DUM VIVIMUS

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of the world are a fleeting show.The post-chaise Time that all must takeIs old with clay and dust;Two horses strain its rusty brakeNamed Pleasure and Disgust.Our baggage totters on its roof,Of Vanity and Care,As Hope, the post-boy, spurs each hoof,Or heavy-eyed Despair.And now a comrade with us rides,Love, haply, or Remorse;And that dim traveler besides,Gaunt Memory on a horse.And be we king or be we kernWho ride the roads of Sin,No matter how the roads may turnThey lead us to that Inn:Unto that Inn within that landOf silence and of gloom,Whose ghastly Landlord takes our handAnd leads us to our room.It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of the world are a fleeting show.

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of the world are a fleeting show.

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"

With every man in this life below—

But the things of the world are a fleeting show.

The post-chaise Time that all must takeIs old with clay and dust;Two horses strain its rusty brakeNamed Pleasure and Disgust.

The post-chaise Time that all must take

Is old with clay and dust;

Two horses strain its rusty brake

Named Pleasure and Disgust.

Our baggage totters on its roof,Of Vanity and Care,As Hope, the post-boy, spurs each hoof,Or heavy-eyed Despair.

Our baggage totters on its roof,

Of Vanity and Care,

As Hope, the post-boy, spurs each hoof,

Or heavy-eyed Despair.

And now a comrade with us rides,Love, haply, or Remorse;And that dim traveler besides,Gaunt Memory on a horse.

And now a comrade with us rides,

Love, haply, or Remorse;

And that dim traveler besides,

Gaunt Memory on a horse.

And be we king or be we kernWho ride the roads of Sin,No matter how the roads may turnThey lead us to that Inn:

And be we king or be we kern

Who ride the roads of Sin,

No matter how the roads may turn

They lead us to that Inn:

Unto that Inn within that landOf silence and of gloom,Whose ghastly Landlord takes our handAnd leads us to our room.

Unto that Inn within that land

Of silence and of gloom,

Whose ghastly Landlord takes our hand

And leads us to our room.

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of the world are a fleeting show.

It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"

With every man in this life below—

But the things of the world are a fleeting show.

INow with the marriage of the lip and beakerLet Joy be born! and in the rosy shine,The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor,Let Care, the hag, go drown! No more repineAt all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher inPhilosophies of old AnacreonAnd Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn,Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.IISome lives need less than others.—Who can everSay truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is neverSure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless;And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess."All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs;And in this world what has more right thanWrong?Come! let us hush remembrance with a song,And learn with folly to be glad and wise.IIIThere was a poet of the East named Hâfiz,Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us goPraising them, too. And where good wine to quaff isAnd maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe;For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know,Where wine and love are not; where, sans disguise,Each one must lie in his strait bed apart,The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart,And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.

Now with the marriage of the lip and beakerLet Joy be born! and in the rosy shine,The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor,Let Care, the hag, go drown! No more repineAt all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher inPhilosophies of old AnacreonAnd Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn,Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.

Now with the marriage of the lip and beaker

Let Joy be born! and in the rosy shine,

The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor,

Let Care, the hag, go drown! No more repine

At all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!

Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher in

Philosophies of old Anacreon

And Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn,

Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.

Some lives need less than others.—Who can everSay truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is neverSure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless;And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess."All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs;And in this world what has more right thanWrong?Come! let us hush remembrance with a song,And learn with folly to be glad and wise.

Some lives need less than others.—Who can ever

Say truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?

Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is never

Sure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless;

And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess.

"All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs;

And in this world what has more right than

Wrong?

Come! let us hush remembrance with a song,

And learn with folly to be glad and wise.

III

There was a poet of the East named Hâfiz,Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us goPraising them, too. And where good wine to quaff isAnd maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe;For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know,Where wine and love are not; where, sans disguise,Each one must lie in his strait bed apart,The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart,And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.

There was a poet of the East named Hâfiz,

Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us go

Praising them, too. And where good wine to quaff is

And maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe;

For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know,

Where wine and love are not; where, sans disguise,

Each one must lie in his strait bed apart,

The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart,

And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.

There are some soulsWhose lot it is to set their hearts on goalsThat adverse Fate controls.While others winWith little labor through life's dust and din,And lord-like enter inImmortal gates;And, of Success the high-born intimates,Inherit Fame's estates....Why is 't the lotOf merit oft to struggle and yet notAttain? to toil—for what?Simply to knowThe disappointment, the despair, and woeOf effort here below?Ambitious still to reachThose lofty peaks, which men, aspiring, preach,For which their souls beseech:Those heights that swellRemote, removed, and unattainable,Pinnacle on pinnacle:Still yearning to attainTheir far repose, above life's stress and strain,But all in vain, in vain!...Why hath God putGreat longings in some souls and straightway shutAll doors of their clay hut?The clay accurstThat holds achievement back; from which, immersed,The spirit may not burst.Were it, at least;Not better to have sat at Circe's feast,If afterwards a beast?Than aye to bleed,To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed,And nevermore succeed?

There are some soulsWhose lot it is to set their hearts on goalsThat adverse Fate controls.

There are some souls

Whose lot it is to set their hearts on goals

That adverse Fate controls.

While others winWith little labor through life's dust and din,And lord-like enter in

While others win

With little labor through life's dust and din,

And lord-like enter in

Immortal gates;And, of Success the high-born intimates,Inherit Fame's estates....

Immortal gates;

And, of Success the high-born intimates,

Inherit Fame's estates....

Why is 't the lotOf merit oft to struggle and yet notAttain? to toil—for what?

Why is 't the lot

Of merit oft to struggle and yet not

Attain? to toil—for what?

Simply to knowThe disappointment, the despair, and woeOf effort here below?

Simply to know

The disappointment, the despair, and woe

Of effort here below?

Ambitious still to reachThose lofty peaks, which men, aspiring, preach,For which their souls beseech:

Ambitious still to reach

Those lofty peaks, which men, aspiring, preach,

For which their souls beseech:

Those heights that swellRemote, removed, and unattainable,Pinnacle on pinnacle:

Those heights that swell

Remote, removed, and unattainable,

Pinnacle on pinnacle:

Still yearning to attainTheir far repose, above life's stress and strain,But all in vain, in vain!...

Still yearning to attain

Their far repose, above life's stress and strain,

But all in vain, in vain!...

Why hath God putGreat longings in some souls and straightway shutAll doors of their clay hut?

Why hath God put

Great longings in some souls and straightway shut

All doors of their clay hut?

The clay accurstThat holds achievement back; from which, immersed,The spirit may not burst.

The clay accurst

That holds achievement back; from which, immersed,

The spirit may not burst.

Were it, at least;Not better to have sat at Circe's feast,If afterwards a beast?

Were it, at least;

Not better to have sat at Circe's feast,

If afterwards a beast?

Than aye to bleed,To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed,And nevermore succeed?

Than aye to bleed,

To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed,

And nevermore succeed?

Let us mix a cup of JoyThat the wretched may employ,Whom the Fates have made their toy.Who have given brain and heartTo the thankless world of Art,And from Fame have won no part.Who have labored long at thought;Starved and toiled and all for naught;Sought and found not what they sought.Let our goblet be the skullOf a fool; made beautifulWith a gold nor base nor dull:Gold of madcap fancies, onceIt contained, that,—sage or dunce,—Each can read whoever runs.First we pour the liquid lightOf our dreams in; then the brightBeauty that makes day of night.Let this be the must wherefrom,In due time, the mettlesomeCare-destroying drink shall come.Folly next: with which mix inLaughter of a child of sin,And the red of mouth and chin.These shall give the tang thereto,Effervescence and rich hueWhich to all good wine are due.Then into our cup we pressOne wild kiss of wantonness,And a glance that says not less.Sparkles both that give a fineLustre to the drink divine,Necessary to good wine.Lastly in the goblet goesSweet a love-song, then a roseWarmed uponherbreast's repose.These bouquet our drink.—Now measureWith your arm the waist you treasure—Lift the cup and drink to Pleasure.

Let us mix a cup of JoyThat the wretched may employ,Whom the Fates have made their toy.

Let us mix a cup of Joy

That the wretched may employ,

Whom the Fates have made their toy.

Who have given brain and heartTo the thankless world of Art,And from Fame have won no part.

Who have given brain and heart

To the thankless world of Art,

And from Fame have won no part.

Who have labored long at thought;Starved and toiled and all for naught;Sought and found not what they sought.

Who have labored long at thought;

Starved and toiled and all for naught;

Sought and found not what they sought.

Let our goblet be the skullOf a fool; made beautifulWith a gold nor base nor dull:

Let our goblet be the skull

Of a fool; made beautiful

With a gold nor base nor dull:

Gold of madcap fancies, onceIt contained, that,—sage or dunce,—Each can read whoever runs.

Gold of madcap fancies, once

It contained, that,—sage or dunce,—

Each can read whoever runs.

First we pour the liquid lightOf our dreams in; then the brightBeauty that makes day of night.

First we pour the liquid light

Of our dreams in; then the bright

Beauty that makes day of night.

Let this be the must wherefrom,In due time, the mettlesomeCare-destroying drink shall come.

Let this be the must wherefrom,

In due time, the mettlesome

Care-destroying drink shall come.

Folly next: with which mix inLaughter of a child of sin,And the red of mouth and chin.

Folly next: with which mix in

Laughter of a child of sin,

And the red of mouth and chin.

These shall give the tang thereto,Effervescence and rich hueWhich to all good wine are due.

These shall give the tang thereto,

Effervescence and rich hue

Which to all good wine are due.

Then into our cup we pressOne wild kiss of wantonness,And a glance that says not less.

Then into our cup we press

One wild kiss of wantonness,

And a glance that says not less.

Sparkles both that give a fineLustre to the drink divine,Necessary to good wine.

Sparkles both that give a fine

Lustre to the drink divine,

Necessary to good wine.

Lastly in the goblet goesSweet a love-song, then a roseWarmed uponherbreast's repose.

Lastly in the goblet goes

Sweet a love-song, then a rose

Warmed uponherbreast's repose.

These bouquet our drink.—Now measureWith your arm the waist you treasure—Lift the cup and drink to Pleasure.

These bouquet our drink.—Now measure

With your arm the waist you treasure—

Lift the cup and drink to Pleasure.

IUnto her fragrant face and hair,—As some wild-bee unto a rose,That blooms in splendid beauty thereWithin the South,—my longing goes:My longing, that is overfainTo call her mine, but all in vain;Since jealous Death, as each one knows,Is guardian of La belle Heléne;Of her whose face is very fair—To my despair,Ah, belle Heléne.IIThe sweetness of her face suggestsThe sensuous scented Jacqueminots;Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;Her hands, long lilies in repose:Fair flowers all without a stain,That grow for Death to pluck again,Within that garden's radiant close.The body of La belle Heléne;The garden glad that she suggests,—That Death invests,Ah, belle Heléne.IIIGod had been kinder to me,—whenHe dipped His hands in fires and snowsAnd made you like a flower to ken,A flower that in Earth's garden grows,—Had He, for pleasure or for pain,Instead of Death in that domain,Made Love the gardener to that rose,Your loveliness, O belle Heléne!God had been kinder to me then—Me of all men,Ah, belle Heléne.

Unto her fragrant face and hair,—As some wild-bee unto a rose,That blooms in splendid beauty thereWithin the South,—my longing goes:My longing, that is overfainTo call her mine, but all in vain;Since jealous Death, as each one knows,Is guardian of La belle Heléne;Of her whose face is very fair—To my despair,Ah, belle Heléne.

Unto her fragrant face and hair,—

As some wild-bee unto a rose,

That blooms in splendid beauty there

Within the South,—my longing goes:

My longing, that is overfain

To call her mine, but all in vain;

Since jealous Death, as each one knows,

Is guardian of La belle Heléne;

Of her whose face is very fair—

To my despair,

Ah, belle Heléne.

The sweetness of her face suggestsThe sensuous scented Jacqueminots;Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;Her hands, long lilies in repose:Fair flowers all without a stain,That grow for Death to pluck again,Within that garden's radiant close.The body of La belle Heléne;The garden glad that she suggests,—That Death invests,Ah, belle Heléne.

The sweetness of her face suggests

The sensuous scented Jacqueminots;

Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts;

Her hands, long lilies in repose:

Fair flowers all without a stain,

That grow for Death to pluck again,

Within that garden's radiant close.

The body of La belle Heléne;

The garden glad that she suggests,—

That Death invests,

Ah, belle Heléne.

III

God had been kinder to me,—whenHe dipped His hands in fires and snowsAnd made you like a flower to ken,A flower that in Earth's garden grows,—Had He, for pleasure or for pain,Instead of Death in that domain,Made Love the gardener to that rose,Your loveliness, O belle Heléne!God had been kinder to me then—Me of all men,Ah, belle Heléne.

God had been kinder to me,—when

He dipped His hands in fires and snows

And made you like a flower to ken,

A flower that in Earth's garden grows,—

Had He, for pleasure or for pain,

Instead of Death in that domain,

Made Love the gardener to that rose,

Your loveliness, O belle Heléne!

God had been kinder to me then—

Me of all men,

Ah, belle Heléne.

Loss molds our lives in many ways,And fills our souls with guesses;Upon our hearts sad hands it laysLike some grave priest that blesses.Far better than the love we win,That earthly passions leaven,Is love we lose, that knows no sin,That points the path to Heaven.Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth,Through whom our dreams are nearest;And loss, through whom we see the worthOf all that we held dearest.Not joy it is, but miseryThat chastens us, and sorrow;—Perhaps to make us all that weExpect beyond To-morrow.Within that life where time and fateAre not; that knows no seeming:That world to which Death keeps the gateWhere Love and Loss sit dreaming.

Loss molds our lives in many ways,And fills our souls with guesses;Upon our hearts sad hands it laysLike some grave priest that blesses.

Loss molds our lives in many ways,

And fills our souls with guesses;

Upon our hearts sad hands it lays

Like some grave priest that blesses.

Far better than the love we win,That earthly passions leaven,Is love we lose, that knows no sin,That points the path to Heaven.

Far better than the love we win,

That earthly passions leaven,

Is love we lose, that knows no sin,

That points the path to Heaven.

Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth,Through whom our dreams are nearest;And loss, through whom we see the worthOf all that we held dearest.

Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth,

Through whom our dreams are nearest;

And loss, through whom we see the worth

Of all that we held dearest.

Not joy it is, but miseryThat chastens us, and sorrow;—Perhaps to make us all that weExpect beyond To-morrow.

Not joy it is, but misery

That chastens us, and sorrow;—

Perhaps to make us all that we

Expect beyond To-morrow.

Within that life where time and fateAre not; that knows no seeming:That world to which Death keeps the gateWhere Love and Loss sit dreaming.

Within that life where time and fate

Are not; that knows no seeming:

That world to which Death keeps the gate

Where Love and Loss sit dreaming.

II do not love you now,O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still deniedFood when mine hungered; and of which love died—I do not love you now.III do not love you now,O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did giveNo drop to drink to help my love to live—I do not love you now.IIII do not love you now!But did I love you in the old, old way,And knew you loved me—'though the words should slayMe and your love forever, I would say,"I do not love you now!I do not love you now!"

I do not love you now,O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still deniedFood when mine hungered; and of which love died—I do not love you now.

I do not love you now,

O narrow heart, that had no heights but pride!

You, whom mine fed; to whom yours still denied

Food when mine hungered; and of which love died—

I do not love you now.

I do not love you now,O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did giveNo drop to drink to help my love to live—I do not love you now.

I do not love you now,

O shallow soul, with depths but to deceive!

You, whom mine watered; to whom yours did give

No drop to drink to help my love to live—

I do not love you now.

III

I do not love you now!But did I love you in the old, old way,And knew you loved me—'though the words should slayMe and your love forever, I would say,"I do not love you now!I do not love you now!"

I do not love you now!

But did I love you in the old, old way,

And knew you loved me—'though the words should slay

Me and your love forever, I would say,

"I do not love you now!

I do not love you now!"

The hills look down on wood and streamOn orchard-land and farm;And o'er the hills the azure-grayOf heaven bends the livelong day,And all the winds blow warm.On wood and stream the hills look down,On farm and orchard-land;And o'er the hills she came to meThrough wildrose-brake and blackberry,The hill-winds hand in hand.The hills look down on home and field,On wood and winding stream;And o'er the hills she came along,Upon her lips a wildwood song,And in her eyes a dream.On home and field the hills look down,On stream and hill-locked wood;And breast-deep, with disordered hair,Fair in the wildrose tangle there,A sudden while she stood.O hills, that look on rock and road,On grove and harvest-field,To whom God giveth rest and peace,And slumber, that is kin to these,And visions unrevealed!O hills, that look on road and rock,On field and fruited grove,No more shall I find peace and restIn you, since entered in my breastGod's sweet unrest of love!

The hills look down on wood and streamOn orchard-land and farm;And o'er the hills the azure-grayOf heaven bends the livelong day,And all the winds blow warm.

The hills look down on wood and stream

On orchard-land and farm;

And o'er the hills the azure-gray

Of heaven bends the livelong day,

And all the winds blow warm.

On wood and stream the hills look down,On farm and orchard-land;And o'er the hills she came to meThrough wildrose-brake and blackberry,The hill-winds hand in hand.

On wood and stream the hills look down,

On farm and orchard-land;

And o'er the hills she came to me

Through wildrose-brake and blackberry,

The hill-winds hand in hand.

The hills look down on home and field,On wood and winding stream;And o'er the hills she came along,Upon her lips a wildwood song,And in her eyes a dream.

The hills look down on home and field,

On wood and winding stream;

And o'er the hills she came along,

Upon her lips a wildwood song,

And in her eyes a dream.

On home and field the hills look down,On stream and hill-locked wood;And breast-deep, with disordered hair,Fair in the wildrose tangle there,A sudden while she stood.

On home and field the hills look down,

On stream and hill-locked wood;

And breast-deep, with disordered hair,

Fair in the wildrose tangle there,

A sudden while she stood.

O hills, that look on rock and road,On grove and harvest-field,To whom God giveth rest and peace,And slumber, that is kin to these,And visions unrevealed!

O hills, that look on rock and road,

On grove and harvest-field,

To whom God giveth rest and peace,

And slumber, that is kin to these,

And visions unrevealed!

O hills, that look on road and rock,On field and fruited grove,No more shall I find peace and restIn you, since entered in my breastGod's sweet unrest of love!

O hills, that look on road and rock,

On field and fruited grove,

No more shall I find peace and rest

In you, since entered in my breast

God's sweet unrest of love!

ILast night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,And by your sheeted form stood all alone:Frail as a flower you lay upon your bed,And on your face, through the wide casement, shoneThe moonlight, pale as I, who kissed you there,So young and fair, white violets in your hair.Oh, sick with suffering was my soul; and sadTo breaking was my heart that would not break;And for my soul's great grief no tear I had,No lamentation for my heart's deep ache;Yet what I bore seemed more than I could bear,Beside you there, white violets in your hair.A white rose, blooming at the window-bar,And, glimmering in it, like a firefly caughtUpon the thorns, the light of one white star,Looked in on you, as if they felt and thought,As did my heart,—"How beautiful and fairAnd young she lies, white violets in her hair!"And so we looked upon you, white and still,The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past,Like a pale traveler, behind the hillWith all her sorrowful silver. And at lastDarkness and tears and you, who did not care,Lying so still, white violets in your hair.

Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,And by your sheeted form stood all alone:Frail as a flower you lay upon your bed,And on your face, through the wide casement, shoneThe moonlight, pale as I, who kissed you there,So young and fair, white violets in your hair.

Last night I dreamed I saw you lying dead,

And by your sheeted form stood all alone:

Frail as a flower you lay upon your bed,

And on your face, through the wide casement, shone

The moonlight, pale as I, who kissed you there,

So young and fair, white violets in your hair.

Oh, sick with suffering was my soul; and sadTo breaking was my heart that would not break;And for my soul's great grief no tear I had,No lamentation for my heart's deep ache;Yet what I bore seemed more than I could bear,Beside you there, white violets in your hair.

Oh, sick with suffering was my soul; and sad

To breaking was my heart that would not break;

And for my soul's great grief no tear I had,

No lamentation for my heart's deep ache;

Yet what I bore seemed more than I could bear,

Beside you there, white violets in your hair.

A white rose, blooming at the window-bar,And, glimmering in it, like a firefly caughtUpon the thorns, the light of one white star,Looked in on you, as if they felt and thought,As did my heart,—"How beautiful and fairAnd young she lies, white violets in her hair!"

A white rose, blooming at the window-bar,

And, glimmering in it, like a firefly caught

Upon the thorns, the light of one white star,

Looked in on you, as if they felt and thought,

As did my heart,—"How beautiful and fair

And young she lies, white violets in her hair!"

And so we looked upon you, white and still,The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past,Like a pale traveler, behind the hillWith all her sorrowful silver. And at lastDarkness and tears and you, who did not care,Lying so still, white violets in your hair.

And so we looked upon you, white and still,

The star, the rose, and I. The moon had past,

Like a pale traveler, behind the hill

With all her sorrowful silver. And at last

Darkness and tears and you, who did not care,

Lying so still, white violets in your hair.

A woman, fair to look upon,Where waters whiten with the moon;Around whom, glimmering o'er the lawn,The white moths swoon.A mouth of music; eyes of love;And hands of blended snow and scent,That touch the pearly shadow ofAn instrument.And low and sweet that song of sleepAfter the song of love is hushed;While all the longing, here, to weep,Is held and crushed.Then leafy silence, that is muskWith breath of the magnolia tree,While dwindles, moth-white, through the duskHer drapery.Let me remember how a heartWrote its romance upon that night!—God help my soul to read each partOf it aright!And like a dead leaf shut betweenA book's dull chapters, stained and dark,That page, with immemorial green,Of life I mark.IIIt is not well for me to hearThat song's appealing melody:The pain of loss comes all too near,Through it, to me.The loss of her whose love looks throughThe mist death's hand hath hung between—Within the shadow of the yewHer grave is green.Ah, dream that vanished long ago!Oh, anguish of remembered tears!And shadow of unlifted woeAthwart the years!That haunt the sad rooms of my days,As keepsakes of unperished love,Where pale the memory of her faceHangs, framed above.This olden song of love and sleep,She used to sing, is now a spellThat opens doors within the deepOf my heart's hell,In music making visibleOne soul-assertive memory,That steals unto my side to tellMy loss to me.

A woman, fair to look upon,Where waters whiten with the moon;Around whom, glimmering o'er the lawn,The white moths swoon.

A woman, fair to look upon,

Where waters whiten with the moon;

Around whom, glimmering o'er the lawn,

The white moths swoon.

A mouth of music; eyes of love;And hands of blended snow and scent,That touch the pearly shadow ofAn instrument.

A mouth of music; eyes of love;

And hands of blended snow and scent,

That touch the pearly shadow of

An instrument.

And low and sweet that song of sleepAfter the song of love is hushed;While all the longing, here, to weep,Is held and crushed.

And low and sweet that song of sleep

After the song of love is hushed;

While all the longing, here, to weep,

Is held and crushed.

Then leafy silence, that is muskWith breath of the magnolia tree,While dwindles, moth-white, through the duskHer drapery.

Then leafy silence, that is musk

With breath of the magnolia tree,

While dwindles, moth-white, through the dusk

Her drapery.

Let me remember how a heartWrote its romance upon that night!—God help my soul to read each partOf it aright!

Let me remember how a heart

Wrote its romance upon that night!—

God help my soul to read each part

Of it aright!

And like a dead leaf shut betweenA book's dull chapters, stained and dark,That page, with immemorial green,Of life I mark.

And like a dead leaf shut between

A book's dull chapters, stained and dark,

That page, with immemorial green,

Of life I mark.

It is not well for me to hearThat song's appealing melody:The pain of loss comes all too near,Through it, to me.

It is not well for me to hear

That song's appealing melody:

The pain of loss comes all too near,

Through it, to me.

The loss of her whose love looks throughThe mist death's hand hath hung between—Within the shadow of the yewHer grave is green.

The loss of her whose love looks through

The mist death's hand hath hung between—

Within the shadow of the yew

Her grave is green.

Ah, dream that vanished long ago!Oh, anguish of remembered tears!And shadow of unlifted woeAthwart the years!

Ah, dream that vanished long ago!

Oh, anguish of remembered tears!

And shadow of unlifted woe

Athwart the years!

That haunt the sad rooms of my days,As keepsakes of unperished love,Where pale the memory of her faceHangs, framed above.

That haunt the sad rooms of my days,

As keepsakes of unperished love,

Where pale the memory of her face

Hangs, framed above.

This olden song of love and sleep,She used to sing, is now a spellThat opens doors within the deepOf my heart's hell,

This olden song of love and sleep,

She used to sing, is now a spell

That opens doors within the deep

Of my heart's hell,

In music making visibleOne soul-assertive memory,That steals unto my side to tellMy loss to me.

In music making visible

One soul-assertive memory,

That steals unto my side to tell

My loss to me.

High up in the organ-storyA girl stands, slim and fair;And touched with the casement's gloryGleams out her radiant hair.The young priest kneels at the altar,Then lifts the Host above;And the psalm intoned from the psalterIs pure with patient love.A sweet bell chimes; and a censerSwings, gleaming, in the gloom;The candles glimmer and denserRolls up the pale perfume.Then high in the organ choirA voice of crystal soars,Of patience and soul's desire,That suffers and adores.And out of the altar's dimnessAn answering voice doth swell,Of passion that cries from the grimnessAnd anguish of its own hell.High up in the organ-storyOne kneels with a girlish grace;And, touched with the vesper glory,Lifts her madonna face.One stands at the cloudy altar,A form bowed down and thin;The text of the psalm in the psalterHe chants is sorrow and sin.

High up in the organ-storyA girl stands, slim and fair;And touched with the casement's gloryGleams out her radiant hair.

High up in the organ-story

A girl stands, slim and fair;

And touched with the casement's glory

Gleams out her radiant hair.

The young priest kneels at the altar,Then lifts the Host above;And the psalm intoned from the psalterIs pure with patient love.

The young priest kneels at the altar,

Then lifts the Host above;

And the psalm intoned from the psalter

Is pure with patient love.

A sweet bell chimes; and a censerSwings, gleaming, in the gloom;The candles glimmer and denserRolls up the pale perfume.

A sweet bell chimes; and a censer

Swings, gleaming, in the gloom;

The candles glimmer and denser

Rolls up the pale perfume.

Then high in the organ choirA voice of crystal soars,Of patience and soul's desire,That suffers and adores.

Then high in the organ choir

A voice of crystal soars,

Of patience and soul's desire,

That suffers and adores.

And out of the altar's dimnessAn answering voice doth swell,Of passion that cries from the grimnessAnd anguish of its own hell.

And out of the altar's dimness

An answering voice doth swell,

Of passion that cries from the grimness

And anguish of its own hell.

High up in the organ-storyOne kneels with a girlish grace;And, touched with the vesper glory,Lifts her madonna face.

High up in the organ-story

One kneels with a girlish grace;

And, touched with the vesper glory,

Lifts her madonna face.

One stands at the cloudy altar,A form bowed down and thin;The text of the psalm in the psalterHe chants is sorrow and sin.

One stands at the cloudy altar,

A form bowed down and thin;

The text of the psalm in the psalter

He chants is sorrow and sin.

Transcriber notes:P.61. Stanza 'X' should be 'IX', changed to 'IX'.P.178. Added end quotation and the end of the stanza.P.274. Added opening quote to "My heart is full of lightness!".Fixed various punctuation.

Transcriber notes:

P.61. Stanza 'X' should be 'IX', changed to 'IX'.

P.178. Added end quotation and the end of the stanza.

P.274. Added opening quote to "My heart is full of lightness!".

Fixed various punctuation.

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