If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathesAnd beckons through the World, far must thou seek!...She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weakWith melancholy vigils; and no shadeOf tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:No tearful anger torn of truthless love,Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hiltFor vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings aboveOn morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she;And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair,And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that bringsDew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springsOf light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:The melody which is her heart, that singsThe poetry of love, to which all bow,Both gods and men, the love that never dies.Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone starSet in the splendor of the sunset’s wave;Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to herWho, in the end, perhaps may let thee shareA portion of her bliss, her heritageOf happiness in the same way and wiseAs woods and waters share it.—Then prepareThy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.
If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathesAnd beckons through the World, far must thou seek!...She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weakWith melancholy vigils; and no shadeOf tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:No tearful anger torn of truthless love,Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hiltFor vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings aboveOn morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she;And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair,And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that bringsDew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springsOf light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:The melody which is her heart, that singsThe poetry of love, to which all bow,Both gods and men, the love that never dies.Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone starSet in the splendor of the sunset’s wave;Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to herWho, in the end, perhaps may let thee shareA portion of her bliss, her heritageOf happiness in the same way and wiseAs woods and waters share it.—Then prepareThy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.
If thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathesAnd beckons through the World, far must thou seek!...She is no shadow wreathed with hemlock wreaths;No drowsy sorrow whose wan eyes are weakWith melancholy vigils; and no shadeOf tragic sin of the sweet sun afraid:No tearful anger torn of truthless love,Who stabs her sick heart to the dagger’s hiltFor vengeance sweet; no miser mood, or maid,In owlet towers!—Nay! she sings aboveOn morning meads ’mid flowers that never wilt.
If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware!Lest thou discover her, nor know ’tis she;And she enslave thee to thy heart’s despair,And fill thy soul with yearning, utterly,For that wild-rose which is her mouth, that bringsDew-odors of the dawn; for those twin springsOf light, her eyes; the bloom of her white brow,O’er which the foliage of her dark hair lies:The melody which is her heart, that singsThe poetry of love, to which all bow,Both gods and men, the love that never dies.
Lost art thou then, lost as the first lone starSet in the splendor of the sunset’s wave;Lost in thy loneliness of searching far,Striving to clasp her, evermore her slave:Lost—gladly lost! a devotee to herWho, in the end, perhaps may let thee shareA portion of her bliss, her heritageOf happiness in the same way and wiseAs woods and waters share it.—Then prepareThy soul,—made perfect,—for its final wage,Her kiss, whose touch shall apotheosize.
Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere,And drip with rain instead of dew,No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,And dead your long white lilies too,—And dead the heart that broke for you:How comes the dim touch of your arm?Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,And gray, so gray! till I am weak,Weak with wild tears and can not speak.I am as one who walks in dreams;Sees, as in youth, his father’s home;Hears from his native mountain streamsFar music of continual foam,And one sweet voice that bids him come.
Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere,And drip with rain instead of dew,No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,And dead your long white lilies too,—And dead the heart that broke for you:How comes the dim touch of your arm?Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,And gray, so gray! till I am weak,Weak with wild tears and can not speak.I am as one who walks in dreams;Sees, as in youth, his father’s home;Hears from his native mountain streamsFar music of continual foam,And one sweet voice that bids him come.
Now that the orchard’s leaves are sere,And drip with rain instead of dew,No moon-bright fruit hangs moon-like here,And dead your long white lilies too,—And dead the heart that broke for you:
How comes the dim touch of your arm?Your faint lips on my feverish cheek?Your eyes near mine? deep as a charm,And gray, so gray! till I am weak,Weak with wild tears and can not speak.
I am as one who walks in dreams;Sees, as in youth, his father’s home;Hears from his native mountain streamsFar music of continual foam,And one sweet voice that bids him come.
With your eyes of April blue,And your mouthLike a May-rose, fresh with dew,Of the South,With your hair as golden sweetAs the ripples of ripe wheat,How you make my old heart beat!—Who are you?
With your eyes of April blue,And your mouthLike a May-rose, fresh with dew,Of the South,With your hair as golden sweetAs the ripples of ripe wheat,How you make my old heart beat!—Who are you?
With your eyes of April blue,And your mouthLike a May-rose, fresh with dew,Of the South,With your hair as golden sweetAs the ripples of ripe wheat,How you make my old heart beat!—Who are you?
There is something that I knew,Long ago,In your voice that thrills me throughWith the glowOf remembered happiness;And your look—I can not guessWhat it is there, nor express.—Who are you?
There is something that I knew,Long ago,In your voice that thrills me throughWith the glowOf remembered happiness;And your look—I can not guessWhat it is there, nor express.—Who are you?
There is something that I knew,Long ago,In your voice that thrills me throughWith the glowOf remembered happiness;And your look—I can not guessWhat it is there, nor express.—Who are you?
You are like her! even the hueOf her eyes!—It is strange you stop here, too,Where she lies!—Where she lies who was, you see,All to me a girl could be—But no wife.—You stare at me.—Who are you?
You are like her! even the hueOf her eyes!—It is strange you stop here, too,Where she lies!—Where she lies who was, you see,All to me a girl could be—But no wife.—You stare at me.—Who are you?
You are like her! even the hueOf her eyes!—It is strange you stop here, too,Where she lies!—Where she lies who was, you see,All to me a girl could be—But no wife.—You stare at me.—Who are you?
Well, I left her. That ’s not new—God above!Men, who live so, often do.’T is n’t love.So I broke her heart, they say,—And been wretched since that day:And our child—don’t turn away!—Who are you?
Well, I left her. That ’s not new—God above!Men, who live so, often do.’T is n’t love.So I broke her heart, they say,—And been wretched since that day:And our child—don’t turn away!—Who are you?
Well, I left her. That ’s not new—God above!Men, who live so, often do.’T is n’t love.So I broke her heart, they say,—And been wretched since that day:And our child—don’t turn away!—Who are you?
These are the facts:—I was to blame.I brought her here and wrought her shame.She came with me all trustingly.Lovely and innocent her face:And in her perfect form, the graceOf purity and modesty.I think I loved her then: would doteOn her ambrosial breast and throat,Young as a wildflower’s tenderness:Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.Three months passed by; three moons of fire;When in me sickened all desire:And in its place a devil,—whoFilled all my soul with deep disgust,And on the victim of my lustTurned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.One night, when by my side she slept,I rose: and leaning, while I keptThe dagger hid, I kissed her hairAnd mouth: and, when she smiled asleep,Into her heart I drove it deep—And left her dead, still smiling there.
These are the facts:—I was to blame.I brought her here and wrought her shame.She came with me all trustingly.Lovely and innocent her face:And in her perfect form, the graceOf purity and modesty.I think I loved her then: would doteOn her ambrosial breast and throat,Young as a wildflower’s tenderness:Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.Three months passed by; three moons of fire;When in me sickened all desire:And in its place a devil,—whoFilled all my soul with deep disgust,And on the victim of my lustTurned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.One night, when by my side she slept,I rose: and leaning, while I keptThe dagger hid, I kissed her hairAnd mouth: and, when she smiled asleep,Into her heart I drove it deep—And left her dead, still smiling there.
These are the facts:—I was to blame.I brought her here and wrought her shame.She came with me all trustingly.Lovely and innocent her face:And in her perfect form, the graceOf purity and modesty.
I think I loved her then: would doteOn her ambrosial breast and throat,Young as a wildflower’s tenderness:Her eyes, that were both glad and sad:Her cheeks and chin, that dimples had:Her mouth, red-ripe to kiss and kiss.
Three months passed by; three moons of fire;When in me sickened all desire:And in its place a devil,—whoFilled all my soul with deep disgust,And on the victim of my lustTurned eyes of loathing,—swiftly grew.
One night, when by my side she slept,I rose: and leaning, while I keptThe dagger hid, I kissed her hairAnd mouth: and, when she smiled asleep,Into her heart I drove it deep—And left her dead, still smiling there.
Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And heartache of the autumn sky!Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in sunny gold—But Death hath ta’en that gem away,And left me poor and old.The heartbreak of the hills is mine,Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf,Of wind that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief.The sorrow of the loveless skies’“Farewells” are wild as those I saidWhen last I kissed my child’s blue eyesAnd lips, ice-dumb and dead.
Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And heartache of the autumn sky!Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in sunny gold—But Death hath ta’en that gem away,And left me poor and old.The heartbreak of the hills is mine,Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf,Of wind that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief.The sorrow of the loveless skies’“Farewells” are wild as those I saidWhen last I kissed my child’s blue eyesAnd lips, ice-dumb and dead.
Ah! heartbreak of the tattered hills,And heartache of the autumn sky!Heartbreak and heartache, since God wills,Are mine, and God knows why!
I held one dearer than each dayOf life God sets in sunny gold—But Death hath ta’en that gem away,And left me poor and old.
The heartbreak of the hills is mine,Of trampled twig and rain-beat leaf,Of wind that sobs through thorn and pineAn unavailing grief.
The sorrow of the loveless skies’“Farewells” are wild as those I saidWhen last I kissed my child’s blue eyesAnd lips, ice-dumb and dead.
Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes;Once more I feel her voice’s witcheryWithin my heart unfountain tears and sighs,And fill the soul of me.Once more she bends a silent face above;Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shakeMy life, unbinding long-imprisoned love,Bidding my lost dreams wake.Once more I see her serious smile; and touchOnce more the lips of her whose kisses say—“The night was long, and thou hast suffered much:At last, dear heart, ’t is day!”
Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes;Once more I feel her voice’s witcheryWithin my heart unfountain tears and sighs,And fill the soul of me.Once more she bends a silent face above;Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shakeMy life, unbinding long-imprisoned love,Bidding my lost dreams wake.Once more I see her serious smile; and touchOnce more the lips of her whose kisses say—“The night was long, and thou hast suffered much:At last, dear heart, ’t is day!”
Once more she holds me with her pensive eyes;Once more I feel her voice’s witcheryWithin my heart unfountain tears and sighs,And fill the soul of me.
Once more she bends a silent face above;Once more I feel her hands’ soft touches shakeMy life, unbinding long-imprisoned love,Bidding my lost dreams wake.
Once more I see her serious smile; and touchOnce more the lips of her whose kisses say—“The night was long, and thou hast suffered much:At last, dear heart, ’t is day!”
They said to me, “The days are not so far offWhen she will come, who gave her heart to thee;”And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, offHer long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea.And I recall that night, which gave its soul ofCalm beauty to the earth, when she did giveHer love’s white starlight to the rugged whole ofMy barren life and bade me see and live.The days go by, and my sick soul recalls butThe revelation of that evening sky:The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,—butOf whiter shadow,—where hearts break and die.The day is error’s: it can but deceive usWith shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse.The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave usThe thoughts of God, the visible universe.
They said to me, “The days are not so far offWhen she will come, who gave her heart to thee;”And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, offHer long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea.And I recall that night, which gave its soul ofCalm beauty to the earth, when she did giveHer love’s white starlight to the rugged whole ofMy barren life and bade me see and live.The days go by, and my sick soul recalls butThe revelation of that evening sky:The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,—butOf whiter shadow,—where hearts break and die.The day is error’s: it can but deceive usWith shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse.The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave usThe thoughts of God, the visible universe.
They said to me, “The days are not so far offWhen she will come, who gave her heart to thee;”And still I wait, while twilight’s lonely star, offHer long-loved hills, dips dewy to the sea.
And I recall that night, which gave its soul ofCalm beauty to the earth, when she did giveHer love’s white starlight to the rugged whole ofMy barren life and bade me see and live.
The days go by, and my sick soul recalls butThe revelation of that evening sky:The days! whose hours are as narrow walls,—butOf whiter shadow,—where hearts break and die.
The day is error’s: it can but deceive usWith shows of Earth, blind with the primal curse.The night is truth’s: its myriad fires weave usThe thoughts of God, the visible universe.
A red bird sang upon the boughWhen wind-flowers nodded in the dew:My spring of bird and flower wast thou,O tried and true!A brown bird warbled on the wingWhen poppy buds were hearts of heat:I wooed thee with a golden ring,O sad and sweet!A black-bird twittered in the mistWhen nightshade blooms were filled with frost:The leaves upon thy grave are whist,O loved and lost!
A red bird sang upon the boughWhen wind-flowers nodded in the dew:My spring of bird and flower wast thou,O tried and true!A brown bird warbled on the wingWhen poppy buds were hearts of heat:I wooed thee with a golden ring,O sad and sweet!A black-bird twittered in the mistWhen nightshade blooms were filled with frost:The leaves upon thy grave are whist,O loved and lost!
A red bird sang upon the boughWhen wind-flowers nodded in the dew:My spring of bird and flower wast thou,O tried and true!
A brown bird warbled on the wingWhen poppy buds were hearts of heat:I wooed thee with a golden ring,O sad and sweet!
A black-bird twittered in the mistWhen nightshade blooms were filled with frost:The leaves upon thy grave are whist,O loved and lost!
Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.
Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.
Passion? not hers! who held me with pure eyes:One hand among the deep curls of her brow,I drank the girlhood of her gaze with sighs:She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.
So have I seen a clear October pool,Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sereGold of the woodland, tremorless and cool,Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.
Sweetheart? not she! whose voice was music-sweet;Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer.Sweetheart I called her.—When did she repeatSweet to one hope, or heart to one despair!
So have I seen a wildflower’s fragrant headSung to and sung to by a longing bird,And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead,No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.
God made her body out of foam and flowers,And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent;Then called two planets from their heavenly towers,And in her face, divinely eloquent,Gave them a firmament.God made her heart of rosy ice and fire,Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns;And of a starbeam and a moth’s desireHe made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns,And all my being yearns.So is my life a prisoner unto passion,Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word;So in the cage her loveliness doth fashionIs love endungeoned, like a golden birdThat sings but is not heard.Could it but once convince her with beseeching!But once compel her as the sun the south!Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching,Upon the red carnation of her mouthDew its eternal drouth!Then might I rise victorious over sadness,O’er fate and change, and, with but little care,Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness,Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair,And die, or do and dare.
God made her body out of foam and flowers,And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent;Then called two planets from their heavenly towers,And in her face, divinely eloquent,Gave them a firmament.God made her heart of rosy ice and fire,Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns;And of a starbeam and a moth’s desireHe made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns,And all my being yearns.So is my life a prisoner unto passion,Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word;So in the cage her loveliness doth fashionIs love endungeoned, like a golden birdThat sings but is not heard.Could it but once convince her with beseeching!But once compel her as the sun the south!Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching,Upon the red carnation of her mouthDew its eternal drouth!Then might I rise victorious over sadness,O’er fate and change, and, with but little care,Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness,Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair,And die, or do and dare.
God made her body out of foam and flowers,And for her hair the dawn and darkness blent;Then called two planets from their heavenly towers,And in her face, divinely eloquent,Gave them a firmament.
God made her heart of rosy ice and fire,Of snow and flame, that freezes while it burns;And of a starbeam and a moth’s desireHe made her soul, to’ards which my longing turns,And all my being yearns.
So is my life a prisoner unto passion,Enslaved of her who gives nor sign nor word;So in the cage her loveliness doth fashionIs love endungeoned, like a golden birdThat sings but is not heard.
Could it but once convince her with beseeching!But once compel her as the sun the south!Could it but once, fond arms around her reaching,Upon the red carnation of her mouthDew its eternal drouth!
Then might I rise victorious over sadness,O’er fate and change, and, with but little care,Torched by the glory of that moment’s gladness,Breast the black mountain of my life’s despair,And die, or do and dare.
Let me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.—In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!
Let me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.—In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!
Let me forget her face!So fresh, so lovely! the abiding placeOf tears and smiles that won my heart to her;Of dreams and moods that moved my soul’s dim deeps,As strong winds stirDark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.—In every lineament the mind can trace,Let me forget her face!
Let me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men’s eyesBondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.—In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!
Let me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men’s eyesBondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.—In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!
Let me forget her form!Soft and seductive, that contained each charm,Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies;And all the sensuous youth of line and curve,That makes men’s eyesBondsmen of beauty, eager still to serve.—In every part that memory can warm,Let me forget her form!
Let me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!—Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!
Let me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!—Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!
Let me forget her, God!Her who made honeyed love a bitter rodTo scourge my heart with, barren with despair;To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!—Oh, hear my prayer!Out of the hell of love’s unquenchable fireI cry to thee, with face against the sod,Let me forget her, God!
This is the face of herI’ve dreamed of longThat in my heart I bear:This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,—Deep as a Nereid’s,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks of night:Only the gods can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of light.The cheeks, like rosy moons;The lips of fire:Love sighs no sweeter tunesUnder romantic moonsThan these suspire.Loved lips and eyes and hair!Look, this is she!She, who sits smiling there,Throned in my heart’s despair,Never for me!
This is the face of herI’ve dreamed of longThat in my heart I bear:This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,—Deep as a Nereid’s,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks of night:Only the gods can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of light.The cheeks, like rosy moons;The lips of fire:Love sighs no sweeter tunesUnder romantic moonsThan these suspire.Loved lips and eyes and hair!Look, this is she!She, who sits smiling there,Throned in my heart’s despair,Never for me!
This is the face of herI’ve dreamed of longThat in my heart I bear:This is the face of herPictured in song.
Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,—Deep as a Nereid’s,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.
Look on the brows of snow,The locks of night:Only the gods can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of light.
The cheeks, like rosy moons;The lips of fire:Love sighs no sweeter tunesUnder romantic moonsThan these suspire.
Loved lips and eyes and hair!Look, this is she!She, who sits smiling there,Throned in my heart’s despair,Never for me!
She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,And his, who loves her so.
She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,And his, who loves her so.
She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.
She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.
Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,And his, who loves her so.
Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hissThrough writhing lindens torn in two—The dead’s own days are days like this!Yea; let me sit and be with you.Here in your willow chair, whose seatSpreads purple plush.—Hark! how the gustsSeem moaning voices that repeatSome grief here; in this room, where dustsMake dim each ornament and chair;This locked-in memory where you died:Since angels stood here, saintly fearGuards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.Through this dim light bend your dim face;Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam,A soft, dim cloudiness of lace,Stand near me while I dream, I dream.
Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hissThrough writhing lindens torn in two—The dead’s own days are days like this!Yea; let me sit and be with you.Here in your willow chair, whose seatSpreads purple plush.—Hark! how the gustsSeem moaning voices that repeatSome grief here; in this room, where dustsMake dim each ornament and chair;This locked-in memory where you died:Since angels stood here, saintly fearGuards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.Through this dim light bend your dim face;Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam,A soft, dim cloudiness of lace,Stand near me while I dream, I dream.
Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hissThrough writhing lindens torn in two—The dead’s own days are days like this!Yea; let me sit and be with you.
Here in your willow chair, whose seatSpreads purple plush.—Hark! how the gustsSeem moaning voices that repeatSome grief here; in this room, where dusts
Make dim each ornament and chair;This locked-in memory where you died:Since angels stood here, saintly fearGuards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.
Through this dim light bend your dim face;Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam,A soft, dim cloudiness of lace,Stand near me while I dream, I dream.
One memory persuades me whenDusk’s lonely star burns overhead,To take the gray path through the glen—That finds the forest pool, made redWith sunset—and forget again,Forget that she is dead.Once more I look into the spring,That on one rock a finger whiteOf foam that beckons still doth bring—Some moon-wan spirit of the night,Who dwells within its murmuring,Her life the sad moonlight.I see the red dusk touch it hereWith fire like a blade of blood;One star reflected, white and clear,Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud;While all my grief stands very near,Pale in the solitude.And then, behold, while yet the moonHangs—silver as a twisted hornBlown out of Elfland—sweet with June,White in white clusters of the thorn,Slow, in the water as a tune,An image pale is born:That has her throat of frost; her lips—Her mouth where God’s anointment lies;Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tipsBreak, like the starlight from dark skies;Her hair, a hazel heap that slips;Her throat and hair and eyes.And then I stoop; the water kissed,The face fades from me into air;And in the pool’s dark amethystMy own pale face returns my stare:Then night and mist—and in the mistOne dead leaf drifting there.
One memory persuades me whenDusk’s lonely star burns overhead,To take the gray path through the glen—That finds the forest pool, made redWith sunset—and forget again,Forget that she is dead.Once more I look into the spring,That on one rock a finger whiteOf foam that beckons still doth bring—Some moon-wan spirit of the night,Who dwells within its murmuring,Her life the sad moonlight.I see the red dusk touch it hereWith fire like a blade of blood;One star reflected, white and clear,Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud;While all my grief stands very near,Pale in the solitude.And then, behold, while yet the moonHangs—silver as a twisted hornBlown out of Elfland—sweet with June,White in white clusters of the thorn,Slow, in the water as a tune,An image pale is born:That has her throat of frost; her lips—Her mouth where God’s anointment lies;Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tipsBreak, like the starlight from dark skies;Her hair, a hazel heap that slips;Her throat and hair and eyes.And then I stoop; the water kissed,The face fades from me into air;And in the pool’s dark amethystMy own pale face returns my stare:Then night and mist—and in the mistOne dead leaf drifting there.
One memory persuades me whenDusk’s lonely star burns overhead,To take the gray path through the glen—That finds the forest pool, made redWith sunset—and forget again,Forget that she is dead.
Once more I look into the spring,That on one rock a finger whiteOf foam that beckons still doth bring—Some moon-wan spirit of the night,Who dwells within its murmuring,Her life the sad moonlight.
I see the red dusk touch it hereWith fire like a blade of blood;One star reflected, white and clear,Like a wood-blossom’s drowning bud;While all my grief stands very near,Pale in the solitude.
And then, behold, while yet the moonHangs—silver as a twisted hornBlown out of Elfland—sweet with June,White in white clusters of the thorn,Slow, in the water as a tune,An image pale is born:
That has her throat of frost; her lips—Her mouth where God’s anointment lies;Her eyes, wherefrom love’s arrow-tipsBreak, like the starlight from dark skies;Her hair, a hazel heap that slips;Her throat and hair and eyes.
And then I stoop; the water kissed,The face fades from me into air;And in the pool’s dark amethystMy own pale face returns my stare:Then night and mist—and in the mistOne dead leaf drifting there.
Into the sunset’s turquoise margeThe moon dips, like a pearly bargeEnchantment sails through magic seas,To fairyland Hesperides,Over the hills and away.Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down;Her apron filled with stars she stands.And one or two slip from her handsOver the hills and away.Above the wood’s black caldron bendsThe witch-faced Night and, muttering, blendsThe dew and heat, whose bubbles makeThe mist and musk that haunt the brakeOver the hills and away.Oh, come with me, and let us goBeyond the sunset lying low,Beyond the twilight and the night,Into Love’s kingdom of long light,Over the hills and away.
Into the sunset’s turquoise margeThe moon dips, like a pearly bargeEnchantment sails through magic seas,To fairyland Hesperides,Over the hills and away.Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down;Her apron filled with stars she stands.And one or two slip from her handsOver the hills and away.Above the wood’s black caldron bendsThe witch-faced Night and, muttering, blendsThe dew and heat, whose bubbles makeThe mist and musk that haunt the brakeOver the hills and away.Oh, come with me, and let us goBeyond the sunset lying low,Beyond the twilight and the night,Into Love’s kingdom of long light,Over the hills and away.
Into the sunset’s turquoise margeThe moon dips, like a pearly bargeEnchantment sails through magic seas,To fairyland Hesperides,Over the hills and away.
Into the fields, in ghost-gray gown,The young-eyed dusk comes slowly down;Her apron filled with stars she stands.And one or two slip from her handsOver the hills and away.
Above the wood’s black caldron bendsThe witch-faced Night and, muttering, blendsThe dew and heat, whose bubbles makeThe mist and musk that haunt the brakeOver the hills and away.
Oh, come with me, and let us goBeyond the sunset lying low,Beyond the twilight and the night,Into Love’s kingdom of long light,Over the hills and away.
Can you tell me how he rests,Flowers, growing o’er him there?His a right warm heart, my sweets,—So, cover it with care.Can you tell me how he liesSuch nights out in the cold,O cricket, with your plaintive call,O glow-worm, with your gold?If my eyes are sorrowful,Well may they weep, I trow,—Since his dead eyes gazed into them,They have been sad enow.If my heart make moan and ache,Well may it break, I’m sure—For his dead love is more, ah me!More than it can endure.
Can you tell me how he rests,Flowers, growing o’er him there?His a right warm heart, my sweets,—So, cover it with care.Can you tell me how he liesSuch nights out in the cold,O cricket, with your plaintive call,O glow-worm, with your gold?If my eyes are sorrowful,Well may they weep, I trow,—Since his dead eyes gazed into them,They have been sad enow.If my heart make moan and ache,Well may it break, I’m sure—For his dead love is more, ah me!More than it can endure.
Can you tell me how he rests,Flowers, growing o’er him there?His a right warm heart, my sweets,—So, cover it with care.
Can you tell me how he liesSuch nights out in the cold,O cricket, with your plaintive call,O glow-worm, with your gold?
If my eyes are sorrowful,Well may they weep, I trow,—Since his dead eyes gazed into them,They have been sad enow.
If my heart make moan and ache,Well may it break, I’m sure—For his dead love is more, ah me!More than it can endure.
A night of rain. The wind is out.And I had wished it otherwise:A calm, still night; no scudding skies;Or, in the scud, above the rout,The moon; by whose pale light my eyesMight meet her eyes; the smile that triesTo come but will not; lips, that poutWith seeming anger, all surmise,When I have said “I love your lies”—Lips I shall kiss before she dies.
A night of rain. The wind is out.And I had wished it otherwise:A calm, still night; no scudding skies;Or, in the scud, above the rout,The moon; by whose pale light my eyesMight meet her eyes; the smile that triesTo come but will not; lips, that poutWith seeming anger, all surmise,When I have said “I love your lies”—Lips I shall kiss before she dies.
A night of rain. The wind is out.And I had wished it otherwise:A calm, still night; no scudding skies;Or, in the scud, above the rout,The moon; by whose pale light my eyesMight meet her eyes; the smile that triesTo come but will not; lips, that poutWith seeming anger, all surmise,When I have said “I love your lies”—Lips I shall kiss before she dies.
What force this wind has! As it runsAround each unprotecting treeIt seems some beast; and now I seeIts form, its eyes; a woman’s once:—Dark eyes! that blaze as lionlyAs some bayed beast’s, that will not fleeThe pine-knots and derides the guns.—Or is it but the thought in me!The thought of that which is to be,The deed, that rises shadowy?
What force this wind has! As it runsAround each unprotecting treeIt seems some beast; and now I seeIts form, its eyes; a woman’s once:—Dark eyes! that blaze as lionlyAs some bayed beast’s, that will not fleeThe pine-knots and derides the guns.—Or is it but the thought in me!The thought of that which is to be,The deed, that rises shadowy?
What force this wind has! As it runsAround each unprotecting treeIt seems some beast; and now I seeIts form, its eyes; a woman’s once:—Dark eyes! that blaze as lionlyAs some bayed beast’s, that will not fleeThe pine-knots and derides the guns.—Or is it but the thought in me!The thought of that which is to be,The deed, that rises shadowy?
And now the trees and whipping rainConfuse them.... I must drive it hence,The memory of her eyes! the tenseWild look within them of hard pain!...Yet she must die—with every senseStrung to beholding knowledge, whenceMy heart shall be made whole again.—Here I will wait where night is dense.Soon she will come, like Innocence,Thinking her youth is her defense.
And now the trees and whipping rainConfuse them.... I must drive it hence,The memory of her eyes! the tenseWild look within them of hard pain!...Yet she must die—with every senseStrung to beholding knowledge, whenceMy heart shall be made whole again.—Here I will wait where night is dense.Soon she will come, like Innocence,Thinking her youth is her defense.
And now the trees and whipping rainConfuse them.... I must drive it hence,The memory of her eyes! the tenseWild look within them of hard pain!...Yet she must die—with every senseStrung to beholding knowledge, whenceMy heart shall be made whole again.—Here I will wait where night is dense.Soon she will come, like Innocence,Thinking her youth is her defense.
And when she leaves,—and none perceives,—The old gray manor, where the eightOld locusts, (twisted shadows), freightWith mossy murmurings its eaves,One moment at the iron gateShe ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate,Come rustling through the autumn leaves.And I will take both hands and sateMy mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”;She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....
And when she leaves,—and none perceives,—The old gray manor, where the eightOld locusts, (twisted shadows), freightWith mossy murmurings its eaves,One moment at the iron gateShe ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate,Come rustling through the autumn leaves.And I will take both hands and sateMy mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”;She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....
And when she leaves,—and none perceives,—The old gray manor, where the eightOld locusts, (twisted shadows), freightWith mossy murmurings its eaves,One moment at the iron gateShe ’ll tarry. Then, with breath abate,Come rustling through the autumn leaves.And I will take both hands and sateMy mouth on hers and say, “You ’re late”;She ’ll laugh to hear I had to wait....
O passion of past vows, reviveImagination, and renewThe ardor of love’s language youFor love’s rose-altar kept alive!Repeat the oaths that rang with dewAnd starlight!—Tell her she is trueAs beautiful.—I will contriveTo make her think I have no clueTo all her falseness. I will wooAs once I wooed before I knew.
O passion of past vows, reviveImagination, and renewThe ardor of love’s language youFor love’s rose-altar kept alive!Repeat the oaths that rang with dewAnd starlight!—Tell her she is trueAs beautiful.—I will contriveTo make her think I have no clueTo all her falseness. I will wooAs once I wooed before I knew.
O passion of past vows, reviveImagination, and renewThe ardor of love’s language youFor love’s rose-altar kept alive!Repeat the oaths that rang with dewAnd starlight!—Tell her she is trueAs beautiful.—I will contriveTo make her think I have no clueTo all her falseness. I will wooAs once I wooed before I knew.
And we will walk against the wind;The shuffling leaves about our feet;Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete,Because one woman so hath sinnedAnd never suffered. She shall meetNo murder in my eyes; no heatOf fate in holding hand that ’s pinnedTo hers. To make her trust to beat,I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,—like wheatOf affluent summer,—saying “Sweet.”
And we will walk against the wind;The shuffling leaves about our feet;Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete,Because one woman so hath sinnedAnd never suffered. She shall meetNo murder in my eyes; no heatOf fate in holding hand that ’s pinnedTo hers. To make her trust to beat,I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,—like wheatOf affluent summer,—saying “Sweet.”
And we will walk against the wind;The shuffling leaves about our feet;Our ruin, as the wood’s, complete,Because one woman so hath sinnedAnd never suffered. She shall meetNo murder in my eyes; no heatOf fate in holding hand that ’s pinnedTo hers. To make her trust to beat,I ’ll kiss her hand, her hair,—like wheatOf affluent summer,—saying “Sweet.”
And should I bungle in this thing,This purpose that must see her deadTo cure this fever in my head?—What other thing is there to bringSoul satisfaction? when is shedNo real blood, save what makes redThe baulked intention?—I will flingThe mask aside!—But hate hath ledDesire too far now to be fedWith failure. I have naught to dread.
And should I bungle in this thing,This purpose that must see her deadTo cure this fever in my head?—What other thing is there to bringSoul satisfaction? when is shedNo real blood, save what makes redThe baulked intention?—I will flingThe mask aside!—But hate hath ledDesire too far now to be fedWith failure. I have naught to dread.
And should I bungle in this thing,This purpose that must see her deadTo cure this fever in my head?—What other thing is there to bringSoul satisfaction? when is shedNo real blood, save what makes redThe baulked intention?—I will flingThe mask aside!—But hate hath ledDesire too far now to be fedWith failure. I have naught to dread.
When we have reached the precipiceThat thwarts the battling of the sea,And wallows out great rocks, that kneeThe giant foam with roar and hiss,I will not cease to coax and beThe anxious lover. Trusting sheWill not suspect my farewell kissUntil it turns a curse, and weSway for an instant totteringly,And she has shrieked some prayer at me.
When we have reached the precipiceThat thwarts the battling of the sea,And wallows out great rocks, that kneeThe giant foam with roar and hiss,I will not cease to coax and beThe anxious lover. Trusting sheWill not suspect my farewell kissUntil it turns a curse, and weSway for an instant totteringly,And she has shrieked some prayer at me.
When we have reached the precipiceThat thwarts the battling of the sea,And wallows out great rocks, that kneeThe giant foam with roar and hiss,I will not cease to coax and beThe anxious lover. Trusting sheWill not suspect my farewell kissUntil it turns a curse, and weSway for an instant totteringly,And she has shrieked some prayer at me.
O let me see wild terror thereUpon her face! the wilder frownOf crime’s apprisal, and renownOf my life’s injury, that bareThis horror with its bloody crown!—No pity, God! For, if her gown,Suspending looseness of her hair,Delay the plunge ... the night is brown ...My heel must crush her white face down,And Hell and Heaven see her drown.
O let me see wild terror thereUpon her face! the wilder frownOf crime’s apprisal, and renownOf my life’s injury, that bareThis horror with its bloody crown!—No pity, God! For, if her gown,Suspending looseness of her hair,Delay the plunge ... the night is brown ...My heel must crush her white face down,And Hell and Heaven see her drown.
O let me see wild terror thereUpon her face! the wilder frownOf crime’s apprisal, and renownOf my life’s injury, that bareThis horror with its bloody crown!—No pity, God! For, if her gown,Suspending looseness of her hair,Delay the plunge ... the night is brown ...My heel must crush her white face down,And Hell and Heaven see her drown.
She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossedTheir spider-shadows round her; and the breeze,Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost,And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees,Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze.Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore.Some stars made misty blotches in the sky.And all the wretched willows on the shoreLooked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye.She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh.She heard his skiff grind on the river rocksWhistling he came into the shadow madeBy the great tree. He kissed her on her locks;And round her form his eager arms were laid.Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed.And then she spoke, while still his greeting kissStung in her hair. She did not dare to liftHer face to his; her anguished eyes to hisWhile tears smote crystal in her throat. One riftOf weakness humored might set all adrift.Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard.And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brainRemembered he had said no farewell word;And swift emotion swept her; and againLeft her as silent as a carven pain....She, in the old sad farm-house, wearilyResumed the drudgery of her common lot,Regret remembering.—’Midst old vices, he,Who would have trod on, and somehow did not,The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot.
She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossedTheir spider-shadows round her; and the breeze,Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost,And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees,Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze.Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore.Some stars made misty blotches in the sky.And all the wretched willows on the shoreLooked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye.She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh.She heard his skiff grind on the river rocksWhistling he came into the shadow madeBy the great tree. He kissed her on her locks;And round her form his eager arms were laid.Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed.And then she spoke, while still his greeting kissStung in her hair. She did not dare to liftHer face to his; her anguished eyes to hisWhile tears smote crystal in her throat. One riftOf weakness humored might set all adrift.Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard.And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brainRemembered he had said no farewell word;And swift emotion swept her; and againLeft her as silent as a carven pain....She, in the old sad farm-house, wearilyResumed the drudgery of her common lot,Regret remembering.—’Midst old vices, he,Who would have trod on, and somehow did not,The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot.
She passed the thorn-trees, whose gaunt branches tossedTheir spider-shadows round her; and the breeze,Beneath the ashen moon, was full of frost,And mouthed and mumbled in the sickly trees,Like some starved hag who sees her children freeze.
Dry-eyed she waited by the sycamore.Some stars made misty blotches in the sky.And all the wretched willows on the shoreLooked faded as a jaundiced cheek or eye.She felt deep sorrow yet could only sigh.
She heard his skiff grind on the river rocksWhistling he came into the shadow madeBy the great tree. He kissed her on her locks;And round her form his eager arms were laid.Passive she stood her purpose unbetrayed.
And then she spoke, while still his greeting kissStung in her hair. She did not dare to liftHer face to his; her anguished eyes to hisWhile tears smote crystal in her throat. One riftOf weakness humored might set all adrift.
Anger and shame were his. She meekly heard.And then the oar-locks sounded, and her brainRemembered he had said no farewell word;And swift emotion swept her; and againLeft her as silent as a carven pain....
She, in the old sad farm-house, wearilyResumed the drudgery of her common lot,Regret remembering.—’Midst old vices, he,Who would have trod on, and somehow did not,The wildflower, that had brushed his feet, forgot.
Though the panther’s footprints show,And the wild-cat’s, in the snow,You will never find a traceOf the footsteps of a certainMaiden with a paler faceThan the drifts that fill and curtainHillside, valley, and the wood,Where the hunter’s wigwam stoodIn the winter solitude.What white beast hath grown the furFor the whiter limbs of her?—Raiment of the frost and iceTo her supple beauty fitting;Wampum strouds, as white as rice,Of the frost’s fantastic knitting,Wrap her form and face complete;Glove her hands with ice; her feetMoccasin with beaded sleet.’Though he knew she made a hauntOf the dell, it did not daunt:Where the hoar-frost mailed each treeIn soft, phantom alabaster,And hung ghosts of bud and beeOn each autumn-withered aster;By the frozen waterfall,There she stood, beneath its wall,In the ice-sheathed chaparral.Where the beech-tree and the larchBuilt a white triumphal archFor the Winter, marching downWith his icy-armored leaders;Where each hemlock had a crown,And pale diadems the cedars;Where the long icicle shone,There he saw her, standing lone,Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.And she led him many a mileWith her hand-wave and her smile,And the printless swiftness ofFeet of frost, and snowy flutterOf her raiment; now above,Now below, the boughs of utterWinter whiteness. Led him onTill the dawn and day were gone,And the evening star hung wan....Hunters found him dead, they tell,In the winter-wasted dell,With his quiver and his bow,Where the cascade ran a rafter,White, of crystal and of snow;Where he listened to her laughter,Promises, that were as farAs the secrets of a star,And her love that naught could mar.And her countenance is thisStamped on his: and this her kiss,Haunting still his mouth and eyes,Colder than the cold December:This her passion, that defiesAll control, the stars rememberFilled him, killed him: this is sheClinging to him, neck and knee,Where his limbs sank wearily.
Though the panther’s footprints show,And the wild-cat’s, in the snow,You will never find a traceOf the footsteps of a certainMaiden with a paler faceThan the drifts that fill and curtainHillside, valley, and the wood,Where the hunter’s wigwam stoodIn the winter solitude.What white beast hath grown the furFor the whiter limbs of her?—Raiment of the frost and iceTo her supple beauty fitting;Wampum strouds, as white as rice,Of the frost’s fantastic knitting,Wrap her form and face complete;Glove her hands with ice; her feetMoccasin with beaded sleet.’Though he knew she made a hauntOf the dell, it did not daunt:Where the hoar-frost mailed each treeIn soft, phantom alabaster,And hung ghosts of bud and beeOn each autumn-withered aster;By the frozen waterfall,There she stood, beneath its wall,In the ice-sheathed chaparral.Where the beech-tree and the larchBuilt a white triumphal archFor the Winter, marching downWith his icy-armored leaders;Where each hemlock had a crown,And pale diadems the cedars;Where the long icicle shone,There he saw her, standing lone,Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.And she led him many a mileWith her hand-wave and her smile,And the printless swiftness ofFeet of frost, and snowy flutterOf her raiment; now above,Now below, the boughs of utterWinter whiteness. Led him onTill the dawn and day were gone,And the evening star hung wan....Hunters found him dead, they tell,In the winter-wasted dell,With his quiver and his bow,Where the cascade ran a rafter,White, of crystal and of snow;Where he listened to her laughter,Promises, that were as farAs the secrets of a star,And her love that naught could mar.And her countenance is thisStamped on his: and this her kiss,Haunting still his mouth and eyes,Colder than the cold December:This her passion, that defiesAll control, the stars rememberFilled him, killed him: this is sheClinging to him, neck and knee,Where his limbs sank wearily.
Though the panther’s footprints show,And the wild-cat’s, in the snow,You will never find a traceOf the footsteps of a certainMaiden with a paler faceThan the drifts that fill and curtainHillside, valley, and the wood,Where the hunter’s wigwam stoodIn the winter solitude.
What white beast hath grown the furFor the whiter limbs of her?—Raiment of the frost and iceTo her supple beauty fitting;Wampum strouds, as white as rice,Of the frost’s fantastic knitting,Wrap her form and face complete;Glove her hands with ice; her feetMoccasin with beaded sleet.
’Though he knew she made a hauntOf the dell, it did not daunt:Where the hoar-frost mailed each treeIn soft, phantom alabaster,And hung ghosts of bud and beeOn each autumn-withered aster;By the frozen waterfall,There she stood, beneath its wall,In the ice-sheathed chaparral.
Where the beech-tree and the larchBuilt a white triumphal archFor the Winter, marching downWith his icy-armored leaders;Where each hemlock had a crown,And pale diadems the cedars;Where the long icicle shone,There he saw her, standing lone,Like a mist-wraith turned to stone.
And she led him many a mileWith her hand-wave and her smile,And the printless swiftness ofFeet of frost, and snowy flutterOf her raiment; now above,Now below, the boughs of utterWinter whiteness. Led him onTill the dawn and day were gone,And the evening star hung wan....
Hunters found him dead, they tell,In the winter-wasted dell,With his quiver and his bow,Where the cascade ran a rafter,White, of crystal and of snow;Where he listened to her laughter,Promises, that were as farAs the secrets of a star,And her love that naught could mar.
And her countenance is thisStamped on his: and this her kiss,Haunting still his mouth and eyes,Colder than the cold December:This her passion, that defiesAll control, the stars rememberFilled him, killed him: this is sheClinging to him, neck and knee,Where his limbs sank wearily.
“This union of the human soul with the divine æthereal substance of the universe, is the ancient doctrine of Pythagoras and Plato.”—Divine Legation.
There is love for love: the heavenTeems with possibilities:And, when love is purely given,Love returns from where none sees:And such love becomes a ladderReaching heavenward, from the sadderNight of Earth; from out the drivenDarkness of its miseries.There is love for love: and Beauty,From her star above the Earth,Smiles, and straight each cloud of sootyNight takes on celestial worth:And, like some white flower unfolding,Love is born; and softly holdingUp its face, as if in duty,Grows to that which gave it birth.Earth and Heaven are prolificOf love’s wonders: and the skyTeems with spirits, fair, terrific,Who, if loved, shall never die:Dæmons, haggard as their mountains;Naiads, sparkling as their fountains;Sylphids of the winds, pacificAs the stars they tremble by....Such was I; who long had waitedFor the everlasting sleep:Where, around me, worlds dilated,Waned or waxed within the deep:Where, beneath my star, a planetWhirled and shone, like glowing granite,While around it ne’er abatedOne white satellite its sweep.I was sad: my beauty wearied,Useless as a scentless budFading ere it blooms. The serriedMists of worlds, as red as blood,Streamed beneath me. And the starryFirmament above bent, barryWith the wild auroras, ferriedOf the meteors’ sisterhood.
There is love for love: the heavenTeems with possibilities:And, when love is purely given,Love returns from where none sees:And such love becomes a ladderReaching heavenward, from the sadderNight of Earth; from out the drivenDarkness of its miseries.There is love for love: and Beauty,From her star above the Earth,Smiles, and straight each cloud of sootyNight takes on celestial worth:And, like some white flower unfolding,Love is born; and softly holdingUp its face, as if in duty,Grows to that which gave it birth.Earth and Heaven are prolificOf love’s wonders: and the skyTeems with spirits, fair, terrific,Who, if loved, shall never die:Dæmons, haggard as their mountains;Naiads, sparkling as their fountains;Sylphids of the winds, pacificAs the stars they tremble by....Such was I; who long had waitedFor the everlasting sleep:Where, around me, worlds dilated,Waned or waxed within the deep:Where, beneath my star, a planetWhirled and shone, like glowing granite,While around it ne’er abatedOne white satellite its sweep.I was sad: my beauty wearied,Useless as a scentless budFading ere it blooms. The serriedMists of worlds, as red as blood,Streamed beneath me. And the starryFirmament above bent, barryWith the wild auroras, ferriedOf the meteors’ sisterhood.
There is love for love: the heavenTeems with possibilities:And, when love is purely given,Love returns from where none sees:And such love becomes a ladderReaching heavenward, from the sadderNight of Earth; from out the drivenDarkness of its miseries.
There is love for love: and Beauty,From her star above the Earth,Smiles, and straight each cloud of sootyNight takes on celestial worth:And, like some white flower unfolding,Love is born; and softly holdingUp its face, as if in duty,Grows to that which gave it birth.
Earth and Heaven are prolificOf love’s wonders: and the skyTeems with spirits, fair, terrific,Who, if loved, shall never die:Dæmons, haggard as their mountains;Naiads, sparkling as their fountains;Sylphids of the winds, pacificAs the stars they tremble by....
Such was I; who long had waitedFor the everlasting sleep:Where, around me, worlds dilated,Waned or waxed within the deep:Where, beneath my star, a planetWhirled and shone, like glowing granite,While around it ne’er abatedOne white satellite its sweep.
I was sad: my beauty wearied,Useless as a scentless budFading ere it blooms. The serriedMists of worlds, as red as blood,Streamed beneath me. And the starryFirmament above bent, barryWith the wild auroras, ferriedOf the meteors’ sisterhood.
Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flamePage 418The Spirit of the Star
Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flamePage 418The Spirit of the Star
Something drew me, unreturning,Filled me with a finer flamePage 418The Spirit of the Star