared way that leads,Through burr and bramble-thickets,Unto a burial-ground of weedsFenced in with broken pickets.Then sadly, sadly down the vale,And wearily through the rushes,Where sunlight of the noon is pale,And e'en the zephyr hushes.For oft her young face smiled uponMy deeps here, willow-shaded;And oft with bare feet in the sunMy shallows there she waded.No more beneath the twinkling leavesShall stand the farmer's daughter!—Sing softly past the cottage eaves,O memory-haunted water!No more shall bend her laughing faceAbove me where the rose is!—Sigh softly past the burial-place,Where all her youth reposes!
O cheerly, cheerly by the roadAnd merrily down the billet;And where the acre-field is sowedWith bristle-bearded millet.
Then o'er a pebbled path that goes,Through vista and through dingle,Unto a farmstead's windowed rose,And roof of moss and shingle.
O darkly, darkly through the bush,And dimly by the bowlder,Where cane and water-cress grow lush,And woodland wilds are older.
Then o'er the cedared way that leads,Through burr and bramble-thickets,Unto a burial-ground of weedsFenced in with broken pickets.
Then sadly, sadly down the vale,And wearily through the rushes,Where sunlight of the noon is pale,And e'en the zephyr hushes.
For oft her young face smiled uponMy deeps here, willow-shaded;And oft with bare feet in the sunMy shallows there she waded.
No more beneath the twinkling leavesShall stand the farmer's daughter!—Sing softly past the cottage eaves,O memory-haunted water!
No more shall bend her laughing faceAbove me where the rose is!—Sigh softly past the burial-place,Where all her youth reposes!
Do you remember how that night drew on?That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wanAs eyes that gaze reproachful in a dream,Loved eyes, long lost, and sadder than the grave?How through the heaven stole the moon's gray gleam,Like a nun's ghost down a cathedral nave?—Do you remember how that night drew on?Do you remember the hard words then said?Said to the living,—now denied the dead,—That left me dead,—long, long before I died,—In heart and spirit?—me, your words had slain,Telling how love to my poor life had lied,Armed with the dagger of a pale disdain.—Do you remember the hard words then said?Do you remember, now this night draws downThe threatening heavens, that the lightnings crownWith wrecks of thunder? when no moon doth giveThe clouds wild witchery?—as in a room,Behind the sorrowful arras, still may liveThe pallid secret of the haunted gloom.—Do you remember, now this night draws down?Do you remember, now it comes to passYour form is bowed as is the wind-swept grass?And death hath won from you that confidenceDenied to life? now your sick soul rebelsAgainst your pride with tragic eloquence,That self-crowned demon of the heart's fierce hells.—Do you remember, now it comes to pass?Do you remember?—Bid your soul be still.Here passion hath surrendered unto will,And flesh to spirit. Quiet your wild tongueAnd wilder heart. Your kiss is naught to me.The instrument love gave you lies unstrung,Silent, forsaken of all melody.Do you remember?—Bid your soul be still.
Do you remember how that night drew on?That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wanAs eyes that gaze reproachful in a dream,Loved eyes, long lost, and sadder than the grave?How through the heaven stole the moon's gray gleam,Like a nun's ghost down a cathedral nave?—Do you remember how that night drew on?
Do you remember the hard words then said?Said to the living,—now denied the dead,—That left me dead,—long, long before I died,—In heart and spirit?—me, your words had slain,Telling how love to my poor life had lied,Armed with the dagger of a pale disdain.—Do you remember the hard words then said?
Do you remember, now this night draws downThe threatening heavens, that the lightnings crownWith wrecks of thunder? when no moon doth giveThe clouds wild witchery?—as in a room,Behind the sorrowful arras, still may liveThe pallid secret of the haunted gloom.—Do you remember, now this night draws down?
Do you remember, now it comes to passYour form is bowed as is the wind-swept grass?And death hath won from you that confidenceDenied to life? now your sick soul rebelsAgainst your pride with tragic eloquence,That self-crowned demon of the heart's fierce hells.—Do you remember, now it comes to pass?
Do you remember?—Bid your soul be still.Here passion hath surrendered unto will,And flesh to spirit. Quiet your wild tongueAnd wilder heart. Your kiss is naught to me.The instrument love gave you lies unstrung,Silent, forsaken of all melody.Do you remember?—Bid your soul be still.
The leaves are shivering on the thorn,Drearily;And sighing wakes the lean-eyed morn,Wearily.I press my thin face to the pane,Drearily;But never will he come again.(Wearily.)The rain hath sicklied day with haze,Drearily;My tears run downward as I gaze,Wearily.The mist and morn spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing God gives to thee?"(Wearily.)I said unto the morn and mist,Drearily:"The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed."(Wearily.)The morn and mist spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing which thou dost see?"(Wearily.)I said unto the mist and morn,Drearily:"The shame of man and woman's scorn."(Wearily.)"He loved thee not," they made reply.Drearily.I said, "Would God had let me die!"(Wearily.)
The leaves are shivering on the thorn,Drearily;And sighing wakes the lean-eyed morn,Wearily.
I press my thin face to the pane,Drearily;But never will he come again.(Wearily.)
The rain hath sicklied day with haze,Drearily;My tears run downward as I gaze,Wearily.
The mist and morn spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing God gives to thee?"(Wearily.)
I said unto the morn and mist,Drearily:"The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed."(Wearily.)
The morn and mist spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing which thou dost see?"(Wearily.)
I said unto the mist and morn,Drearily:"The shame of man and woman's scorn."(Wearily.)
"He loved thee not," they made reply.Drearily.I said, "Would God had let me die!"(Wearily.)
My dreams are as a closed up book,(Drearily.)Upon whose clasp of love I look,Wearily.All night the rain raved overhead,Drearily;All night I wept awake in bed,Wearily.I heard the wind sweep wild and wide,Drearily;I turned upon my face and sighed,Wearily.The wind and rain spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing God takes from thee?"(Wearily.)I said unto the rain and wind,Drearily:"The love, for which my soul hath sinned."(Wearily.)The rain and wind spake unto me,Drearily:"What are these things thou still dost see?"(Wearily.)I said unto the wind and rain,Drearily:"Regret, and hope despair hath slain."(Wearily.)"Thou lov'st him still," they made reply,Drearily.I said, "That God would let me die!"(Wearily.)
My dreams are as a closed up book,(Drearily.)Upon whose clasp of love I look,Wearily.
All night the rain raved overhead,Drearily;All night I wept awake in bed,Wearily.
I heard the wind sweep wild and wide,Drearily;I turned upon my face and sighed,Wearily.
The wind and rain spake unto me,Drearily:"What is this thing God takes from thee?"(Wearily.)
I said unto the rain and wind,Drearily:"The love, for which my soul hath sinned."(Wearily.)
The rain and wind spake unto me,Drearily:"What are these things thou still dost see?"(Wearily.)
I said unto the wind and rain,Drearily:"Regret, and hope despair hath slain."(Wearily.)
"Thou lov'st him still," they made reply,Drearily.I said, "That God would let me die!"(Wearily.)
So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I!Here in life's temple, where thy soul may see,Look how the beauty of our love doth lie,Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!This is the end. What need to tell it thee!So let it be.So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,And sorrow, who sat by him deified,For whom his face made comfort, lo! how dimThey heap his altar which they can not hide,While memory's lamp swings o'er it, burning slim.This is the end. What shall be said beside?So let it be.So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,Red, of love's sacramental chalice, whenHe laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill againNow it is empty of the god divine!This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.So let it be.
So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I!Here in life's temple, where thy soul may see,Look how the beauty of our love doth lie,Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!This is the end. What need to tell it thee!So let it be.
So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him,And sorrow, who sat by him deified,For whom his face made comfort, lo! how dimThey heap his altar which they can not hide,While memory's lamp swings o'er it, burning slim.This is the end. What shall be said beside?So let it be.
So let it be. Did we not drain the wine,Red, of love's sacramental chalice, whenHe laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill againNow it is empty of the god divine!This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.So let it be.
The cross I bear no man shall know—No man can ease the cross I bear!—Alas! the thorny path of woeUp the steep hill of care!There is no word to comfort me;No sign to help my bended head;Deep night lies over land and sea,And silence dark and dread.To strive, it seems, that I was born,For that which others shall obtain;The disappointment and the scornAlone for me remain.One half my life is overpast;The other half I contemplate—Meseems the past doth but forecastA darker future state.Sick to the heart of that which makesMe hope and struggle and desire,The aspiration here that achesWith ineffectual fire;While inwardly I know the lack,The insufficiency of power,Each past day's retrospect makes blackEach morrow's coming hour.Now in my youth would I could die!—As others love to live,—go downInto the grave without a sigh,Oblivious of renown!
The cross I bear no man shall know—No man can ease the cross I bear!—Alas! the thorny path of woeUp the steep hill of care!
There is no word to comfort me;No sign to help my bended head;Deep night lies over land and sea,And silence dark and dread.
To strive, it seems, that I was born,For that which others shall obtain;The disappointment and the scornAlone for me remain.
One half my life is overpast;The other half I contemplate—Meseems the past doth but forecastA darker future state.
Sick to the heart of that which makesMe hope and struggle and desire,The aspiration here that achesWith ineffectual fire;
While inwardly I know the lack,The insufficiency of power,Each past day's retrospect makes blackEach morrow's coming hour.
Now in my youth would I could die!—As others love to live,—go downInto the grave without a sigh,Oblivious of renown!
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsFollowing the blur of a goblin-light,That led me over ugly streams,Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,Like a drowned girl's hair in the ropy ooze:And the jack-o'-lantern light that led,Flickered the fox-fire trees o'erhead,And the owl-like things at airy cruise.
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsFollowing the blur of a goblin-light,That led me over ugly streams,Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,Like a drowned girl's hair in the ropy ooze:And the jack-o'-lantern light that led,Flickered the fox-fire trees o'erhead,And the owl-like things at airy cruise.
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsFollowing a form of shadowy whiteWith my own wild face it seems.Did a raven's wing just flap my hair?Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?Or the hand of—something I did not dareLook round to see in that obscene place?Where the boughs, with leaves a-devil's-dance,And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,Had more than a strange significanceOf life and of evil not their own.
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsFollowing a form of shadowy whiteWith my own wild face it seems.Did a raven's wing just flap my hair?Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?Or the hand of—something I did not dareLook round to see in that obscene place?Where the boughs, with leaves a-devil's-dance,And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,Had more than a strange significanceOf life and of evil not their own.
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsSeeing the mists rise left and right,Like the leathery fog that heaves and steamsFrom the rolling horror of Hell's red streams.While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,And danced alone with the last mad leaf ...Or was it the wind?... kept whispering me—"Now bury it here with its own black grief,And its eyes of fire you can not brave!"—And in the darkness I seemed to seeMy own self digging my soul a grave.
Where was I last Friday night?—Within the forest of dark dreamsSeeing the mists rise left and right,Like the leathery fog that heaves and steamsFrom the rolling horror of Hell's red streams.While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,And danced alone with the last mad leaf ...Or was it the wind?... kept whispering me—"Now bury it here with its own black grief,And its eyes of fire you can not brave!"—And in the darkness I seemed to seeMy own self digging my soul a grave.
At the moon's down-going, let it beOn the quarry bill with its one gnarled tree....The red-rock road of the underbrush,Where the woman came through the summer hush.The sumach high, and the elder thick,Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.The trampled road of the thicket, fullOf foot-prints down to the quarry pool.The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,Where we found her lying stark and dead.The scraggy wood; the negro hut,With its doors and windows locked and shut.A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp;A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;A voice that answers a voice that asks.A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck;A running noose and a man's bared neck.A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;The lonely night and a bat's black wings....At the moon's down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
At the moon's down-going, let it beOn the quarry bill with its one gnarled tree....
The red-rock road of the underbrush,Where the woman came through the summer hush.
The sumach high, and the elder thick,Where we found the stone and the ragged stick.
The trampled road of the thicket, fullOf foot-prints down to the quarry pool.
The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead,Where we found her lying stark and dead.
The scraggy wood; the negro hut,With its doors and windows locked and shut.
A secret signal; a foot's rough tramp;A knock at the door; a lifted lamp.
An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks;A voice that answers a voice that asks.
A group of shadows; the moon's red fleck;A running noose and a man's bared neck.
A word, a curse, and a shape that swings;The lonely night and a bat's black wings....
At the moon's down-going, let it beOn the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door;By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black;Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with its angled flare,When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's answer—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce burl and the rain's blackblow?Only the signature written grimAt the end of the message brought to him—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.
We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door;By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.
Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black;Not a line of light at the doorsill's crack.
Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.
The clouds blow heavy towards the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The killdee cries and the lonesome loon.
The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with its angled flare,When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.
In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's answer—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce burl and the rain's blackblow?
Only the signature written grimAt the end of the message brought to him—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.
So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.
I shall not soon forget her and her eyes,The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to writeIts own dark name, whose syllables are sighs,In strange and starless night.I shall not soon forget her and her face,So quiet, yet uneasy as a dream,That stands on tip-toe in a haunted placeAnd listens for a scream.She made me feel as one, alone, may feelIn some grand ghostly house of olden time,The presence of a treasure, walls conceal,The secret of a crime.
I shall not soon forget her and her eyes,The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to writeIts own dark name, whose syllables are sighs,In strange and starless night.
I shall not soon forget her and her face,So quiet, yet uneasy as a dream,That stands on tip-toe in a haunted placeAnd listens for a scream.
She made me feel as one, alone, may feelIn some grand ghostly house of olden time,The presence of a treasure, walls conceal,The secret of a crime.
With lambent faces, mimicking the moon,The water lilies lie;Dotting the darkness of the long lagoonLike some black sky.A face, the whiteness of a water-flower,And pollen-golden hair,In shadow half, half in the moonbeams' glower,Lifts slowly there.A young girl's face, death makes cold marble of,Turned to the moon and me,Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love,Floating to sea.
With lambent faces, mimicking the moon,The water lilies lie;Dotting the darkness of the long lagoonLike some black sky.
A face, the whiteness of a water-flower,And pollen-golden hair,In shadow half, half in the moonbeams' glower,Lifts slowly there.
A young girl's face, death makes cold marble of,Turned to the moon and me,Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love,Floating to sea.
One listening bent, in dread of something coming,He can not see nor balk—A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,That haunts a terraced walk.Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavorUnto the work begun,Still hoping love would watch it grow and everTurn kindly eyes thereon.Now in his life he feels there nears an hour,Inevitable, alas!When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,And see his dead self pass.
One listening bent, in dread of something coming,He can not see nor balk—A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,That haunts a terraced walk.
Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavorUnto the work begun,Still hoping love would watch it grow and everTurn kindly eyes thereon.
Now in his life he feels there nears an hour,Inevitable, alas!When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,And see his dead self pass.
Though red my blood hath left its trailFor five far miles, I shall not fail,As God in Heaven wills!—The way was long through that black land.With sword on hip and horn in hand,At last before thy walls I stand,O Lady of the Hills!No seneschal shall put to scornThe summons of my bugle-horn!No man-at-arms shall stay!—Yea! God hath helped my strength too farBy bandit-caverned wood and scarTo give it pause now, or to barMy all-avenging way.This hope still gives my body strength—To kiss her eyes and lips at lengthWhere all her kin can see;Then 'mid her towers of crime and gloom,Sin-haunted like the Halls of Doom,To smite her dead in that wild roomRed-lit with revelry.Madly I rode; nor once did slack.Before my face the world rolled, blackWith nightmare wind and rain.Witch-lights mocked at me on the fen;And through the forest followed thenGaunt eyes of wolves; and ghosts of menMoaned by me on the plain.Still on I rode. My way was clearFrom that wild time when, spear to spear,Deep in the wind-torn wood,I met him!... Dead he lies beneathTheir trysting oak. I clenched my teethAnd rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,That filled my eyes with blood.And here I am. The blood may blindMy eyesight now ... yet I shall findHer by some inner eye!For God—He hath this deed in care!—Yea! I shall kiss again her hair,And tell her of her leman there,Then smite her dead—and die.
Though red my blood hath left its trailFor five far miles, I shall not fail,As God in Heaven wills!—The way was long through that black land.With sword on hip and horn in hand,At last before thy walls I stand,O Lady of the Hills!
No seneschal shall put to scornThe summons of my bugle-horn!No man-at-arms shall stay!—Yea! God hath helped my strength too farBy bandit-caverned wood and scarTo give it pause now, or to barMy all-avenging way.
This hope still gives my body strength—To kiss her eyes and lips at lengthWhere all her kin can see;Then 'mid her towers of crime and gloom,Sin-haunted like the Halls of Doom,To smite her dead in that wild roomRed-lit with revelry.
Madly I rode; nor once did slack.Before my face the world rolled, blackWith nightmare wind and rain.Witch-lights mocked at me on the fen;And through the forest followed thenGaunt eyes of wolves; and ghosts of menMoaned by me on the plain.
Still on I rode. My way was clearFrom that wild time when, spear to spear,Deep in the wind-torn wood,I met him!... Dead he lies beneathTheir trysting oak. I clenched my teethAnd rode. My wound scarce let me breathe,That filled my eyes with blood.
And here I am. The blood may blindMy eyesight now ... yet I shall findHer by some inner eye!For God—He hath this deed in care!—Yea! I shall kiss again her hair,And tell her of her leman there,Then smite her dead—and die.
At moonset when ghost speaks with ghost,And spirits meet where once they sinned,Between the bournes of found and lost,My soul met her soul on the wind,My late-lost Evalind.I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild.Two burning shadows were her eyes,Wherefrom the maiden love, that smiledA heartbreak smile of severed ties,Gazed with a wan surprise.Then suddenly I seemed to seeNo more her shape where beauty bloomed ...My own sad self gazed up at me—My sorrow, that had so assumedThe form of her entombed.
At moonset when ghost speaks with ghost,And spirits meet where once they sinned,Between the bournes of found and lost,My soul met her soul on the wind,My late-lost Evalind.
I kissed her mouth. Her face was wild.Two burning shadows were her eyes,Wherefrom the maiden love, that smiledA heartbreak smile of severed ties,Gazed with a wan surprise.
Then suddenly I seemed to seeNo more her shape where beauty bloomed ...My own sad self gazed up at me—My sorrow, that had so assumedThe form of her entombed.
Nor time nor all his minionsOf sorrow or of pain,Shall dash with vulture pinionsThe cup she fills againWithin the dream-dominionsOf life where she doth reign.Clothed on with bright desireAnd hope that makes her strong,With limbs of frost and fire,She sits above all wrong,Her heart, a living lyre,Her love, its only song.And in the waking pausesOf weariness and care,And when the dark hour draws hisBlack weapon of despair,Above effects and causesWe hear its music there.The longings life hath near itOf love we yearn to see;The dreams it doth inheritOf immortality;Are callings of her spiritTo something yet to be.
Nor time nor all his minionsOf sorrow or of pain,Shall dash with vulture pinionsThe cup she fills againWithin the dream-dominionsOf life where she doth reign.
Clothed on with bright desireAnd hope that makes her strong,With limbs of frost and fire,She sits above all wrong,Her heart, a living lyre,Her love, its only song.
And in the waking pausesOf weariness and care,And when the dark hour draws hisBlack weapon of despair,Above effects and causesWe hear its music there.
The longings life hath near itOf love we yearn to see;The dreams it doth inheritOf immortality;Are callings of her spiritTo something yet to be.
O day, so sicklied o'er with night!O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—A Circe orange, golden-bright,With horror 'neath its husk.And I, who gave the promise heedThat made life's tempting surface fair,Have I not eaten to the seedIts ashes of despair!O silence of the drifted grass!And immemorial eloquenceOf stars and winds and waves that pass!And God's indifference!Leave me alone with sleep that knowsNot any thing that life may keep—Not e'en the pulse that comes and goesIn germs that climb and creep.Or if an aspiration paleMust quicken there—oh, let the spotGrow weeds! that dost may so prevail,Where spirit once could not!
O day, so sicklied o'er with night!O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—A Circe orange, golden-bright,With horror 'neath its husk.
And I, who gave the promise heedThat made life's tempting surface fair,Have I not eaten to the seedIts ashes of despair!
O silence of the drifted grass!And immemorial eloquenceOf stars and winds and waves that pass!And God's indifference!
Leave me alone with sleep that knowsNot any thing that life may keep—Not e'en the pulse that comes and goesIn germs that climb and creep.
Or if an aspiration paleMust quicken there—oh, let the spotGrow weeds! that dost may so prevail,Where spirit once could not!
So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stainThe aisle, along which life must pass,With hues of mystic colored glass,That fills the windows of the brain.So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carveThe house of days with arabesquesAnd gargoyles, where the mind grotesquesIn masks of hope and faith who starve.Here lay thy over weary headUpon my bosom! Do not weep!—"He giveth His beloved sleep."—Heart of my heart, be comforted.
So sick of dreams! the dreams, that stainThe aisle, along which life must pass,With hues of mystic colored glass,That fills the windows of the brain.
So sick of thoughts! the thoughts, that carveThe house of days with arabesquesAnd gargoyles, where the mind grotesquesIn masks of hope and faith who starve.
Here lay thy over weary headUpon my bosom! Do not weep!—"He giveth His beloved sleep."—Heart of my heart, be comforted.
We went by ways of bygone days,Up mountain heights of story,Where lost in vague, historic haze,Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,Sat 'mid her ruins hoary.Where wing to wing the eagles clingAnd torrents have their sources,War rose with bugle voice to singOf wild spear thrust, and broadsword swing,And rush of men and horses.Then deep below, where orchards showA home here, here a steeple,We heard a simple shepherd go,Singing, beneath the afterglow,A love-song of the people.As in the trees the song did cease,With matron eyes and holyPeace, from the cornlands of increase.And rose-beds of love's victories,Spake, smiling, of the lowly.
We went by ways of bygone days,Up mountain heights of story,Where lost in vague, historic haze,Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,Sat 'mid her ruins hoary.
Where wing to wing the eagles clingAnd torrents have their sources,War rose with bugle voice to singOf wild spear thrust, and broadsword swing,And rush of men and horses.
Then deep below, where orchards showA home here, here a steeple,We heard a simple shepherd go,Singing, beneath the afterglow,A love-song of the people.
As in the trees the song did cease,With matron eyes and holyPeace, from the cornlands of increase.And rose-beds of love's victories,Spake, smiling, of the lowly.
Wide in the west, a lakeOf flame that seems to shakeAs if the Midgard snakeDeep down did breathe:An isle of purple glow,Where rosy rivers flowDown peaks of cloudy snowWith fire beneath.And there the Tower-of-Night,With windows all a-light,Frowns on a burning height;Wherein she sleeps,—Young through the years of doom,—Veiled with her hair's gold gloom,The pale Valkyrie whomEnchantment keeps.
Wide in the west, a lakeOf flame that seems to shakeAs if the Midgard snakeDeep down did breathe:An isle of purple glow,Where rosy rivers flowDown peaks of cloudy snowWith fire beneath.
And there the Tower-of-Night,With windows all a-light,Frowns on a burning height;Wherein she sleeps,—Young through the years of doom,—Veiled with her hair's gold gloom,The pale Valkyrie whomEnchantment keeps.
The misty rain makes dim my face,The night's black cloak is o'er me;I tread the dripping cypress-place,A flickering light before me.Out of the death of leaves that rotAnd ooze and weedy water,My form was breathed to haunt this spot,Death's immaterial daughter.The owl that whoops upon the yew,The snake that lairs within it,Have seen my wild face flashing blueFor one fantastic minute.But should you follow where my eyesLike some pale lamp decoy you,Beware! lest suddenly I riseWith love that shall destroy you.
The misty rain makes dim my face,The night's black cloak is o'er me;I tread the dripping cypress-place,A flickering light before me.
Out of the death of leaves that rotAnd ooze and weedy water,My form was breathed to haunt this spot,Death's immaterial daughter.
The owl that whoops upon the yew,The snake that lairs within it,Have seen my wild face flashing blueFor one fantastic minute.
But should you follow where my eyesLike some pale lamp decoy you,Beware! lest suddenly I riseWith love that shall destroy you.
O daughter of our Southern sun,Sweet sister of each flower,Dost dream in terraced AvalonA shadow-haunted hour?Or stand with Guinevere uponSome ivied Camelot tower?Or in the wind dost breathe the muskThat blows Tintagel's sea on?Or 'mid the lists by castled UskHear some wild tourney's pæon?Or 'neath the Merlin moons of duskDost muse in old Cærleon?Or now of Launcelot, and thenOf Arthur, 'mid the roses,Dost speak with wily Vivien?Or where the shade reposes,Dost walk with stately armored menIn marble-fountained closes?So speak the dreams within thy gaze.The dreams thy spirit cages,Would that Romance—which on thee laysThe spell of bygone ages—Held me! a memory of those days,A portion of its pages!
O daughter of our Southern sun,Sweet sister of each flower,Dost dream in terraced AvalonA shadow-haunted hour?Or stand with Guinevere uponSome ivied Camelot tower?
Or in the wind dost breathe the muskThat blows Tintagel's sea on?Or 'mid the lists by castled UskHear some wild tourney's pæon?Or 'neath the Merlin moons of duskDost muse in old Cærleon?
Or now of Launcelot, and thenOf Arthur, 'mid the roses,Dost speak with wily Vivien?Or where the shade reposes,Dost walk with stately armored menIn marble-fountained closes?
So speak the dreams within thy gaze.The dreams thy spirit cages,Would that Romance—which on thee laysThe spell of bygone ages—Held me! a memory of those days,A portion of its pages!
We have no castles,We have no vassals,We have no riches, no gems and no gold;Nothing to ponder,Nothing to squander—Let us go wanderAs minstrels of old.
We have no castles,We have no vassals,We have no riches, no gems and no gold;Nothing to ponder,Nothing to squander—Let us go wanderAs minstrels of old.