WRECKAGE

Ah me! I still rememberHow flushed, before the shower,The dusk was; like a scarlet rose,Or blood-red poppy-flower.Now heaven is starred; the moonlightLays blurs upon the grain—You may not know it from white frost,The moonlight on the rain.And all the forest uttersA restless moan in rest,For all the deep, dark shadow liesLike iron on its breast.I mark the moveless shadow,I mark the unreaped corn,Then something whispers overhead,“Come to me, mortal-born.”I sit alone and listen;The low leaves sound and sigh;The dew drips from the bearded grain,A mist slips from the sky.—I hear her whisper, whisper,And breathe in some dim place;Her feet are easier than the dew,And than the mist her face.I may not clasp her ever,This spirit made for song,Who dwelleth in the young, young oakThe old, old oaks among.Her limbs are molded moonlight;Her breasts are silver moons:She glimmers and she glitters whereThe purple shadow swoons.And since she knows I love her,She says my soul has died,And laughs and mocks me in the mistThat haunts the forest-side.When winds run mad in woodlandsAnd all the great boughs swing,I see her wild hair blow and blowBlack as a raven’s wing.When winds are tamed and tetheredAnd stars are keen as frost,I search and seek within the wood,There where my soul was lost.I seek her, and she flies me;I follow; and the wholeDim woodland echoes with her voice,Soft calling to my soul.

Ah me! I still rememberHow flushed, before the shower,The dusk was; like a scarlet rose,Or blood-red poppy-flower.

Now heaven is starred; the moonlightLays blurs upon the grain—You may not know it from white frost,The moonlight on the rain.

And all the forest uttersA restless moan in rest,For all the deep, dark shadow liesLike iron on its breast.

I mark the moveless shadow,I mark the unreaped corn,Then something whispers overhead,“Come to me, mortal-born.”

I sit alone and listen;The low leaves sound and sigh;The dew drips from the bearded grain,A mist slips from the sky.—

I hear her whisper, whisper,And breathe in some dim place;Her feet are easier than the dew,And than the mist her face.

I may not clasp her ever,This spirit made for song,Who dwelleth in the young, young oakThe old, old oaks among.

Her limbs are molded moonlight;Her breasts are silver moons:She glimmers and she glitters whereThe purple shadow swoons.

And since she knows I love her,She says my soul has died,And laughs and mocks me in the mistThat haunts the forest-side.

When winds run mad in woodlandsAnd all the great boughs swing,I see her wild hair blow and blowBlack as a raven’s wing.

When winds are tamed and tetheredAnd stars are keen as frost,I search and seek within the wood,There where my soul was lost.

I seek her, and she flies me;I follow; and the wholeDim woodland echoes with her voice,Soft calling to my soul.

OWL ROOST

The slope is a mass of vines:If you walk in the daylight there,A gleam as of twilight shinesThrough the vines massed everywhere:Each trunk, that a creeper twines,Is a column, strong to bearThe dome of its leaves that wave,Cathedral-dim and grave.Black moss makes silent the feet:And, above, the fox-grapes laceSo thick that the noonday heatIs chill as a murdered face:And the winds for miles repeatThe fugue of a rolling bass:The deep leaves twinkle and turnBut over no flower or fern.An angular spider weavesGreat webs between the trees,Webs that are witches’ sieves:And honey-and bumblebeesGo droning among the leaves,Like the fairies’ oboës:At dark the owlets croonTo the stars and the sickle-moon.At dark I will not goThere where the branches sigh;Where naught but the glow-worms glow,Each one like a demon’s eye:O’er which, like a battle-bow,With an arrow that it lets fly,The new-moon and one starHang and glimmer afar.At dawn, if my mood be dim,And the day be a cloudless one,There where the sad winds hymnI ’ll walk, but its shade will shun;Its shade, where I feel the grimHorror of something doneHere in the years long past,That the place conceals to the last.

Black moss makes silent the feet:And, above, the fox-grapes laceSo thick that the noonday heatIs chill as a murdered face:And the winds for miles repeatThe fugue of a rolling bass:The deep leaves twinkle and turnBut over no flower or fern.

An angular spider weavesGreat webs between the trees,Webs that are witches’ sieves:And honey-and bumblebeesGo droning among the leaves,Like the fairies’ oboës:At dark the owlets croonTo the stars and the sickle-moon.

At dark I will not goThere where the branches sigh;Where naught but the glow-worms glow,Each one like a demon’s eye:O’er which, like a battle-bow,With an arrow that it lets fly,The new-moon and one starHang and glimmer afar.

At dawn, if my mood be dim,And the day be a cloudless one,There where the sad winds hymnI ’ll walk, but its shade will shun;Its shade, where I feel the grimHorror of something doneHere in the years long past,That the place conceals to the last.

MOSS AND FERN

Where rise the brakes of bramble there,Wrapped with the trailing rose,Through cane where waters ramble, thereWhere deep the green cress grows,Who knows?Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man,Hides Pan.Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles makeA foothold for the mint,May bear,—where soft its trebles makeConfession,—some vague hint—(The print,Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran)—Of Pan.Where, in the hollow of the hillsFerns deepen to the knees,What sounds are those above the hills,And now among the trees?—No breeze!—The syrinx, haply, none may scan,Of Pan.In woods where waters break uponThe hush like some soft word;Where sun-shot shadows shake uponThe moss, who has not heard—No bird!—The flute, as breezy as a fan,Of Pan?Far in, where mosses lay for usStill carpets, cool and plush;Where bloom and branch and ray for usSwoon in the noonday flush,The hushMay sound the satyr hoof a spanOf Pan.In woods where thrushes sing to us,And brooks dance sparkling heels;Where wild aromas cling to us,And all our worship kneels,—Who stealsUpon us, haunch and face of tan,But Pan?

Where rise the brakes of bramble there,Wrapped with the trailing rose,Through cane where waters ramble, thereWhere deep the green cress grows,Who knows?Perhaps, unseen of eyes of man,Hides Pan.

Perhaps the creek, whose pebbles makeA foothold for the mint,May bear,—where soft its trebles makeConfession,—some vague hint—(The print,Goat-hoofed, of one who lightly ran)—Of Pan.

Where, in the hollow of the hillsFerns deepen to the knees,What sounds are those above the hills,And now among the trees?—No breeze!—The syrinx, haply, none may scan,Of Pan.

In woods where waters break uponThe hush like some soft word;Where sun-shot shadows shake uponThe moss, who has not heard—No bird!—The flute, as breezy as a fan,Of Pan?

Far in, where mosses lay for usStill carpets, cool and plush;Where bloom and branch and ray for usSwoon in the noonday flush,The hushMay sound the satyr hoof a spanOf Pan.

In woods where thrushes sing to us,And brooks dance sparkling heels;Where wild aromas cling to us,And all our worship kneels,—Who stealsUpon us, haunch and face of tan,But Pan?

WOODLAND WATERS

Through leaves of the nodding trees,Where blossoms sway in the breeze,Pink bag-pipes made for the bees,Whose slogan is droning and drawling:Where the columbine scatters its bells,And the wild bleeding-heart its shells,O’er mosses and rocks of the dellsThe brook of the forest is falling.You can hear it under the hillWhen the wind in the wood is still,And, strokes of a fairy drill,Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer:By the solomon’s-seal it slips,Cohosh and the grass that drips—Like the words of an Undine’s lips,Is the sound of its falls that stammer.I lie in the woods: and the scentOf the honeysuckle is blentWith the sound: and a Sultan’s tentIs my dream, with the East enmeshéd:—A slave-girl sings; and I hearThe languor of lute-strings near,And a dancing-girl of CashmereIn the harem of good Er Reshid.From ripples of Irak laceShe flashes the amorous graceOf her naked limbs and her face,While her golden anklets tinkle:Then over mosaic floorsOpen seraglio doorsOf cedar: by twos, by fours,—Like stars that tremble and twinkle,—While the dulcimers sing, unseen,The handmaids come of the Queen’Neath silvern lamps, one sheenOf jewels of Afrite treasure:And I see the Arabia riseOf the Nights that were rich and wise,Beautiful, dark, in the eyesOf Zubeideh, the Queen of Pleasure.

You can hear it under the hillWhen the wind in the wood is still,And, strokes of a fairy drill,Sounds the bill of the yellow-hammer:By the solomon’s-seal it slips,Cohosh and the grass that drips—Like the words of an Undine’s lips,Is the sound of its falls that stammer.

I lie in the woods: and the scentOf the honeysuckle is blentWith the sound: and a Sultan’s tentIs my dream, with the East enmeshéd:—A slave-girl sings; and I hearThe languor of lute-strings near,And a dancing-girl of CashmereIn the harem of good Er Reshid.

From ripples of Irak laceShe flashes the amorous graceOf her naked limbs and her face,While her golden anklets tinkle:Then over mosaic floorsOpen seraglio doorsOf cedar: by twos, by fours,—Like stars that tremble and twinkle,—

While the dulcimers sing, unseen,The handmaids come of the Queen’Neath silvern lamps, one sheenOf jewels of Afrite treasure:And I see the Arabia riseOf the Nights that were rich and wise,Beautiful, dark, in the eyesOf Zubeideh, the Queen of Pleasure.

THE THORN-TREE

The night is sad with silver and the day is glad with gold,And the woodland silence listens to a legend never old,Of the Lady of the Fountain, whom the fairy people know,With her limbs of samite whiteness and her hair of golden glow,Whom the boyish South-wind seeks for and the girlish-stepping rain,Whom the sleepy leaves still whisper men shall never see again;She whose Vivien charms were mistress of the magic Merlin knew,That could change the dew to glow-worms and the glow-worms into dew.There’s a thorn-tree in the forest, and the fairies know the tree,With its branches gnarled and wrinkled as a face with sorcery;But the May-time brings it clusters of a rainy fragrant white,Like the bloom-bright brows of beauty or a hand of lifted light.And all day the silence whispers to the sun-ray of the mornHow the bloom is lovely Vivien and how Merlin is the thorn:How she won the doting wizard with her naked lovelinessTill he told her demon secrets that but made his magic less.How she charmed him and enchanted in the thorn-tree’s thorns to lieForever with his passion that should never dim or die:And with wicked laughter looking on this thing that she had done,Like a visible aroma lingered sparkling in the sun;How she stooped to kiss the pathos of an elf-lock of his beard,All in mockery, at parting, and mock pity of his weird:But her magic had forgotten that “who bends to give a kissWill bring down the curse upon them of the person whose it is”:So the silence tells the secret.—And at night the fairies seeHow the tossing bloom is Vivien, who is struggling to be free,In the thorny arms of Merlin, who, forever, is the tree.

There’s a thorn-tree in the forest, and the fairies know the tree,With its branches gnarled and wrinkled as a face with sorcery;But the May-time brings it clusters of a rainy fragrant white,Like the bloom-bright brows of beauty or a hand of lifted light.And all day the silence whispers to the sun-ray of the mornHow the bloom is lovely Vivien and how Merlin is the thorn:How she won the doting wizard with her naked lovelinessTill he told her demon secrets that but made his magic less.

How she charmed him and enchanted in the thorn-tree’s thorns to lieForever with his passion that should never dim or die:And with wicked laughter looking on this thing that she had done,Like a visible aroma lingered sparkling in the sun;How she stooped to kiss the pathos of an elf-lock of his beard,All in mockery, at parting, and mock pity of his weird:But her magic had forgotten that “who bends to give a kissWill bring down the curse upon them of the person whose it is”:So the silence tells the secret.—And at night the fairies seeHow the tossing bloom is Vivien, who is struggling to be free,In the thorny arms of Merlin, who, forever, is the tree.

THE HAMADRYAD

She stood among the longest fernsThe valley held; and in her handOne blossom like the light that burns,Vermilion, o’er a sunset land;And round her hair a twisted bandOf pink-pierced mountain-laurel blooms:And darker than dark pools, that standBelow the star-communing glooms,Her eyes beneath her hair’s perfumes.I saw the moon-pearl sandals onHer flower-white feet, that seemed too chasteTo tread pure gold: and, like the dawnOn splendid peaks that lord a wasteOf solitude lost gods have graced,Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped,Bound with the cestused silver,—chasedWith acorn-cup and crown, and tippedWith oak-leaves,—whence her chiton slipped.Limbs that the gods call loveliness!—The grace and glory of all GreeceWrought in one marble form were lessThan her perfection!—’Mid the treesI saw her; and time seemed to ceaseFor me—And, lo! I lived my oldGreek life again of classic ease,Barbarian as the myths that rolledMe back into the Age of Gold.

I saw the moon-pearl sandals onHer flower-white feet, that seemed too chasteTo tread pure gold: and, like the dawnOn splendid peaks that lord a wasteOf solitude lost gods have graced,Her face: she stood there, faultless-hipped,Bound with the cestused silver,—chasedWith acorn-cup and crown, and tippedWith oak-leaves,—whence her chiton slipped.

Limbs that the gods call loveliness!—The grace and glory of all GreeceWrought in one marble form were lessThan her perfection!—’Mid the treesI saw her; and time seemed to ceaseFor me—And, lo! I lived my oldGreek life again of classic ease,Barbarian as the myths that rolledMe back into the Age of Gold.

Love and the drift of many dreams,Under the moon of a Florida night,Over the beach with its silvery seamsWhite as a sail is white.Love that entered into two livesOut of the dreams that the nights have borne,Over the waves where the vapor drives,Mists that the stars have torn.Love that welded two hearts and handsThere by the sea, ’neath the shell-white moon,Like to the stars and the mists and the sandsSetting two lives in tune.Nights of love that one still keepsSacred;—nights, that the faith of oneHeartened there in the treacherous deeps,Under a tropic sun.

Love and the drift of many dreams,Under the moon of a Florida night,Over the beach with its silvery seamsWhite as a sail is white.

Love that entered into two livesOut of the dreams that the nights have borne,Over the waves where the vapor drives,Mists that the stars have torn.

Love that welded two hearts and handsThere by the sea, ’neath the shell-white moon,Like to the stars and the mists and the sandsSetting two lives in tune.

Nights of love that one still keepsSacred;—nights, that the faith of oneHeartened there in the treacherous deeps,Under a tropic sun.

Parting he said to her: “Let us be true to them,—All of our dreams, of the night, of the morning:What is our present, its hope, but a clew to them?What is our past but a dream and a warning?Have you considered the life that regretfullyFoldeth weak arms to the fate it might master?—Had I been true to my dreams, never fretfullyHalted, my future and joy had been faster.”They had come down to the ocean that, bellowing,Boiled on the sand and the shells that were broken;All of the summer was fading and yellowing;Now they must part and their vows had been spoken.It had befallen that heaven was lowering;Over the sea, like the wraith of a wrecker,Clamored the gull; and the mist in the showeringEast seemed the ghost of a lofty three-decker.Infinite foam; and the boom of the hollowingBreakers that buried the rocks to their shoulders;Battle and boast of the deep in the wallowingWorld of the waves where the red sunset smoulders.Long was the leap of the foam on the thunderousBeach; and each end of the beach was a flyingFog of the spray: and she said, “Let it sunder us!Still we will love, for love is undying!”Yet, if it comes to the thing he has said to her?—Wreckage and death?—the love she has givenTurned into sorrow?—Oh, that was a dread to her!He, like a weed, by the waters far driven!Weeping, her bosom with shudders was shaken asShe for a moment hard clung to her sailor,Kissed him and—parted. His boat had been taken; asPaler it grew the woman grew paler.

They had come down to the ocean that, bellowing,Boiled on the sand and the shells that were broken;All of the summer was fading and yellowing;Now they must part and their vows had been spoken.It had befallen that heaven was lowering;Over the sea, like the wraith of a wrecker,Clamored the gull; and the mist in the showeringEast seemed the ghost of a lofty three-decker.

Infinite foam; and the boom of the hollowingBreakers that buried the rocks to their shoulders;Battle and boast of the deep in the wallowingWorld of the waves where the red sunset smoulders.Long was the leap of the foam on the thunderousBeach; and each end of the beach was a flyingFog of the spray: and she said, “Let it sunder us!Still we will love, for love is undying!”

Yet, if it comes to the thing he has said to her?—Wreckage and death?—the love she has givenTurned into sorrow?—Oh, that was a dread to her!He, like a weed, by the waters far driven!Weeping, her bosom with shudders was shaken asShe for a moment hard clung to her sailor,Kissed him and—parted. His boat had been taken; asPaler it grew the woman grew paler.

All day the rain drove, fallingUpon the sombre sea;All day, his wet sail hauling,The sailor tacked a-lea;And through the wild rain calling,What was it?—was it he?At dusk the gull clanged, driftingAbove the boiling brine;And, through the wan west sifting,Streamed one red sunset line;And in its wild light shifting,His far sail seemed to shine.All night the wind wailed, sighingAlong the wreck-strewn coast;All night the surf, defying,Rolled thunder in and boast;All night she heard a crying—The sea? or some lost ghost?

All day the rain drove, fallingUpon the sombre sea;All day, his wet sail hauling,The sailor tacked a-lea;And through the wild rain calling,What was it?—was it he?

At dusk the gull clanged, driftingAbove the boiling brine;And, through the wan west sifting,Streamed one red sunset line;And in its wild light shifting,His far sail seemed to shine.

All night the wind wailed, sighingAlong the wreck-strewn coast;All night the surf, defying,Rolled thunder in and boast;All night she heard a crying—The sea? or some lost ghost?

The balm of the night and the glory,The music and scent of the sea,Are as song to her heart or a storyOf the never-to-be.The stars and the night and the whitenessOf foam on the stretch of the sand;Faint foam that is tossed, like the brightnessOf a mermaiden’s hand.No sail on the ocean; no sailorOn shore, and the winds all asleep;And her face in the starlight far palerThan women who weep.A mist on the deep; and the ghostlyWhite moon in the deep of the night;And a light that is neither; that mostlyIs shadow not light.No sea-gull, that vanished with gleamingOf wings, in the swing of the spray;Perhaps it was only her dreaming,Or merely a rayOf moonlight; the glimmering essenceOf all that is grayest and dim—But never his face, or his presenceThat dripped in each limb.And she cried through the night, “Let perish!O God, let me die of despair!If he whom I love, whom I cherish,Is weltering there!”She seemed but a sea-mist made woman,And he but a sound of the seaMade man where nothing was human,And never would be.

No sail on the ocean; no sailorOn shore, and the winds all asleep;And her face in the starlight far palerThan women who weep.A mist on the deep; and the ghostlyWhite moon in the deep of the night;And a light that is neither; that mostlyIs shadow not light.

No sea-gull, that vanished with gleamingOf wings, in the swing of the spray;Perhaps it was only her dreaming,Or merely a rayOf moonlight; the glimmering essenceOf all that is grayest and dim—But never his face, or his presenceThat dripped in each limb.

And she cried through the night, “Let perish!O God, let me die of despair!If he whom I love, whom I cherish,Is weltering there!”She seemed but a sea-mist made woman,And he but a sound of the seaMade man where nothing was human,And never would be.

Long he sailed the deep that glassesThe face of God and His majesty;Passed the Horn and the Seas of Grasses,Drifting aimlessly.Time went by with its days that everBurden the hearts of those who beFar away from their love; whom severLeagues of the shapeless sea.Land at last, whose reefs rolled brokenFoam of the balked waves everywhere;Land; one tangle of weeds and oakenWreck and of rocks laid bare.Here and there the sand stretched lividLeagues of famine, one blinding glare;Crags, o’er which gaunt birds winged vivid,Harsh in the earthquake air.A little cloud in the sunset’s splendor;A little cloud that the sunset stains:Night, and a wisp of a moon that, slender,Dreams of the hurricanes.Winds that stride as with sounding sandals;Winds that the tempest has loosed from chains:Light that leaps like a spear he handles,Shaking his thunder-manes.Wrenching the world in wreck asunder,Black rebellion of hell and night;Wrath and roar of the rocks and thunder,Flame and the winds that fight ...Beating the drift and the hush together,Waves and winds that the morn makes white;Calm and peace of the tropic weatherAfter the typhoon’s might.Clouds blow by and the storm’s forgotten.Savage coasts where the sea-cow feeds.Wash of weeds and the sea-weeds rotten.And a dead face in the weeds.None to know him or name him brother;Only the savage in feathers and beads;The South-Sea Islander, fitting anotherBarb in the shaft he speeds.Far away where the sea-gulls gather;Far away where the evening falls,Lone she stands where the wild waves lather,Rolling the sea in walls.—Who shall tell her, the lonely tryster?Tell her of him on whom she calls?—Suns that beat on his face and blister?Stars? or the sea that crawls?

Land at last, whose reefs rolled brokenFoam of the balked waves everywhere;Land; one tangle of weeds and oakenWreck and of rocks laid bare.Here and there the sand stretched lividLeagues of famine, one blinding glare;Crags, o’er which gaunt birds winged vivid,Harsh in the earthquake air.

A little cloud in the sunset’s splendor;A little cloud that the sunset stains:Night, and a wisp of a moon that, slender,Dreams of the hurricanes.Winds that stride as with sounding sandals;Winds that the tempest has loosed from chains:Light that leaps like a spear he handles,Shaking his thunder-manes.

Wrenching the world in wreck asunder,Black rebellion of hell and night;Wrath and roar of the rocks and thunder,Flame and the winds that fight ...Beating the drift and the hush together,Waves and winds that the morn makes white;Calm and peace of the tropic weatherAfter the typhoon’s might.

Clouds blow by and the storm’s forgotten.Savage coasts where the sea-cow feeds.Wash of weeds and the sea-weeds rotten.And a dead face in the weeds.None to know him or name him brother;Only the savage in feathers and beads;The South-Sea Islander, fitting anotherBarb in the shaft he speeds.

Far away where the sea-gulls gather;Far away where the evening falls,Lone she stands where the wild waves lather,Rolling the sea in walls.—Who shall tell her, the lonely tryster?Tell her of him on whom she calls?—Suns that beat on his face and blister?Stars? or the sea that crawls?

She dreamed that there, beside the ocean sitting,Alone she watched, when, at her feet, behold!Between the foam-ridge and the sea-gull’s flitting,His body rolled.All was not as it was before they parted;She dreamed he had remembered, she forgot;He ’d said he would forget her, angry-hearted,And yet could not.And then it seemed that, had she known, she surelyHad given pity when she could not giveHer love to him, who loved her madly, purely,And bade him live.And then she dreamed she looked upon the slantedHulk of a wreck: and high above the wave,Worn of the wind and of the cactus planted,His nameless grave.

She dreamed that there, beside the ocean sitting,Alone she watched, when, at her feet, behold!Between the foam-ridge and the sea-gull’s flitting,His body rolled.

All was not as it was before they parted;She dreamed he had remembered, she forgot;He ’d said he would forget her, angry-hearted,And yet could not.

And then it seemed that, had she known, she surelyHad given pity when she could not giveHer love to him, who loved her madly, purely,And bade him live.

And then she dreamed she looked upon the slantedHulk of a wreck: and high above the wave,Worn of the wind and of the cactus planted,His nameless grave.

The rhododendrons bloom and shakeTheir petals wide and gleam and swayAmong palmettoes, by the lake,Beyond the bay.Shores where we watched the eve revealHer cloudy sanctuaries, whileThe bay lay lavaed into steelFor mile on mile.We watched the purple coast confuseSoft outlines with the graying light;And towards the gulf a vessel loseItself in night.We saw the sea-gulls dip and soar;The wild-fowl gather past the pier;And from rich skies, as from God’s door,Gold far and near.Two foreign seamen passed and weHeard mellow Spanish; like twin stars,Where they lounged smoking, we could seeTheir faint cigars.Night; and the heavens stained and strewnWith stars the waters idealized,Until their light the rising moonEpitomized.Morn; and the pine-wood balms awake;Winds roll the dew-drop from the rose;The wide lake burns; and, on the lake,The ripple glows.Far coasts detach deep purple fromThe blue horizon, and the dayBeholds the sunburnt sailor comeAnd sail away.The bird that slept at dusk, at dawnAwakes again within the thorn.—Sweet was the night to it, now gone;And sweet is morn.

The rhododendrons bloom and shakeTheir petals wide and gleam and swayAmong palmettoes, by the lake,Beyond the bay.

Shores where we watched the eve revealHer cloudy sanctuaries, whileThe bay lay lavaed into steelFor mile on mile.

We watched the purple coast confuseSoft outlines with the graying light;And towards the gulf a vessel loseItself in night.

We saw the sea-gulls dip and soar;The wild-fowl gather past the pier;And from rich skies, as from God’s door,Gold far and near.

Two foreign seamen passed and weHeard mellow Spanish; like twin stars,Where they lounged smoking, we could seeTheir faint cigars.

Night; and the heavens stained and strewnWith stars the waters idealized,Until their light the rising moonEpitomized.

Morn; and the pine-wood balms awake;Winds roll the dew-drop from the rose;The wide lake burns; and, on the lake,The ripple glows.

Far coasts detach deep purple fromThe blue horizon, and the dayBeholds the sunburnt sailor comeAnd sail away.

The bird that slept at dusk, at dawnAwakes again within the thorn.—Sweet was the night to it, now gone;And sweet is morn.

Through halls of columned scarlet,Like some dark queen, the DuskTrails skirts of myrrh and musk,Hung in each ear, a starletGleams,—gems the clouds’ gaunt JinnGuard; and, beneath her chin,The moon, an opal tusk.There lies a ghostly gloryUpon the sea and sand;A gleam, as of a hand,Stretched from the realms of story,Of rosy golden ray;Pointing the world the wayTo some far Fairyland.As fades the west’s vermilionAbove the distant coasts,The stars come out in hosts;Within the night’s pavilion,As flower speaks to flower,Dim hour calls to hour,Pale with the past’s sweet ghosts.

There lies a ghostly gloryUpon the sea and sand;A gleam, as of a hand,Stretched from the realms of story,Of rosy golden ray;Pointing the world the wayTo some far Fairyland.

As fades the west’s vermilionAbove the distant coasts,The stars come out in hosts;Within the night’s pavilion,As flower speaks to flower,Dim hour calls to hour,Pale with the past’s sweet ghosts.

Music that melts through moonlight,Faint on the summer breeze;Fireflies, moonlight, and foamingSusurrus of the seas.Music that drifts like perfume,And touches like a hand;Dreams and stars and the ocean,And we alone on the sand.Glimmers and vague reflections,And the white swirl of the foam;Pale on the purple a vessel,And a light that beckons home.And I seem to see the music,On a moonbeam bar that floats,For the music is moonlight magic,And the flies are its golden notes.And I seem to hear one singingOf a brown old coast and sea,Of lives that were filled with passion,And old-world tragedy.And I hear the harsh reef’s callingFor a noble ship at sea,And the winds of the ocean singingA dirge for the dead to be.Till it seems that I am the pilot,And you are the mermaidén,Who lures him on to the wreckingAnd into her arms again.

Music that melts through moonlight,Faint on the summer breeze;Fireflies, moonlight, and foamingSusurrus of the seas.

Music that drifts like perfume,And touches like a hand;Dreams and stars and the ocean,And we alone on the sand.

Glimmers and vague reflections,And the white swirl of the foam;Pale on the purple a vessel,And a light that beckons home.

And I seem to see the music,On a moonbeam bar that floats,For the music is moonlight magic,And the flies are its golden notes.

And I seem to hear one singingOf a brown old coast and sea,Of lives that were filled with passion,And old-world tragedy.

And I hear the harsh reef’s callingFor a noble ship at sea,And the winds of the ocean singingA dirge for the dead to be.

Till it seems that I am the pilot,And you are the mermaidén,Who lures him on to the wreckingAnd into her arms again.

Over the hills where the winds are wakingAll is lone as the soul of me;Over the hills where the stars are shaking,Breton hills by the sea.These were with me to tell me oftenHow she pined in her Croisic home,Winds that sing and the stars that softenOver the miles of foam.Fishers’ nets and the sailor faces;Sad salt marshes and granite piers;Brown, loud coast where the long foam races—And a parting full of tears.A gray sail’s ghost where the autumn lies onWraiths of the mist and the squall-blown rain;Her dark girl eyes that search the horizon,Grave with a haunting pain.Stars may burn and the wild winds whistleOver the rocks where the sea-gulls rave—My heart is bleak as the wind-worn thistleon her seaside grave.

Over the hills where the winds are wakingAll is lone as the soul of me;Over the hills where the stars are shaking,Breton hills by the sea.

These were with me to tell me oftenHow she pined in her Croisic home,Winds that sing and the stars that softenOver the miles of foam.

Fishers’ nets and the sailor faces;Sad salt marshes and granite piers;Brown, loud coast where the long foam races—And a parting full of tears.

A gray sail’s ghost where the autumn lies onWraiths of the mist and the squall-blown rain;Her dark girl eyes that search the horizon,Grave with a haunting pain.

Stars may burn and the wild winds whistleOver the rocks where the sea-gulls rave—My heart is bleak as the wind-worn thistleon her seaside grave.

Sad as sad eyes that ache with tearsThe stars of night shine through the leaves;And shadowy as the Fates’ dim shearsThe weft that twilight weaves.The summer sunset marched long hostsOf gold adown one golden peak,That flamed and fell; and now gray ghostsOf mist the far west streak.They seem the shades of things that weep,Wan things the heavens would conceal;Blood-stained; that bear within them, deep,Red wounds that will not heal.Night comes, and with it storm, that slipsWild angles of the jagged light:—I feel the wild rain on my lips,—A wild girl is the Night.A moaning tremor sweeps the trees;And all the stars are packed with death:—She holds me by the neck and knees,I feel her wild, wet breath.Hell and its hags drive on the rain:—Night holds me by the hair and pleads;Her kisses fall like blows again;My brow is dewed with beads.The thunder plants wild beacons onEach volleying height.—My soul seems blownFar out to sea. The world is gone,And night and I alone.Tampa, Florida, February, 1893.

Sad as sad eyes that ache with tearsThe stars of night shine through the leaves;And shadowy as the Fates’ dim shearsThe weft that twilight weaves.

The summer sunset marched long hostsOf gold adown one golden peak,That flamed and fell; and now gray ghostsOf mist the far west streak.

They seem the shades of things that weep,Wan things the heavens would conceal;Blood-stained; that bear within them, deep,Red wounds that will not heal.

Night comes, and with it storm, that slipsWild angles of the jagged light:—I feel the wild rain on my lips,—A wild girl is the Night.

A moaning tremor sweeps the trees;And all the stars are packed with death:—She holds me by the neck and knees,I feel her wild, wet breath.

Hell and its hags drive on the rain:—Night holds me by the hair and pleads;Her kisses fall like blows again;My brow is dewed with beads.

The thunder plants wild beacons onEach volleying height.—My soul seems blownFar out to sea. The world is gone,And night and I alone.

Tampa, Florida, February, 1893.

THE BATTLE

The night had passed. The day had come,Bright-born, into a cloudless sky:We heard the rolling of the drum,And saw the war-flags fly.And noon had crowded upon mornEre Conflict shook her red locks far,And blew her brazen battle-hornUpon the hills of War.Noon darkened into dusk—one blotOf nightmare lit with hell-born suns;—We heard the scream of shell and shotAnd booming of the guns.On batteries of belching grapeWe saw the thundering cavalryHurl headlong,—iron shape on shape,—With shout and bugle-cry.When dusk had moaned and died, and nightCame on, wind-swept and wild with rain,We slept, ’mid many a bivouac light,And vast fields heaped with slain.

The night had passed. The day had come,Bright-born, into a cloudless sky:We heard the rolling of the drum,And saw the war-flags fly.

And noon had crowded upon mornEre Conflict shook her red locks far,And blew her brazen battle-hornUpon the hills of War.

Noon darkened into dusk—one blotOf nightmare lit with hell-born suns;—We heard the scream of shell and shotAnd booming of the guns.

On batteries of belching grapeWe saw the thundering cavalryHurl headlong,—iron shape on shape,—With shout and bugle-cry.

When dusk had moaned and died, and nightCame on, wind-swept and wild with rain,We slept, ’mid many a bivouac light,And vast fields heaped with slain.

IN HOSPITAL

Wounded to death he lay and dreamedThe drums of battle beat afar,And round the roaring trenches screamedThe hell of war.Then woke; and, weeping, spoke one wordTo the kind nurse who bent above;Then in the whitewashed ward was heardA song of love.The songshesang him when she gaveThe portrait that he kissed; then sighed,“Lay it beside me in the grave!”And smiled and died.

Wounded to death he lay and dreamedThe drums of battle beat afar,And round the roaring trenches screamedThe hell of war.

Then woke; and, weeping, spoke one wordTo the kind nurse who bent above;Then in the whitewashed ward was heardA song of love.

The songshesang him when she gaveThe portrait that he kissed; then sighed,“Lay it beside me in the grave!”And smiled and died.

THE SOLDIER’S RETURN

A brown wing beat the apple leaves and shookSome blossoms on her hair. Then, note on note,The bird’s wild music bubbled. In her book,Her old romance, she seemed to read. No lookBetrayed the tumult in her trembling throat.The thrush sang on. A dreamy wind came downFrom one white cloud of afternoon and fannedThe dropping petals on her book and gown,And touched her hair, whose braids of quiet brownGently she smoothed with one white jeweled hand.Then, with her soul, it seemed, from feet to browShe felt him coming: ’t was his heart, his breathThat stirred the blossom on the apple bough;His step the wood-thrush warbled to. And nowHer cheek went crimson, now as white as death.Then on the dappled page his shadow—yes,Not unexpected, yet her haste assumedFright’s startle; and low laughter did confessHis presence there, soft with his soul’s caressAnd happy manhood, where the rambo bloomed.Quickly she rose and all her gladness sentWild welcome to him. Her his unhurt armDrew unresisted; and the soldier leantFond lips to hers. She wept. And so they wentDeep in the orchard towards the old brick farm.

The thrush sang on. A dreamy wind came downFrom one white cloud of afternoon and fannedThe dropping petals on her book and gown,And touched her hair, whose braids of quiet brownGently she smoothed with one white jeweled hand.

Then, with her soul, it seemed, from feet to browShe felt him coming: ’t was his heart, his breathThat stirred the blossom on the apple bough;His step the wood-thrush warbled to. And nowHer cheek went crimson, now as white as death.

Then on the dappled page his shadow—yes,Not unexpected, yet her haste assumedFright’s startle; and low laughter did confessHis presence there, soft with his soul’s caressAnd happy manhood, where the rambo bloomed.

Quickly she rose and all her gladness sentWild welcome to him. Her his unhurt armDrew unresisted; and the soldier leantFond lips to hers. She wept. And so they wentDeep in the orchard towards the old brick farm.

THE APPARITION

A day of drought, foreboding rain and wind,As if stern heaven, feeling earth had sinned,Frowned all its hatred. When the evening came,Along the west, from bank on bank unthinnedOf clouds, the storm unfurled its oriflamme.Then lightning signaled, and the thunder wokeIts monster drums, and all God’s torrents broke.—She saw the wild night when the dark pane flashed;Heard, where she stood, the disemboweled oakRoar into fragments when the welkin crashed.Long had she waited for a word. And, lo!Anticipation still would not say “No:”He has not written; he will come to her;At dawn!—to-night!—Her heart hath told her so;And so expectancy and love aver.She seems to hear his fingers on the pane—The glass is blurred, she can not see for rain:Isthathis horse?—the wind is never still:Andthathis cloak?—ah, surely that is plain!—A torn vine tossing at the window-sill.She hurries forth to meet him; pale and wet,She sees his face; the war-soiled epaulet;A sabre-scar that bleeds from brow to cheek;And now he smiles, and now their lips have met,And now ... Dear heart, he fell at Cedar Creek!

Then lightning signaled, and the thunder wokeIts monster drums, and all God’s torrents broke.—She saw the wild night when the dark pane flashed;Heard, where she stood, the disemboweled oakRoar into fragments when the welkin crashed.

Long had she waited for a word. And, lo!Anticipation still would not say “No:”He has not written; he will come to her;At dawn!—to-night!—Her heart hath told her so;And so expectancy and love aver.

She seems to hear his fingers on the pane—The glass is blurred, she can not see for rain:Isthathis horse?—the wind is never still:Andthathis cloak?—ah, surely that is plain!—A torn vine tossing at the window-sill.

She hurries forth to meet him; pale and wet,She sees his face; the war-soiled epaulet;A sabre-scar that bleeds from brow to cheek;And now he smiles, and now their lips have met,And now ... Dear heart, he fell at Cedar Creek!

It was in August that they brought her newsOf his bad wounds; the leg that he must lose.And August passed, and when October raisedRed rebel standards on the hills that blazed,They brought a haggard wreck; she scarce knew whose,Until they told her, standing stunned and dazed.A shattered shadow of the stalwart lad,The five-months husband, whom his country hadEnlisted, strong for war; returning this,Whose broken countenance she feared to kiss,While health’s remembrance stood beside him sad,And grieved for that which was no longer his.They brought him on a litter; and the dayWas bright and beautiful. It seemed that MayIn woodland rambles had forgot her pathOf season, and, disrobing for a bath,By the autumnal waters of some bay,With her white nakedness had conquered Wrath.Far otherwise she wished it: wind and rain;The sky, one gray commiserative pain;Sleet, and the stormy drift of frantic leaves;To match the misery that each perceivesAches in her hand-clutched bosom, and is plainIn eyes and mouth and all her form that grieves.Theirs, a mute meeting of the lips; she stoopedAnd kissed him once: one long, dark side-lock droopedAnd brushed against the bandage of his breast;With feeble hands he held it and caressed;Then all his happiness in one look grouped,Saying, “Now I am home, I crave but rest.”Once it was love! but then the battle killedAll that sweet nonsense of his youth, and filledHis heart with sterner passion.—Ah, well! peaceMust balm its pain with patience; whose surceaseMeans reconcilement; e’en as God hath willed,With war or peace who shapes His ends at ease.—What else for these but, where their mortal lotOf weak existence drags rent ends, to knotThe frail unravel up!—while love (afraidTime will increase the burthen on it laid),Seeks consolation, that consoleth not,In toil and prayer, waiting what none evade.

A shattered shadow of the stalwart lad,The five-months husband, whom his country hadEnlisted, strong for war; returning this,Whose broken countenance she feared to kiss,While health’s remembrance stood beside him sad,And grieved for that which was no longer his.

They brought him on a litter; and the dayWas bright and beautiful. It seemed that MayIn woodland rambles had forgot her pathOf season, and, disrobing for a bath,By the autumnal waters of some bay,With her white nakedness had conquered Wrath.

Far otherwise she wished it: wind and rain;The sky, one gray commiserative pain;Sleet, and the stormy drift of frantic leaves;To match the misery that each perceivesAches in her hand-clutched bosom, and is plainIn eyes and mouth and all her form that grieves.

Theirs, a mute meeting of the lips; she stoopedAnd kissed him once: one long, dark side-lock droopedAnd brushed against the bandage of his breast;With feeble hands he held it and caressed;Then all his happiness in one look grouped,Saying, “Now I am home, I crave but rest.”

Once it was love! but then the battle killedAll that sweet nonsense of his youth, and filledHis heart with sterner passion.—Ah, well! peaceMust balm its pain with patience; whose surceaseMeans reconcilement; e’en as God hath willed,With war or peace who shapes His ends at ease.—

What else for these but, where their mortal lotOf weak existence drags rent ends, to knotThe frail unravel up!—while love (afraidTime will increase the burthen on it laid),Seeks consolation, that consoleth not,In toil and prayer, waiting what none evade.

THE MESSAGE

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