Maiden of varying mood,Thalia thou hast wooed,Thespis thereafter,Till 'neath thy lyric swayEach heart must tribute pay—Tears blent with laughter.So in the days to beThis do we crave for thee,Through life's hereafter,Throughout the changing years,May all thy griefs and tearsBe blent with laughter.
Maiden of varying mood,Thalia thou hast wooed,Thespis thereafter,Till 'neath thy lyric swayEach heart must tribute pay—Tears blent with laughter.So in the days to beThis do we crave for thee,Through life's hereafter,Throughout the changing years,May all thy griefs and tearsBe blent with laughter.
Shimmer of rose and pearl,Sheen on an opal sky;Day's crimson banners unfurl,Purple-pleached shadow-gleams die;Dawn flowers bourgeoning fair,Meads with the dawn-dews wet;Rare is the morn—ah, rare!But in the heart, regret—A vague regret.Clouds like the scattered snowStippling a sapphire sky;Fervor and heat and glow,Zephyrs that swoon and die.Drowseth the nooning airOn meads with red poppies set;Fair is the day—ah, fair!But in the heart, regret—And still ... regret.Flashes of burning gold,Flushes of crimson lightFaint on a waning wold,Stealeth the silent night.One from a casement barLeaneth with lashes wet,Watching the last wan starFade like a heart's regret—A vain regret.
Shimmer of rose and pearl,Sheen on an opal sky;Day's crimson banners unfurl,Purple-pleached shadow-gleams die;Dawn flowers bourgeoning fair,Meads with the dawn-dews wet;Rare is the morn—ah, rare!But in the heart, regret—A vague regret.
Clouds like the scattered snowStippling a sapphire sky;Fervor and heat and glow,Zephyrs that swoon and die.Drowseth the nooning airOn meads with red poppies set;Fair is the day—ah, fair!But in the heart, regret—And still ... regret.
Flashes of burning gold,Flushes of crimson lightFaint on a waning wold,Stealeth the silent night.One from a casement barLeaneth with lashes wet,Watching the last wan starFade like a heart's regret—A vain regret.
Dear patient face and placid brow,Dear lips that smiled despite of pain,Brave toil-worn hands, so helpful now,Sweet spirit free from earthly stain.Within the doorway Mother stands,The while a merry barefoot lad,Across the springtime meadow-landsGoes whistling schoolward, blithe and glad;And where the pathway breasts the hill,I stay my steps and turn to hearHer loving voice, as lingering still,She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."Dear patient face and furrowed brow,Dear lips that smile thro' all life's pain,Brave toil-worn hands, so weary now,Sweet soul unmarred by earthly stain.Within the doorway Mother stands,The while a man oppressed with care,Across the waning Autumn lands,Goes toil-ward, fain to strive and bear;And where the pathway breasts the hill,I stay my steps and turn to hearHer trembling voice, as ling'ring still,She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."Dear peaceful face and placid brow,Dear lips that smile secure from pain,Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now,Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain.Within God's portal Mother stands,The while a man forspent with careSeeketh the far-off meadow-lands,By faith made strong to strive and bear.And as I breast life's weary hill,I ofttimes pause—meseems I hearThe well-loved accents breathing stillThe old fond prayer, "God bless you, dear."
Dear patient face and placid brow,Dear lips that smiled despite of pain,Brave toil-worn hands, so helpful now,Sweet spirit free from earthly stain.Within the doorway Mother stands,The while a merry barefoot lad,Across the springtime meadow-landsGoes whistling schoolward, blithe and glad;And where the pathway breasts the hill,I stay my steps and turn to hearHer loving voice, as lingering still,She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."
Dear patient face and furrowed brow,Dear lips that smile thro' all life's pain,Brave toil-worn hands, so weary now,Sweet soul unmarred by earthly stain.Within the doorway Mother stands,The while a man oppressed with care,Across the waning Autumn lands,Goes toil-ward, fain to strive and bear;And where the pathway breasts the hill,I stay my steps and turn to hearHer trembling voice, as ling'ring still,She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."
Dear peaceful face and placid brow,Dear lips that smile secure from pain,Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now,Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain.Within God's portal Mother stands,The while a man forspent with careSeeketh the far-off meadow-lands,By faith made strong to strive and bear.And as I breast life's weary hill,I ofttimes pause—meseems I hearThe well-loved accents breathing stillThe old fond prayer, "God bless you, dear."
A red rose burns upon his breastWhere erst a white rose lay;Above his fervent heart-throb pressed—The red rose of To-day.What recks he of the flower that dies—(For roses bloom alway!)Low in the dust, forgotten, liesThe rose of Yesterday.But yet, To-day's red rose must die,(For roses fade alway!)To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie—A rose of Yesterday.
A red rose burns upon his breastWhere erst a white rose lay;Above his fervent heart-throb pressed—The red rose of To-day.
What recks he of the flower that dies—(For roses bloom alway!)Low in the dust, forgotten, liesThe rose of Yesterday.
But yet, To-day's red rose must die,(For roses fade alway!)To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie—A rose of Yesterday.
One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear,One crying down the wayward wind of Chance,One piping unto feet that will not danceAnd mourning unto ears that will not hear.
One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear,One crying down the wayward wind of Chance,One piping unto feet that will not danceAnd mourning unto ears that will not hear.
Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes,His face with evil passion marred and seamed,Looks frowningly upon a Christian world.Behind that hateful mask a demon lurksTo urge the narrow soul to darksome deedsOf violence and greed, of hate and ruth.His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant forceTo mete to helpless souls eternal doom;A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,—But yet less potent than the yellow goldThose crooked talons clutch, and for the whichThe miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.
Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes,His face with evil passion marred and seamed,Looks frowningly upon a Christian world.Behind that hateful mask a demon lurksTo urge the narrow soul to darksome deedsOf violence and greed, of hate and ruth.His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant forceTo mete to helpless souls eternal doom;A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,—But yet less potent than the yellow goldThose crooked talons clutch, and for the whichThe miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.
As when above orchestral undertone,The plaining wail of muted violin,The hushed oböe and the distant din,Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan—Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone,A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soulTo feel the theme, and the harmonious wholeA sonant setting seems for that alone;So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife,Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song—No minor plaint of dull despairing pain,But one true note of hope that bids us longFor higher things; and all the din of lifeSeems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.
As when above orchestral undertone,The plaining wail of muted violin,The hushed oböe and the distant din,Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan—Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone,A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soulTo feel the theme, and the harmonious wholeA sonant setting seems for that alone;So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife,Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song—No minor plaint of dull despairing pain,But one true note of hope that bids us longFor higher things; and all the din of lifeSeems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.
The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraughtWith all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved;He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ...Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilledWith all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept;He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ...Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.
The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraughtWith all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved;He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ...Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.
The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilledWith all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept;He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ...Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.
The old house totters 'neath its weight of years,Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there,Old, friendless, lone—save for the wanton, Care,Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeersAnd laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears.Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age—His dim eyes falter as he scans the pageOf Life's worn album, blotted with his tears.He sees in dreams the wife he loved—long dead;The son—once proud to bear his father's name—Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace;The wayward girl who wrought her father shame ...He sits alone with Care; the day has fledAnd twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.
The old house totters 'neath its weight of years,Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there,Old, friendless, lone—save for the wanton, Care,Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeersAnd laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears.Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age—His dim eyes falter as he scans the pageOf Life's worn album, blotted with his tears.He sees in dreams the wife he loved—long dead;The son—once proud to bear his father's name—Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace;The wayward girl who wrought her father shame ...He sits alone with Care; the day has fledAnd twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.
Thro' countless æons sunless and remoteA Soul went searching for its spirit mate,Thro' star-stained space, o'er wind-swept deep, afloat,Forever desolate.Anon, another spirit, lone of heartGoes forth thro' voiceless void to seek its mate;Eftsoon they meet, these twain, strike hands ... and part!And this is Fate.
Thro' countless æons sunless and remoteA Soul went searching for its spirit mate,Thro' star-stained space, o'er wind-swept deep, afloat,Forever desolate.
Anon, another spirit, lone of heartGoes forth thro' voiceless void to seek its mate;Eftsoon they meet, these twain, strike hands ... and part!And this is Fate.
Beside the stream that silverly steals onTo swell the song of that far-sounding seaWhich breaks upon the utmost shore of Thought,They who have drunk at Song's immortal springWalk with glad feet the upland path of dreamsThat whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands—By one, yclept the Way of Fools—a plainOf dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit;But by another called the Path of HopeThat leads far up the slope of heart's desire;—And haply both speak truth—for oft the wayIs set with stones that tear the climbing feet,And oft for roses there is bitter rue,And oft for singing there is idle scorn,And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we knowThe upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds(Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope)Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!Beside the silent stream whose soundless tideSets ever to the unknown tideless seaThey who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draughtWalk with unsandalled feet the path of dreamsThat winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleepTo dim dream shores girt with dim spectre-trees,Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings,Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of fernsAnd fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowersNot of their wonted hue, but dimly gray,Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit,And silent winds from poppied meadows blow—And here dear presences to us deniedBy sterner Day, approach to cry us hail;And here a little do we taste the joyOf kisses dreamed on lips forever mute,A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled,And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ...Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn,Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields!Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tideSets ever to the unknown tideless SeaThat breaks upon the farthest unknown shore—They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draughtWalk with still feet the viewless Path of DreamsThat winds thro' long, low-lying fields of SleepTo fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms;And haply, longed-for presences deniedBy sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,—Bright radiances from realms of light eterne,Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis—But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled,Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust—From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne,Full well we know we shall return no more!
Beside the stream that silverly steals onTo swell the song of that far-sounding seaWhich breaks upon the utmost shore of Thought,They who have drunk at Song's immortal springWalk with glad feet the upland path of dreamsThat whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands—By one, yclept the Way of Fools—a plainOf dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit;But by another called the Path of HopeThat leads far up the slope of heart's desire;—And haply both speak truth—for oft the wayIs set with stones that tear the climbing feet,And oft for roses there is bitter rue,And oft for singing there is idle scorn,And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we knowThe upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds(Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope)Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!
Beside the silent stream whose soundless tideSets ever to the unknown tideless seaThey who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draughtWalk with unsandalled feet the path of dreamsThat winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleepTo dim dream shores girt with dim spectre-trees,Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings,Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of fernsAnd fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowersNot of their wonted hue, but dimly gray,Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit,And silent winds from poppied meadows blow—And here dear presences to us deniedBy sterner Day, approach to cry us hail;And here a little do we taste the joyOf kisses dreamed on lips forever mute,A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled,And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ...Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn,Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields!Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tideSets ever to the unknown tideless SeaThat breaks upon the farthest unknown shore—They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draughtWalk with still feet the viewless Path of DreamsThat winds thro' long, low-lying fields of SleepTo fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms;And haply, longed-for presences deniedBy sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,—Bright radiances from realms of light eterne,Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis—But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled,Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust—From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne,Full well we know we shall return no more!
The dim sun slips adown the skyThat dies from gold to gray;The homing birds that Southward flyTo my heart's hailing make reply,Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"Southward I turn my wistful eyes,Southward, where all my treasure lies,Whither the homing sparrow flies,Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"The chill blast sweeps the steely skyThat glooms a sullen gray;Soft summer winds that Southward flyTo my soul's sighing make replyBreathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"Southward I turn my longing eyes,Southward my yearning spirit hies,Whither or bird or zephyr fliesSighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"
The dim sun slips adown the skyThat dies from gold to gray;The homing birds that Southward flyTo my heart's hailing make reply,Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Southward I turn my wistful eyes,Southward, where all my treasure lies,Whither the homing sparrow flies,Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"
The chill blast sweeps the steely skyThat glooms a sullen gray;Soft summer winds that Southward flyTo my soul's sighing make replyBreathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Southward I turn my longing eyes,Southward my yearning spirit hies,Whither or bird or zephyr fliesSighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Wreath of laurel and crown of bayAnd the noisy trump of Fame,Praise for the singer's deathless lay,And a listening world's acclaim.But the singer sits with his grief aloneWhere love lies cold and dead.The plaudits fall on a heart of stone;The Soul of the song has fled.
Wreath of laurel and crown of bayAnd the noisy trump of Fame,Praise for the singer's deathless lay,And a listening world's acclaim.
But the singer sits with his grief aloneWhere love lies cold and dead.The plaudits fall on a heart of stone;The Soul of the song has fled.
Ah, God be merciful to him who seesThro' ermined pomp and pageantry of kings,Thro' regal mien and beauty's witcheriesThe poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hidWithin the body's hold! Thrice-cursed is heWhose soul sees souls of others face to face,Who strips the outer man like vestments offAnd views the naked heart in all its shameAnd poverty; who still must rend the veilOf motive, purpose, false humanityAnd futile pretense! God! to walk this worldDoomed still to see what others fain would hide,Reading men's thoughts as scholars read the pageOf some old language dead to all save them;Seeing beneath the tender woman flesh,The woman-grace, the pleading woman-eyes,The grisly skeleton, the hollow ribs,The eyeless sockets and the grinning jaw;Reading for aye the sneer beneath the smile,The lie that lurks behind the seeming truth;To know that such, or haply worse, am I,A living lie, false prophet to myself,Clothed on with shimmering robes of fallacyAnd vain deceit! Ah God, where is the truth?Are all men false or lies the fault in meWho, vulture-like, seize only on the taint,And leave the pure? If haply thus it beIn pity take away the subtle sightThat pierces thought. Give back the old fond faith,The young belief in all humanity;Hide from my view the canker in the rose,The taint in truth, the blight upon the bloom.Far better 'twere to drink the hemlock draughtAnd, happy, deem it nectar than to findThe drop of gall within the nectared cup.Far better trust repaid with treacheryThan doubt confirmed! Ah, Thou all-seeing GodWho art the Truth, make me to see the truth;Lift from my soul the shadow; in the roomOf doubt, send trust. Let me believe again;Help me to see the highest in mankind!
Ah, God be merciful to him who seesThro' ermined pomp and pageantry of kings,Thro' regal mien and beauty's witcheriesThe poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hidWithin the body's hold! Thrice-cursed is heWhose soul sees souls of others face to face,Who strips the outer man like vestments offAnd views the naked heart in all its shameAnd poverty; who still must rend the veilOf motive, purpose, false humanityAnd futile pretense! God! to walk this worldDoomed still to see what others fain would hide,Reading men's thoughts as scholars read the pageOf some old language dead to all save them;Seeing beneath the tender woman flesh,The woman-grace, the pleading woman-eyes,The grisly skeleton, the hollow ribs,The eyeless sockets and the grinning jaw;Reading for aye the sneer beneath the smile,The lie that lurks behind the seeming truth;To know that such, or haply worse, am I,A living lie, false prophet to myself,Clothed on with shimmering robes of fallacyAnd vain deceit! Ah God, where is the truth?Are all men false or lies the fault in meWho, vulture-like, seize only on the taint,And leave the pure? If haply thus it beIn pity take away the subtle sightThat pierces thought. Give back the old fond faith,The young belief in all humanity;Hide from my view the canker in the rose,The taint in truth, the blight upon the bloom.
Far better 'twere to drink the hemlock draughtAnd, happy, deem it nectar than to findThe drop of gall within the nectared cup.Far better trust repaid with treacheryThan doubt confirmed! Ah, Thou all-seeing GodWho art the Truth, make me to see the truth;Lift from my soul the shadow; in the roomOf doubt, send trust. Let me believe again;Help me to see the highest in mankind!
Like to a little child, whose straying feet,Tracking the fox-fire's guiling glint and gleam,Have wandered far afield by marsh and streamWhile just before the wavering glimmers fleetOn and still on where sky and meadow meet,Till, spent and fearful in the gathering gloom,At last he sees the guiding light of home,Where love awaits and mother-kisses sweet.So was it mine through fens of doubt to strayPursuing still some fair ephemeron,Or fleeting gleam, or shimmering fallacy,Till through the deepening dusk a beacon shoneSet by the hand of Love to light the wayO Father, to implicit trust in Thee!
Like to a little child, whose straying feet,Tracking the fox-fire's guiling glint and gleam,Have wandered far afield by marsh and streamWhile just before the wavering glimmers fleetOn and still on where sky and meadow meet,Till, spent and fearful in the gathering gloom,At last he sees the guiding light of home,Where love awaits and mother-kisses sweet.So was it mine through fens of doubt to strayPursuing still some fair ephemeron,Or fleeting gleam, or shimmering fallacy,Till through the deepening dusk a beacon shoneSet by the hand of Love to light the wayO Father, to implicit trust in Thee!
In a painted "Forest of Arden," in the glare of the garish light,In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night;Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind,I thrill at the touch of your painted lips—for—"I am your Rosalind!"Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art,That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart;Could you know that my soul speaks to you—aye soul and spirit and mind!When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe—"And I am your Rosalind!"To you 'tis a vain dissembling—a part of the work of the day,And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play.Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed.To prove your skill as a lover—yet—"I am your Rosalind!"I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her artMust needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still her part—Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind!Cry to your soul in another's words—"And I am your Rosalind!"
In a painted "Forest of Arden," in the glare of the garish light,In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night;Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind,I thrill at the touch of your painted lips—for—"I am your Rosalind!"
Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art,That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart;Could you know that my soul speaks to you—aye soul and spirit and mind!When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe—"And I am your Rosalind!"
To you 'tis a vain dissembling—a part of the work of the day,And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play.Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed.To prove your skill as a lover—yet—"I am your Rosalind!"
I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her artMust needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still her part—
Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind!Cry to your soul in another's words—"And I am your Rosalind!"
Imperial as that famed ElizabethBefore whose feet a knight his cloak cast down—A sovereign—altho' thine only crownLove's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath,Across thy path no regal robe I fling—Only a living, loving heart I bringTo lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.
Imperial as that famed ElizabethBefore whose feet a knight his cloak cast down—A sovereign—altho' thine only crownLove's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.
Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath,Across thy path no regal robe I fling—Only a living, loving heart I bringTo lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.
Last night they laid me in my winding sheet,Set burning tapers at my feet and head,Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet,And told each other softly, "She is dead."Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and starkI lay where waned the tawny tapers dim,Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful darkI lived in thoughts ofhim.The morning came. One who had loved me bentAbove my face with tears and bated breath;Laid on my heart the roseshehad sent—And I—was glad of death!
Last night they laid me in my winding sheet,Set burning tapers at my feet and head,Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet,And told each other softly, "She is dead."
Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and starkI lay where waned the tawny tapers dim,Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful darkI lived in thoughts ofhim.
The morning came. One who had loved me bentAbove my face with tears and bated breath;Laid on my heart the roseshehad sent—And I—was glad of death!
Frail fronds of ferns uncurling,Blue iris flags unfurling,Pale showers of blossoms swirlingLike clouds of wind-blown snow;With fragile wildings playing,Like two blithe children maying,Across the glad meads straying,Together, dear, we go.The silver clouds far-drifting,Vague lights and shadows shifting,The sungleams gold-dust siftingDown thro' the latticed leaves;Gray brooks the meadows lacing,Young flow'rs the uplands gracing,Her faery 'broidery tracingThe skillful spider weaves.From long, long day-dreams shaken,The vivid violets waken;His Southern haunts forsaken,The bluebird flecks the sky;Ah, breath of bloom-bright heather,Ah, golden Maytime weather,We drift in dreams together—Together, you and I.
Frail fronds of ferns uncurling,Blue iris flags unfurling,Pale showers of blossoms swirlingLike clouds of wind-blown snow;With fragile wildings playing,Like two blithe children maying,Across the glad meads straying,Together, dear, we go.
The silver clouds far-drifting,Vague lights and shadows shifting,The sungleams gold-dust siftingDown thro' the latticed leaves;Gray brooks the meadows lacing,Young flow'rs the uplands gracing,Her faery 'broidery tracingThe skillful spider weaves.
From long, long day-dreams shaken,The vivid violets waken;His Southern haunts forsaken,The bluebird flecks the sky;Ah, breath of bloom-bright heather,Ah, golden Maytime weather,We drift in dreams together—Together, you and I.
Above the valleys, peopled, fair and warm,Rise the bleak, silent uplands where abideWraiths of lost loves, love's recompense denied,Unspoken, unconfessed, unsatisfied....Cold, silent heights, engirt with zones of storm,Where Love for aye unmated must abide.The broad, sweet downward vistas of the fleshStretch fair and far; the calm white spirit-heightIs lone and chill; there dimly shines the lightOf sun and star that burns and beacons brightWhere Sin spreads still her guiling, glitt'ring mesh.Ah, warm the valley! Lone and chill the height!Yet he who wins the height's sublimity—The silent height where loves unlived abide,Loves stainless, sublimated, purified—Shall glimpse that land, to grosser view denied,Where love and longing infinite shall beOr ever stilled—or ever satisfied.
Above the valleys, peopled, fair and warm,Rise the bleak, silent uplands where abideWraiths of lost loves, love's recompense denied,Unspoken, unconfessed, unsatisfied....Cold, silent heights, engirt with zones of storm,Where Love for aye unmated must abide.
The broad, sweet downward vistas of the fleshStretch fair and far; the calm white spirit-heightIs lone and chill; there dimly shines the lightOf sun and star that burns and beacons brightWhere Sin spreads still her guiling, glitt'ring mesh.Ah, warm the valley! Lone and chill the height!
Yet he who wins the height's sublimity—The silent height where loves unlived abide,Loves stainless, sublimated, purified—Shall glimpse that land, to grosser view denied,Where love and longing infinite shall beOr ever stilled—or ever satisfied.
Bound ever to a great grey rock of Doom,Striving with futile hands to rive the chainOf woven fear, distrust and subtle pain,While gaunt wolf-waves that leap from out the gloomOf doubt's cold sea are snarling at my feet,As nearer writhes the dragon of DespairFoul with dank horrors of his caverned lair,And like a clock of doom the dark tides beat....I lift my eyes; Lo! sudden sweeps alongThought's empyrean and the vast of dreamsOne star-browed, Jove-like, human-orbed; meseemsHis feet are winged with music, shod with song;Ah, Perseus, should'st thou, pitying, leave the skyTo loose my bonds—then all the fear were gone,Soul touching soul, trust from distrust were won,Like god and goddess 'fronted, thou and I;Despair were slain, closed the unequal strife,Thy great soul's strength should make weak purpose strong,Thy hand should lead me up the slopes of Song,Thy winged feet guide me to the peaks of Life!
Bound ever to a great grey rock of Doom,Striving with futile hands to rive the chainOf woven fear, distrust and subtle pain,While gaunt wolf-waves that leap from out the gloomOf doubt's cold sea are snarling at my feet,As nearer writhes the dragon of DespairFoul with dank horrors of his caverned lair,And like a clock of doom the dark tides beat....I lift my eyes; Lo! sudden sweeps alongThought's empyrean and the vast of dreamsOne star-browed, Jove-like, human-orbed; meseemsHis feet are winged with music, shod with song;Ah, Perseus, should'st thou, pitying, leave the skyTo loose my bonds—then all the fear were gone,Soul touching soul, trust from distrust were won,Like god and goddess 'fronted, thou and I;Despair were slain, closed the unequal strife,Thy great soul's strength should make weak purpose strong,Thy hand should lead me up the slopes of Song,Thy winged feet guide me to the peaks of Life!
What tho' you loved me once? Man's love at bestIs but a mood—the fancy of an hour,You held all faith and truth a theme for jest,Love's recompense, a smile. You knew your power.What tho' you loved me then? You went awayAnd left my life an arid waste of pain;And now—your best years spent, your idols clay—You stretch imploring arms to me again.What tho' you love me still? What tho' you sayThe current of your life toward mine is set,As vagrant stars obey the planets' sway,Or perfume clingeth to the violet?What tho' I once loved you? See in yon WestDay's fires have burned to ashes cold and gray;So in my quiet heart love's wild unrestBy its own flame consumed, is dead for aye.
What tho' you loved me once? Man's love at bestIs but a mood—the fancy of an hour,You held all faith and truth a theme for jest,Love's recompense, a smile. You knew your power.
What tho' you loved me then? You went awayAnd left my life an arid waste of pain;And now—your best years spent, your idols clay—You stretch imploring arms to me again.
What tho' you love me still? What tho' you sayThe current of your life toward mine is set,As vagrant stars obey the planets' sway,Or perfume clingeth to the violet?
What tho' I once loved you? See in yon WestDay's fires have burned to ashes cold and gray;So in my quiet heart love's wild unrestBy its own flame consumed, is dead for aye.
When fades the light along the western sky,When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray,When darkling mere and mead enshadowed lie,And Night's wide arms enfold the wearied Day;When tired lilies ring their vesper bellsAnd dusking leaves speak whispered orison,When cassocked Twilight breathing benisonHis rosary of flashing fireflies tells—Then ends the day-long struggle. Strong no moreI drift far out on Fancy's phantom sea,Setting full sail for that forbidden shoreWhere waiteth Love for me.* * * * *When fades the light from out my dying eyes,And soul and sense seem slipping soft away,When Death's swift shallop launched on Lethe liesWaiting to wing me to the unknown Gray;When things of time and thought grow strangely dim,And the pent spirit strains to loose its bandsTill from the fettered feet and helpless handsShall fall life's shackles pitiless and grim—Then shall the conflict cease. Enchained no moreMy soul shall sail the silent unknown seaUntil it touch the unforbidden shoreWhere Love awaiteth me.
When fades the light along the western sky,When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray,When darkling mere and mead enshadowed lie,And Night's wide arms enfold the wearied Day;When tired lilies ring their vesper bellsAnd dusking leaves speak whispered orison,When cassocked Twilight breathing benisonHis rosary of flashing fireflies tells—Then ends the day-long struggle. Strong no moreI drift far out on Fancy's phantom sea,Setting full sail for that forbidden shoreWhere waiteth Love for me.
* * * * *
When fades the light from out my dying eyes,And soul and sense seem slipping soft away,When Death's swift shallop launched on Lethe liesWaiting to wing me to the unknown Gray;When things of time and thought grow strangely dim,And the pent spirit strains to loose its bandsTill from the fettered feet and helpless handsShall fall life's shackles pitiless and grim—Then shall the conflict cease. Enchained no moreMy soul shall sail the silent unknown seaUntil it touch the unforbidden shoreWhere Love awaiteth me.
As if a bed of bloom had taken wing—Bright marigolds, nasturtiums, zinnias gay—They breast the breeze or, lightly poising, clingTo other flowers not animate as they.
As if a bed of bloom had taken wing—Bright marigolds, nasturtiums, zinnias gay—They breast the breeze or, lightly poising, clingTo other flowers not animate as they.
The long gray twilight falls and deeper gloomsClose round the graying wood that dimmer growsAs dies the Day's last yearning tint of rose,And Dusk spins shadows on her eldritch looms.The black bat flits, the eerie white moth flies—Wan ghost of yesterday's bright butterfly—The dusking forest pools uplooking lieLike graveless dead men's staring, sightless eyes.Ah, eerie, eerie is the lonely wood,But lo! the faeries light their firefly lamps,Elusive foxfire flames from marish damps;Hastes to the morris-dance an elfin brood;A far bell chimes, the cricket cheerly shrills,The droning beetle sounds his hoarse bassoonAnd hylas trill; eftsoon the rising moonThe ambient air to molten silver thrills.Then all the lyric night is set to song!The cuckoo calls, the plaining whippoorwillCries faint and far away; more distant stillThe hoopoe, hid his marshy haunts among,Wails with the cry of some lost soul in pain;The nightingale engilds the pulsant darkWith golden-throated melody—but hark!The night-jar's discord mars the perfect strain.The night wears on, black shadows throng apace,The wood is still, the moon grows wan and old,White marsh-mists wreathe like clammy arms, death-cold,And moth-wings like dead fingers sweep my face;The bittern wailing leaves the sombre pool,Voicing the world-old pain that never dies;The owl with ghoulish laughter outward fliesLike some weird Vivien shrieking, "Fool!" and "Fool!"
The long gray twilight falls and deeper gloomsClose round the graying wood that dimmer growsAs dies the Day's last yearning tint of rose,And Dusk spins shadows on her eldritch looms.The black bat flits, the eerie white moth flies—Wan ghost of yesterday's bright butterfly—The dusking forest pools uplooking lieLike graveless dead men's staring, sightless eyes.
Ah, eerie, eerie is the lonely wood,But lo! the faeries light their firefly lamps,Elusive foxfire flames from marish damps;Hastes to the morris-dance an elfin brood;A far bell chimes, the cricket cheerly shrills,The droning beetle sounds his hoarse bassoonAnd hylas trill; eftsoon the rising moonThe ambient air to molten silver thrills.
Then all the lyric night is set to song!The cuckoo calls, the plaining whippoorwillCries faint and far away; more distant stillThe hoopoe, hid his marshy haunts among,Wails with the cry of some lost soul in pain;The nightingale engilds the pulsant darkWith golden-throated melody—but hark!The night-jar's discord mars the perfect strain.
The night wears on, black shadows throng apace,The wood is still, the moon grows wan and old,White marsh-mists wreathe like clammy arms, death-cold,And moth-wings like dead fingers sweep my face;The bittern wailing leaves the sombre pool,Voicing the world-old pain that never dies;The owl with ghoulish laughter outward fliesLike some weird Vivien shrieking, "Fool!" and "Fool!"
What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?Though ivy green and shadowy eglatereHave held in tender fold through many a yearHer quiet grave, I fear her—fear her still.He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fastAnd sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet,No touch of mine can make his life repleteFor man's first love is oftentimes his last.A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.E'en when I strain him close with feverish graspWan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp,And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.She lives incarnate in each flower fair,Her eyes illume the violets in my hand,The golden-rod that lights the Autumn landSeems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me—For me his wife. For ah! I fear her stillWho lies forever mute on yonder hill.He loved her once. Would God that I were she!
What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?Though ivy green and shadowy eglatereHave held in tender fold through many a yearHer quiet grave, I fear her—fear her still.
He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fastAnd sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet,No touch of mine can make his life repleteFor man's first love is oftentimes his last.
A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.E'en when I strain him close with feverish graspWan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp,And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.
She lives incarnate in each flower fair,Her eyes illume the violets in my hand,The golden-rod that lights the Autumn landSeems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.
Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me—For me his wife. For ah! I fear her stillWho lies forever mute on yonder hill.He loved her once. Would God that I were she!
Table of Contents: Slight listing changes were made to match poem titles.
Page29: Added opening parenthesis:(And I knew that tho' many a woman had loved you,Till that moment, the glance of no woman had moved you!)
Page46: Added closing parenthesis:(Thank God, he suffered so brief a while)
Page70: Corrected wathway to pathway:And where the pathway breasts the hill,
Page79: Added a blank line after first stanza:Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"