KU KLUX

IThe leaves are shivering on the thorn,Drearily;And sighing wakes the sad-eyed morn,Wearily.I press my thin face to the pane,Drearily;But never will he come again.Wearily.The rain hath sicklied day with haze,Drearily;My tears run downward as I gaze,Wearily.The mist and morn spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing God gives to thee,Wearily?"I said unto the morn and mist,Drearily:—"The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed,Wearily."The morn and mist spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing which thou dost see,Wearily?"I said unto the mist and morn,Drearily:—"The shame of man and woman's scorn,Wearily.""He loved thee not," they made reply,Drearily.—I said, "Would God had let me die!"Wearily.IIMy hopes are as a closed-up book,Drearily,Upon whose clasp of love I lookWearily.All night the rain raved overhead,Drearily;All night I wept, awake in bed,Wearily.I heard the wind sweep wild and wide,Drearily;And turned upon my face and sighedWearily.The wind and rain spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing God takes from thee,Wearily?"I said unto the rain and wind,Drearily:—"The love, for which my body sinned,Wearily."The rain and wind spake unto me,Drearily:—"What are these things that burden thee,Wearily?"I said unto the wind and rain,Drearily:—"Past joys, and dreams whose ghosts remain,Wearily.""Thou lov'st him still," they made reply,Drearily.—I said, "Would God that I could die!"Wearily.

The leaves are shivering on the thorn,Drearily;And sighing wakes the sad-eyed morn,Wearily.

The leaves are shivering on the thorn,

Drearily;

And sighing wakes the sad-eyed morn,

Wearily.

I press my thin face to the pane,Drearily;But never will he come again.Wearily.

I press my thin face to the pane,

Drearily;

But never will he come again.

Wearily.

The rain hath sicklied day with haze,Drearily;My tears run downward as I gaze,Wearily.

The rain hath sicklied day with haze,

Drearily;

My tears run downward as I gaze,

Wearily.

The mist and morn spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing God gives to thee,Wearily?"

The mist and morn spake unto me,

Drearily:—

"What is this thing God gives to thee,

Wearily?"

I said unto the morn and mist,Drearily:—"The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed,Wearily."

I said unto the morn and mist,

Drearily:—

"The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed,

Wearily."

The morn and mist spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing which thou dost see,Wearily?"

The morn and mist spake unto me,

Drearily:—

"What is this thing which thou dost see,

Wearily?"

I said unto the mist and morn,Drearily:—"The shame of man and woman's scorn,Wearily."

I said unto the mist and morn,

Drearily:—

"The shame of man and woman's scorn,

Wearily."

"He loved thee not," they made reply,Drearily.—I said, "Would God had let me die!"Wearily.

"He loved thee not," they made reply,

Drearily.—

I said, "Would God had let me die!"

Wearily.

My hopes are as a closed-up book,Drearily,Upon whose clasp of love I lookWearily.

My hopes are as a closed-up book,

Drearily,

Upon whose clasp of love I look

Wearily.

All night the rain raved overhead,Drearily;All night I wept, awake in bed,Wearily.

All night the rain raved overhead,

Drearily;

All night I wept, awake in bed,

Wearily.

I heard the wind sweep wild and wide,Drearily;And turned upon my face and sighedWearily.

I heard the wind sweep wild and wide,

Drearily;

And turned upon my face and sighed

Wearily.

The wind and rain spake unto me,Drearily:—"What is this thing God takes from thee,Wearily?"

The wind and rain spake unto me,

Drearily:—

"What is this thing God takes from thee,

Wearily?"

I said unto the rain and wind,Drearily:—"The love, for which my body sinned,Wearily."

I said unto the rain and wind,

Drearily:—

"The love, for which my body sinned,

Wearily."

The rain and wind spake unto me,Drearily:—"What are these things that burden thee,Wearily?"

The rain and wind spake unto me,

Drearily:—

"What are these things that burden thee,

Wearily?"

I said unto the wind and rain,Drearily:—"Past joys, and dreams whose ghosts remain,Wearily."

I said unto the wind and rain,

Drearily:—

"Past joys, and dreams whose ghosts remain,

Wearily."

"Thou lov'st him still," they made reply,Drearily.—I said, "Would God that I could die!"Wearily.

"Thou lov'st him still," they made reply,

Drearily.—

I said, "Would God that I could die!"

Wearily.

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door:By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black;Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack.Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.The clouds blow heavy toward the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The kildee cries and the lonesome loon.The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with its angled flare,When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's signal—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?Only the signature, written grimAt the end of the message brought to him—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,And nailed a warning upon his door:By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

We have sent him seeds of the melon's core,

And nailed a warning upon his door:

By the Ku Klux laws we can do no more.

Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,The roof of his low-porched house looms black;Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack.

Down in the hollow, 'mid crib and stack,

The roof of his low-porched house looms black;

Not a line of light at the door-sill's crack.

Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.

Yet arm and mount! and mask and ride!

The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!

And for a word too much men oft have died.

The clouds blow heavy toward the moon.The edge of the storm will reach it soon.The kildee cries and the lonesome loon.

The clouds blow heavy toward the moon.

The edge of the storm will reach it soon.

The kildee cries and the lonesome loon.

The clouds shall flush with a wilder glareThan the lightning makes with its angled flare,When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.

The clouds shall flush with a wilder glare

Than the lightning makes with its angled flare,

When the Ku Klux verdict is given there.

In the pause of the thunder rolling low,A rifle's signal—who shall knowFrom the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?

In the pause of the thunder rolling low,

A rifle's signal—who shall know

From the wind's fierce hurl and the rain's black blow?

Only the signature, written grimAt the end of the message brought to him—A hempen rope and a twisted limb.

Only the signature, written grim

At the end of the message brought to him—

A hempen rope and a twisted limb.

So arm and mount! and mask and ride!The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!And for a word too much men oft have died.

So arm and mount! and mask and ride!

The hounds can sense though the fox may hide!

And for a word too much men oft have died.

Far off I heard dark waters rush:The sky was cold: the dawn broke green:And wrapped in twilight and strange hushThe gray wind moaned between.A voice rang through the House of Sleep,And through its halls there went a tread;Mysterious raiment seemed to sweepAround one lying dead.And then I knew that I had died,I, who had suffered so and sinned—And 'twas myself I stood besideIn the gray dawn and wind.

Far off I heard dark waters rush:The sky was cold: the dawn broke green:And wrapped in twilight and strange hushThe gray wind moaned between.

Far off I heard dark waters rush:

The sky was cold: the dawn broke green:

And wrapped in twilight and strange hush

The gray wind moaned between.

A voice rang through the House of Sleep,And through its halls there went a tread;Mysterious raiment seemed to sweepAround one lying dead.

A voice rang through the House of Sleep,

And through its halls there went a tread;

Mysterious raiment seemed to sweep

Around one lying dead.

And then I knew that I had died,I, who had suffered so and sinned—And 'twas myself I stood besideIn the gray dawn and wind.

And then I knew that I had died,

I, who had suffered so and sinned—

And 'twas myself I stood beside

In the gray dawn and wind.

ILow belts of rushes ragged with the blast;Lagoons of marish reddening with the west;And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrestWhile daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast.Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past,An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest;A garden where death drowses manifest;And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last.Here, like an unseen spirit, silence talksWith echo and the wind in each gray roomWhere melancholy slumbers with the rain:Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walksIn the dim garden, which her smile makes bloomWith all the old-time loveliness again.IIWhen slow the twilight settles o'er its roof,And from the haggard oaks unto its doorThe rain comes, wild as one who rides beforeHis enemies that follow, hoof to hoof;And in each window's gusty curtain-woofThe rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'erSome tale of love and crime; and, on the floor,The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof:—From hall to hall and haunted stair to stair,Through all the house, a dread, that drags me to'ardThe ancient dusk of that avoided room,Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair,And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom,Waking the ghost of that old harpsichord.

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast;Lagoons of marish reddening with the west;And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrestWhile daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast.Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past,An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest;A garden where death drowses manifest;And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last.Here, like an unseen spirit, silence talksWith echo and the wind in each gray roomWhere melancholy slumbers with the rain:Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walksIn the dim garden, which her smile makes bloomWith all the old-time loveliness again.

Low belts of rushes ragged with the blast;

Lagoons of marish reddening with the west;

And o'er the marsh the water-fowl's unrest

While daylight dwindles and the dusk falls fast.

Set in sad walls, all mossy with the past,

An old stone gateway with a crumbling crest;

A garden where death drowses manifest;

And in gaunt yews the shadowy house at last.

Here, like an unseen spirit, silence talks

With echo and the wind in each gray room

Where melancholy slumbers with the rain:

Or, like some gentle ghost, the moonlight walks

In the dim garden, which her smile makes bloom

With all the old-time loveliness again.

When slow the twilight settles o'er its roof,And from the haggard oaks unto its doorThe rain comes, wild as one who rides beforeHis enemies that follow, hoof to hoof;And in each window's gusty curtain-woofThe rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'erSome tale of love and crime; and, on the floor,The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof:—From hall to hall and haunted stair to stair,Through all the house, a dread, that drags me to'ardThe ancient dusk of that avoided room,Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair,And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom,Waking the ghost of that old harpsichord.

When slow the twilight settles o'er its roof,

And from the haggard oaks unto its door

The rain comes, wild as one who rides before

His enemies that follow, hoof to hoof;

And in each window's gusty curtain-woof

The rain-wind sighs, like one who mutters o'er

Some tale of love and crime; and, on the floor,

The sunset spreads red stains as bloody proof:—

From hall to hall and haunted stair to stair,

Through all the house, a dread, that drags me to'ard

The ancient dusk of that avoided room,

Wherein she sits with ghostly golden hair,

And eyes that gaze beyond her soul's sad doom,

Waking the ghost of that old harpsichord.

IA moth sucks at a flaming flower:The moon beams on the old church-tower:I watched the moth and rising moon,One silver tipOf glimmer, slipThrough ghostly tree-tops, deep with June,To dream above the church an hour.IIThe gray moth on the dewy podDreams; and the sleepy poppies nodTheir drugged heads in the languid breeze,That whispers lowOf some dim woe,And spirit-like among the trees,Strews snowy petals on the sod.IIIMy soul dreams at life's blood-red heartOf that thou art: of thee, who artAll silence: saying something fairAs phantoms knowWhen moon-flowers blowAnd spirits meet: the beauty rareOf which thou, too, hast grown a part.IVMy heart, behold, is but a bloomA pale thought clings to by a tomb,A tomb that holds the one I love,All wan of cheek,Whom, wild and weak,My heart bows down and breaks above,Grief-haunted in the moonlit gloom.

A moth sucks at a flaming flower:The moon beams on the old church-tower:I watched the moth and rising moon,One silver tipOf glimmer, slipThrough ghostly tree-tops, deep with June,To dream above the church an hour.

A moth sucks at a flaming flower:

The moon beams on the old church-tower:

I watched the moth and rising moon,

One silver tip

Of glimmer, slip

Through ghostly tree-tops, deep with June,

To dream above the church an hour.

The gray moth on the dewy podDreams; and the sleepy poppies nodTheir drugged heads in the languid breeze,That whispers lowOf some dim woe,And spirit-like among the trees,Strews snowy petals on the sod.

The gray moth on the dewy pod

Dreams; and the sleepy poppies nod

Their drugged heads in the languid breeze,

That whispers low

Of some dim woe,

And spirit-like among the trees,

Strews snowy petals on the sod.

III

My soul dreams at life's blood-red heartOf that thou art: of thee, who artAll silence: saying something fairAs phantoms knowWhen moon-flowers blowAnd spirits meet: the beauty rareOf which thou, too, hast grown a part.

My soul dreams at life's blood-red heart

Of that thou art: of thee, who art

All silence: saying something fair

As phantoms know

When moon-flowers blow

And spirits meet: the beauty rare

Of which thou, too, hast grown a part.

My heart, behold, is but a bloomA pale thought clings to by a tomb,A tomb that holds the one I love,All wan of cheek,Whom, wild and weak,My heart bows down and breaks above,Grief-haunted in the moonlit gloom.

My heart, behold, is but a bloom

A pale thought clings to by a tomb,

A tomb that holds the one I love,

All wan of cheek,

Whom, wild and weak,

My heart bows down and breaks above,

Grief-haunted in the moonlit gloom.

IUplifted darkness and the owl-light breaks,Scuds the wild land, pursuing patch with patch,As when deep daisy fields a swift wind shakes.—How clumsily I raised the crazy latch!...So.—When yon black cloud, light-absorbing, rakesAgain the moon's bald disk—Out! and the storm will snatchAgain my hair, made lank with wind and rainTwo hours since.... There! from the ragged plainA great cloud-besom sweeps the beams again!—Out! out!... No fear of risk?...IIFirst, past the fellside, where the bramble-hollowWhines, wolf-like, with the wind; gaunt wind, that grievesThrough the one sickly ash, whose withered leavesWorry and mutter, shriveled as the lipsOf bent hags kissing. Then—the slope that whipsThe face with brush; and where a gnarled vine slips,Snake-like, from off a rock, that seems to wallow,—One mass of briers,—a humpbacked hulk of hair,A gorgon head of writhings, huge, that heaves,When, heaped abruptly on it,flare!Burst rain and tempest-glare.—This passed, I followA thorny slip of path untilI reach the storm-scarred summit of the hill.IIILet me not think of it!—as I go thence,—That thought I can not kill!Ungovernable! that dogs my footsteps still,Like something real and living; which my willIs powerless against.—Ah! when that fence,Dividing the dark ridges of the hill,Is passed, shall I not then be breathless? illWith sinking senseOf ghastly things to come?—Some sterner strengthSustain my soul!—Beyond the hill the denseDead wood's to pass, and then ... that livid lengthOf mooning water, spectral and immenseWith sullen storm and night....There, if the ghoulish wind,—That knows well as I know how I have sinned,—Will cease to curse me in its hag-like spite,Alone with all the horror of my soul,I shall behold,Now this way, and now that way rolled,Lifeless, among cramped reeds, the storm has thinned,—With wide, white eyes, metallic in the lightOf the impassive moon:—in gusty rollOf washing ripples, webby, slippery locksDabbling and dark; and,—wedged between sharp rocks,—Two rocks, two iron fangs,Whereon the lake's mad lip, pale-foaming clangs,—Wild-pinched and water-strangled white,His murdered face! that mocks.

Uplifted darkness and the owl-light breaks,Scuds the wild land, pursuing patch with patch,As when deep daisy fields a swift wind shakes.—How clumsily I raised the crazy latch!...So.—When yon black cloud, light-absorbing, rakesAgain the moon's bald disk—Out! and the storm will snatchAgain my hair, made lank with wind and rainTwo hours since.... There! from the ragged plainA great cloud-besom sweeps the beams again!—Out! out!... No fear of risk?...

Uplifted darkness and the owl-light breaks,

Scuds the wild land, pursuing patch with patch,

As when deep daisy fields a swift wind shakes.—

How clumsily I raised the crazy latch!...

So.—When yon black cloud, light-absorbing, rakes

Again the moon's bald disk—

Out! and the storm will snatch

Again my hair, made lank with wind and rain

Two hours since.... There! from the ragged plain

A great cloud-besom sweeps the beams again!—

Out! out!... No fear of risk?...

First, past the fellside, where the bramble-hollowWhines, wolf-like, with the wind; gaunt wind, that grievesThrough the one sickly ash, whose withered leavesWorry and mutter, shriveled as the lipsOf bent hags kissing. Then—the slope that whipsThe face with brush; and where a gnarled vine slips,Snake-like, from off a rock, that seems to wallow,—One mass of briers,—a humpbacked hulk of hair,A gorgon head of writhings, huge, that heaves,When, heaped abruptly on it,flare!Burst rain and tempest-glare.—This passed, I followA thorny slip of path untilI reach the storm-scarred summit of the hill.

First, past the fellside, where the bramble-hollow

Whines, wolf-like, with the wind; gaunt wind, that grieves

Through the one sickly ash, whose withered leaves

Worry and mutter, shriveled as the lips

Of bent hags kissing. Then—the slope that whips

The face with brush; and where a gnarled vine slips,

Snake-like, from off a rock, that seems to wallow,—

One mass of briers,—a humpbacked hulk of hair,

A gorgon head of writhings, huge, that heaves,

When, heaped abruptly on it,flare!

Burst rain and tempest-glare.—

This passed, I follow

A thorny slip of path until

I reach the storm-scarred summit of the hill.

III

Let me not think of it!—as I go thence,—That thought I can not kill!Ungovernable! that dogs my footsteps still,Like something real and living; which my willIs powerless against.—Ah! when that fence,Dividing the dark ridges of the hill,Is passed, shall I not then be breathless? illWith sinking senseOf ghastly things to come?—Some sterner strengthSustain my soul!—Beyond the hill the denseDead wood's to pass, and then ... that livid lengthOf mooning water, spectral and immenseWith sullen storm and night....There, if the ghoulish wind,—That knows well as I know how I have sinned,—Will cease to curse me in its hag-like spite,Alone with all the horror of my soul,I shall behold,Now this way, and now that way rolled,Lifeless, among cramped reeds, the storm has thinned,—With wide, white eyes, metallic in the lightOf the impassive moon:—in gusty rollOf washing ripples, webby, slippery locksDabbling and dark; and,—wedged between sharp rocks,—Two rocks, two iron fangs,Whereon the lake's mad lip, pale-foaming clangs,—Wild-pinched and water-strangled white,His murdered face! that mocks.

Let me not think of it!—as I go thence,—

That thought I can not kill!

Ungovernable! that dogs my footsteps still,

Like something real and living; which my will

Is powerless against.—Ah! when that fence,

Dividing the dark ridges of the hill,

Is passed, shall I not then be breathless? ill

With sinking sense

Of ghastly things to come?—Some sterner strength

Sustain my soul!—Beyond the hill the dense

Dead wood's to pass, and then ... that livid length

Of mooning water, spectral and immense

With sullen storm and night....

There, if the ghoulish wind,—

That knows well as I know how I have sinned,—

Will cease to curse me in its hag-like spite,

Alone with all the horror of my soul,

I shall behold,

Now this way, and now that way rolled,

Lifeless, among cramped reeds, the storm has thinned,—

With wide, white eyes, metallic in the light

Of the impassive moon:—in gusty roll

Of washing ripples, webby, slippery locks

Dabbling and dark; and,—wedged between sharp rocks,—

Two rocks, two iron fangs,

Whereon the lake's mad lip, pale-foaming clangs,—

Wild-pinched and water-strangled white,

His murdered face! that mocks.

Come! look in the shadowy water here,The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,What is the thing that lies there?—A lily-pod, half-sunk from sight?Or spawn of the toad, all water-white?Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?Or a woman's face and eyes there?Now lean to the water a listening ear,The haunted water of Ashly Mere:What is the sound that you seem to hearIn the ghostly hush of the deeps there?—A withered reed, that the ripple lips?Or a night-bird's wing, that the surface whips?Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?Or a woman's voice that weeps there?Now look and listen! but not too nearThe lonely water of Ashly Mere!—For so it happens this time each yearAs you lean by the Mere and listen:And the moaning voice I understand,—For oft I have watched it draw to land,And lift from the water a ghastly handAnd a face whose dead eyes glisten.And this is the reason why every yearTo the hideous water of Ashly MereI come when the woodland leaves are sear,And the autumn moon hangs hoary:For here by the Mere was wrought a wrongBut the old, old story is overlong—And woman is weak and man is strong,And the Mere's and mine is the story.

Come! look in the shadowy water here,

The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:

Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,

What is the thing that lies there?—

A lily-pod, half-sunk from sight?

Or spawn of the toad, all water-white?

Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?

Or a woman's face and eyes there?

Now lean to the water a listening ear,The haunted water of Ashly Mere:What is the sound that you seem to hearIn the ghostly hush of the deeps there?—A withered reed, that the ripple lips?Or a night-bird's wing, that the surface whips?Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?Or a woman's voice that weeps there?

Now lean to the water a listening ear,

The haunted water of Ashly Mere:

What is the sound that you seem to hear

In the ghostly hush of the deeps there?—

A withered reed, that the ripple lips?

Or a night-bird's wing, that the surface whips?

Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?

Or a woman's voice that weeps there?

Now look and listen! but not too nearThe lonely water of Ashly Mere!—For so it happens this time each yearAs you lean by the Mere and listen:And the moaning voice I understand,—For oft I have watched it draw to land,And lift from the water a ghastly handAnd a face whose dead eyes glisten.

Now look and listen! but not too near

The lonely water of Ashly Mere!—

For so it happens this time each year

As you lean by the Mere and listen:

And the moaning voice I understand,—

For oft I have watched it draw to land,

And lift from the water a ghastly hand

And a face whose dead eyes glisten.

And this is the reason why every yearTo the hideous water of Ashly MereI come when the woodland leaves are sear,And the autumn moon hangs hoary:For here by the Mere was wrought a wrongBut the old, old story is overlong—And woman is weak and man is strong,And the Mere's and mine is the story.

And this is the reason why every year

To the hideous water of Ashly Mere

I come when the woodland leaves are sear,

And the autumn moon hangs hoary:

For here by the Mere was wrought a wrong

But the old, old story is overlong—

And woman is weak and man is strong,

And the Mere's and mine is the story.

On the black road through the wood,As I rode,There the Headless Horseman stood,By the dark pool in the wood,As I rode.From the shadow of an oak,As I rode,Demon steed and rider broke;By the thunder-riven oak,As I rode.On the wild way through the plain,As I rode,At my back he whirled like rain;On the tempest-blackened plain,As I rode.Four black hoofs shod red with fire,As I rode,Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire;Eyes and nostrils streaming fire,As I rode.On the deep path through the rocks,As I rode,I could touch his horse's locks;Through the echo-hurling rocks,As I rode.And again I looked behind,As I rode—Dark as night and swift as wind,Towering, he rode behind,As I rode.On the steep road through the dell,As I rode,Far away I heard a bell,In the church beyond the dell,As I rode.And my soul cried out in prayer,As I rode—Lo! the demon went in air,When my soul called out in prayer,As I rode.

On the black road through the wood,As I rode,There the Headless Horseman stood,By the dark pool in the wood,As I rode.

On the black road through the wood,

As I rode,

There the Headless Horseman stood,

By the dark pool in the wood,

As I rode.

From the shadow of an oak,As I rode,Demon steed and rider broke;By the thunder-riven oak,As I rode.

From the shadow of an oak,

As I rode,

Demon steed and rider broke;

By the thunder-riven oak,

As I rode.

On the wild way through the plain,As I rode,At my back he whirled like rain;On the tempest-blackened plain,As I rode.

On the wild way through the plain,

As I rode,

At my back he whirled like rain;

On the tempest-blackened plain,

As I rode.

Four black hoofs shod red with fire,As I rode,Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire;Eyes and nostrils streaming fire,As I rode.

Four black hoofs shod red with fire,

As I rode,

Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire;

Eyes and nostrils streaming fire,

As I rode.

On the deep path through the rocks,As I rode,I could touch his horse's locks;Through the echo-hurling rocks,As I rode.

On the deep path through the rocks,

As I rode,

I could touch his horse's locks;

Through the echo-hurling rocks,

As I rode.

And again I looked behind,As I rode—Dark as night and swift as wind,Towering, he rode behind,As I rode.

And again I looked behind,

As I rode—

Dark as night and swift as wind,

Towering, he rode behind,

As I rode.

On the steep road through the dell,As I rode,Far away I heard a bell,In the church beyond the dell,As I rode.

On the steep road through the dell,

As I rode,

Far away I heard a bell,

In the church beyond the dell,

As I rode.

And my soul cried out in prayer,As I rode—Lo! the demon went in air,When my soul called out in prayer,As I rode.

And my soul cried out in prayer,

As I rode—

Lo! the demon went in air,

When my soul called out in prayer,

As I rode.

SheNay; still amort, my love?—Why dost thou lag?HeThe strix-owl cried.SheNay! 'twas yon stream that leapsHoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps;Its moon-wild water glittering down the crag.—Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?HeThe Demon Huntsman passed with hooting horn!SheNay! 'twas the blind wind sweeping through the thornAround the ruins of the Dumburg's top.HeMy limbs are cold.SheCome! warm thee in my arms.HeMy eyes are weary.SheRest, them, love, on mine.HeI am athirst.SheQuench, on my lips, thy thirst.—O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warmsMy blood again!HeOff!... How thy eyeballs shine!—Thou beast!... thou—Ah!... thus doI die, accursed!

She

Nay; still amort, my love?—Why dost thou lag?

The strix-owl cried.

She

Nay! 'twas yon stream that leapsHoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps;Its moon-wild water glittering down the crag.—Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?

Nay! 'twas yon stream that leaps

Hoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps;

Its moon-wild water glittering down the crag.—

Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?

The Demon Huntsman passed with hooting horn!

She

Nay! 'twas the blind wind sweeping through the thornAround the ruins of the Dumburg's top.

Nay! 'twas the blind wind sweeping through the thorn

Around the ruins of the Dumburg's top.

My limbs are cold.

She

Come! warm thee in my arms.

My eyes are weary.

She

Rest, them, love, on mine.

I am athirst.

She

Quench, on my lips, thy thirst.—O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warmsMy blood again!

Quench, on my lips, thy thirst.—

O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warms

My blood again!

Off!... How thy eyeballs shine!—Thou beast!... thou—Ah!... thus doI die, accursed!

Off!... How thy eyeballs shine!—

Thou beast!... thou—Ah!... thus do

I die, accursed!

Ah me! I shall not waken soonFrom dreams of such divinity!A spirit singing 'neath the moonTo me.Wild sea-spray driven of the stormIs not so wildly white as she,Who beckoned with a foam-white armTo me.With eyes dark green, and golden-greenLong locks, that sparkled drippingly,Out of the green wave she did leanTo me.And sang; till Earth and Heaven wereA far, forgotten memory;Till more than Heaven seemed in herTo me:—Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home,And death's immutability,And music of the plangent foam,Ah me!Sweep over her with all thy ships,With all thy stormy tides, O sea!The memory of immortal lips,And me!

Ah me! I shall not waken soonFrom dreams of such divinity!A spirit singing 'neath the moonTo me.

Ah me! I shall not waken soon

From dreams of such divinity!

A spirit singing 'neath the moon

To me.

Wild sea-spray driven of the stormIs not so wildly white as she,Who beckoned with a foam-white armTo me.

Wild sea-spray driven of the storm

Is not so wildly white as she,

Who beckoned with a foam-white arm

To me.

With eyes dark green, and golden-greenLong locks, that sparkled drippingly,Out of the green wave she did leanTo me.

With eyes dark green, and golden-green

Long locks, that sparkled drippingly,

Out of the green wave she did lean

To me.

And sang; till Earth and Heaven wereA far, forgotten memory;Till more than Heaven seemed in herTo me:—

And sang; till Earth and Heaven were

A far, forgotten memory;

Till more than Heaven seemed in her

To me:—

Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home,And death's immutability,And music of the plangent foam,Ah me!

Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home,

And death's immutability,

And music of the plangent foam,

Ah me!

Sweep over her with all thy ships,With all thy stormy tides, O sea!The memory of immortal lips,And me!

Sweep over her with all thy ships,

With all thy stormy tides, O sea!

The memory of immortal lips,

And me!

A lily in a twilight place?Or moonflower in the lonely night?—Strange beauty of a woman's faceOf wildflower-white!The rain that hangs a star's green raySlim on a leaf-point's restlessness,Is not so glimmering green and grayAs was her dress.I drew her dark hair from her eyes,And in their deeps beheld a whileSuch shadowy moonlight as the skiesOf Hell may smile.She held her mouth up, redly wanAnd burning cold:—I bent and kissedSuch rosy snow as some wild dawnMakes of a mist.God shall not take from me that hour,When round my neck her white arms clung!When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,Her white throat swung!Nor words she murmured while she leaned!Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—The spell that binds me to a fiendUntil I die.

A lily in a twilight place?Or moonflower in the lonely night?—Strange beauty of a woman's faceOf wildflower-white!

A lily in a twilight place?

Or moonflower in the lonely night?—

Strange beauty of a woman's face

Of wildflower-white!

The rain that hangs a star's green raySlim on a leaf-point's restlessness,Is not so glimmering green and grayAs was her dress.

The rain that hangs a star's green ray

Slim on a leaf-point's restlessness,

Is not so glimmering green and gray

As was her dress.

I drew her dark hair from her eyes,And in their deeps beheld a whileSuch shadowy moonlight as the skiesOf Hell may smile.

I drew her dark hair from her eyes,

And in their deeps beheld a while

Such shadowy moonlight as the skies

Of Hell may smile.

She held her mouth up, redly wanAnd burning cold:—I bent and kissedSuch rosy snow as some wild dawnMakes of a mist.

She held her mouth up, redly wan

And burning cold:—I bent and kissed

Such rosy snow as some wild dawn

Makes of a mist.

God shall not take from me that hour,When round my neck her white arms clung!When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,Her white throat swung!

God shall not take from me that hour,

When round my neck her white arms clung!

When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,

Her white throat swung!

Nor words she murmured while she leaned!Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—The spell that binds me to a fiendUntil I die.

Nor words she murmured while she leaned!

Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—

The spell that binds me to a fiend

Until I die.

IThere in the calamus he standsWith frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;And elfishly, and impishly,Above the gleam of owlet eyes,A death's-head cap of downy dyesNods out at me, and beckons me.IINow in the reeds his face looks whiteAs witch-down on a witches' night;Now through the dark, old, haunted mill,All eerily, all flickeringlyHe flits; and with a whippoorwillMouth calls, and seems to syllable,"Come follow me! oh, follow me!"IIINow o'er the sluggish stream he wends,A slim light at his fingers' ends;The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,Slips oozily, sucks slimily;His easy footsteps seem to come—Like bubble-gaspings of the scum—This side of me; that side of me.IVThere by the stagnant pool he stands,A foxfire lamp in flickering hands;The weeds are slimy to the tread,And mockingly, and gloatingly,With slanted eyes and pointed head,He leans above a face long dead,—The face of me! of me! of me!

There in the calamus he standsWith frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;And elfishly, and impishly,Above the gleam of owlet eyes,A death's-head cap of downy dyesNods out at me, and beckons me.

There in the calamus he stands

With frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;

His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;

And elfishly, and impishly,

Above the gleam of owlet eyes,

A death's-head cap of downy dyes

Nods out at me, and beckons me.

Now in the reeds his face looks whiteAs witch-down on a witches' night;Now through the dark, old, haunted mill,All eerily, all flickeringlyHe flits; and with a whippoorwillMouth calls, and seems to syllable,"Come follow me! oh, follow me!"

Now in the reeds his face looks white

As witch-down on a witches' night;

Now through the dark, old, haunted mill,

All eerily, all flickeringly

He flits; and with a whippoorwill

Mouth calls, and seems to syllable,

"Come follow me! oh, follow me!"

III

Now o'er the sluggish stream he wends,A slim light at his fingers' ends;The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,Slips oozily, sucks slimily;His easy footsteps seem to come—Like bubble-gaspings of the scum—This side of me; that side of me.

Now o'er the sluggish stream he wends,

A slim light at his fingers' ends;

The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,

Slips oozily, sucks slimily;

His easy footsteps seem to come—

Like bubble-gaspings of the scum—

This side of me; that side of me.

There by the stagnant pool he stands,A foxfire lamp in flickering hands;The weeds are slimy to the tread,And mockingly, and gloatingly,With slanted eyes and pointed head,He leans above a face long dead,—The face of me! of me! of me!

There by the stagnant pool he stands,

A foxfire lamp in flickering hands;

The weeds are slimy to the tread,

And mockingly, and gloatingly,

With slanted eyes and pointed head,

He leans above a face long dead,—

The face of me! of me! of me!

It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near,I met her on the bramble bridge we parted at last year.At first I deemed her but a mist that faltered in that place,An autumn mist beneath the trees the moon's thin beams did lace,Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.The crinkle of the summer heat above the drouth-burnt leas;The shimmer of the thistle-drift adown the silences;The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees:All qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;The actual and unreal of the things that are and seem.Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes, all loving-wise,She passed, and gave no greeting that my heart could recognize,With far, set face, unseeing, and sad, unremembering eyes.It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear,And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near,I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.

It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near,I met her on the bramble bridge we parted at last year.

It was beneath a waning moon when all the woods were sear,

And winds made eddies of the leaves that whispered far and near,

I met her on the bramble bridge we parted at last year.

At first I deemed her but a mist that faltered in that place,An autumn mist beneath the trees the moon's thin beams did lace,Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.

At first I deemed her but a mist that faltered in that place,

An autumn mist beneath the trees the moon's thin beams did lace,

Until I neared and in the moon beheld her face to face.

The crinkle of the summer heat above the drouth-burnt leas;The shimmer of the thistle-drift adown the silences;The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees:

The crinkle of the summer heat above the drouth-burnt leas;

The shimmer of the thistle-drift adown the silences;

The gliding of the fairy-fire between the swamp and trees:

All qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;The actual and unreal of the things that are and seem.

All qualified her presence as a sorrow may a dream—

The vague suggestion of a self; the glimmer of a gleam;

The actual and unreal of the things that are and seem.

Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes, all loving-wise,She passed, and gave no greeting that my heart could recognize,With far, set face, unseeing, and sad, unremembering eyes.

Where once she came with welcome and glad eyes, all loving-wise,

She passed, and gave no greeting that my heart could recognize,

With far, set face, unseeing, and sad, unremembering eyes.

It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear,And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near,I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.

It was beneath a waning moon when woods were bleak and sear,

And winds made whispers of the leaves that eddied far and near,

I met her ghost upon the bridge we parted at last year.

Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,An old house stands: around its doors the denseRank ironweeds grow high;The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;And on its sunken flagstones newt and toadAs still as lichens lie.The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sandSleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;And in the clapboard sidesOf closets,—dim with many a spider woof,—Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,The beetle-borer hides.Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floorOf its neglected porchThe black bees nest: through each deserted door,Vague as faint, phantom footsteps, steal the leavesAnd dropped cones of the larch.But come with me when sunset's magic oldTransforms this ruin—yea! transmutes this house:When windows, one by one,—Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,—Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of goldIts wide door towards the sun.Or let us wait until each rain-stained roomIs carpeted with moonlight, patterned oftWith shadow'd boughs o'erhead;And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—Of some sweet girl long dead.

Quaint and forgotten, by an unused road,

An old house stands: around its doors the dense

Rank ironweeds grow high;

The chipmunks make a highway of its fence;

And on its sunken flagstones newt and toad

As still as lichens lie.

The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sandSleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;And in the clapboard sidesOf closets,—dim with many a spider woof,—Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,The beetle-borer hides.

The timid snake upon its hearth's cool sand

Sleeps undisturbed; the squirrel haunts its roof;

And in the clapboard sides

Of closets,—dim with many a spider woof,—

Like the uncertain tapping of a hand,

The beetle-borer hides.

Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floorOf its neglected porchThe black bees nest: through each deserted door,Vague as faint, phantom footsteps, steal the leavesAnd dropped cones of the larch.

Above its lintel, under mossy eaves,

The mud-wasps build their cells; and in the floor

Of its neglected porch

The black bees nest: through each deserted door,

Vague as faint, phantom footsteps, steal the leaves

And dropped cones of the larch.

But come with me when sunset's magic oldTransforms this ruin—yea! transmutes this house:When windows, one by one,—Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,—Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of goldIts wide door towards the sun.

But come with me when sunset's magic old

Transforms this ruin—yea! transmutes this house:

When windows, one by one,—

Like Age's eyes, that Youth's love-dreams arouse,—

Grow lairs of fire; and a mouth of gold

Its wide door towards the sun.

Or let us wait until each rain-stained roomIs carpeted with moonlight, patterned oftWith shadow'd boughs o'erhead;And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—Of some sweet girl long dead.

Or let us wait until each rain-stained room

Is carpeted with moonlight, patterned oft

With shadow'd boughs o'erhead;

And through the house the wind goes rustling soft,

As might the ghost—a whisper of perfume—

Of some sweet girl long dead.

IWhere was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsFollowing the blur of a goblin light,That led me over dreadful streams,Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,Like a drowned girl's hair, in the ropy ooze:And the jack-o'-lantern light that ledFlickered the foxfire trees o'erhead,And the owl-like things at airy cruise.IIWhere was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsFollowing a form of shadowy whiteWith my own wild face it seems.—Did a raven's wing just fan my hair?Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?Or the hand of—something I did not dareLook round to see in that obscene place!Where the boughs, with their leaves a-devil's-dance,And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,Had more than a strange significanceOf life and of evil not their own.IIIWhere was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsSeeing the mists rise left and right,Like the leathery fog that heaves and steamsFrom the rolling horror of Hell's red streams:While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,And danced alone with the last mad leaf—Orwasit the wind?... kept whispering me,"Come! bury it here with its own black grief,And its heart of fire that naught can save!"—And there in the darkness I seemed to seeMy own self digging my soul a grave.

Where was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsFollowing the blur of a goblin light,That led me over dreadful streams,Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,Like a drowned girl's hair, in the ropy ooze:And the jack-o'-lantern light that ledFlickered the foxfire trees o'erhead,And the owl-like things at airy cruise.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the Forest of dark Dreams

Following the blur of a goblin light,

That led me over dreadful streams,

Whereon the scum of the spawn was spread,

And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams;

Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead,

Like a drowned girl's hair, in the ropy ooze:

And the jack-o'-lantern light that led

Flickered the foxfire trees o'erhead,

And the owl-like things at airy cruise.

Where was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsFollowing a form of shadowy whiteWith my own wild face it seems.—Did a raven's wing just fan my hair?Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?Or the hand of—something I did not dareLook round to see in that obscene place!Where the boughs, with their leaves a-devil's-dance,And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,Had more than a strange significanceOf life and of evil not their own.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the Forest of dark Dreams

Following a form of shadowy white

With my own wild face it seems.—

Did a raven's wing just fan my hair?

Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?

Or the hand of—something I did not dare

Look round to see in that obscene place!

Where the boughs, with their leaves a-devil's-dance,

And the thorn-tree bush, where the wind made moan,

Had more than a strange significance

Of life and of evil not their own.

III

Where was I last Friday night?—Within the Forest of dark DreamsSeeing the mists rise left and right,Like the leathery fog that heaves and steamsFrom the rolling horror of Hell's red streams:While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,And danced alone with the last mad leaf—Orwasit the wind?... kept whispering me,"Come! bury it here with its own black grief,And its heart of fire that naught can save!"—And there in the darkness I seemed to seeMy own self digging my soul a grave.

Where was I last Friday night?—

Within the Forest of dark Dreams

Seeing the mists rise left and right,

Like the leathery fog that heaves and steams

From the rolling horror of Hell's red streams:

While the wind, that tossed in the tattered tree,

And danced alone with the last mad leaf—

Orwasit the wind?... kept whispering me,

"Come! bury it here with its own black grief,

And its heart of fire that naught can save!"—

And there in the darkness I seemed to see

My own self digging my soul a grave.

Wide-walled it stands in heathen landsBeside a mystic sea,Its streets strange-trod of many a godAnd templed blasphemy.Far through the night, with light on light,It flames beside the sea;While overhead an unseen dreadImpends eternally.There is a sound above, around,Of music by the sea;And weird and wide the torches glideOf pagan revelry.There is a noise as of a voiceThat calls beneath the sea;And all the deep heaves, as in sleep,With vague expectancy.Then slowly up—as in a cupSeethes poison—swells the sea;As through black glass, wild mass on mass,The town glows fiery.Red-lit it glowers, like Hell's dark towers,Closed in the iron sea;And monster forms in awful swarmsWing round it cloudily.Still overhead the unseen dread,Whose shadow dyes the sea,At wrath-winged wait behind its gateTill God shall set it free.An earthquake crash; a taloned flash—And, lo! from sky to seaA sworded Doom that stalks the gloom,Crowned with Death's agony.And where it burned, a flame inurned,Blood-red within the sea,The phantasm of the dread aboveSits in immensity.

Wide-walled it stands in heathen landsBeside a mystic sea,Its streets strange-trod of many a godAnd templed blasphemy.

Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands

Beside a mystic sea,

Its streets strange-trod of many a god

And templed blasphemy.

Far through the night, with light on light,It flames beside the sea;While overhead an unseen dreadImpends eternally.

Far through the night, with light on light,

It flames beside the sea;

While overhead an unseen dread

Impends eternally.

There is a sound above, around,Of music by the sea;And weird and wide the torches glideOf pagan revelry.

There is a sound above, around,

Of music by the sea;

And weird and wide the torches glide

Of pagan revelry.

There is a noise as of a voiceThat calls beneath the sea;And all the deep heaves, as in sleep,With vague expectancy.

There is a noise as of a voice

That calls beneath the sea;

And all the deep heaves, as in sleep,

With vague expectancy.

Then slowly up—as in a cupSeethes poison—swells the sea;As through black glass, wild mass on mass,The town glows fiery.

Then slowly up—as in a cup

Seethes poison—swells the sea;

As through black glass, wild mass on mass,

The town glows fiery.

Red-lit it glowers, like Hell's dark towers,Closed in the iron sea;And monster forms in awful swarmsWing round it cloudily.

Red-lit it glowers, like Hell's dark towers,

Closed in the iron sea;

And monster forms in awful swarms

Wing round it cloudily.

Still overhead the unseen dread,Whose shadow dyes the sea,At wrath-winged wait behind its gateTill God shall set it free.

Still overhead the unseen dread,

Whose shadow dyes the sea,

At wrath-winged wait behind its gate

Till God shall set it free.

An earthquake crash; a taloned flash—And, lo! from sky to seaA sworded Doom that stalks the gloom,Crowned with Death's agony.

An earthquake crash; a taloned flash—

And, lo! from sky to sea

A sworded Doom that stalks the gloom,

Crowned with Death's agony.

And where it burned, a flame inurned,Blood-red within the sea,The phantasm of the dread aboveSits in immensity.

And where it burned, a flame inurned,

Blood-red within the sea,

The phantasm of the dread above

Sits in immensity.

IHills rolled in woods, that lair the lynx and fox;Harsh fields, that lean before the woods' advanceAs wild-men fly from hunters, tossing locksThrough which their eyes of yellow fire glance;Great blurs of briers and lugubrious rocks,—A bristling blackness,—with a pool beneath,Whereo'er the wisps, like something evil, dance;And then a house like the wrecked face of death.IIThere where the moon hangs sinister, o'er parchedAnd haggard thorns,—a golden battle-bow,Or shield of bronze, old wars have scarred and scorched,—What crime hath cursed it ... who shall ever know?—Night only! Night, with flickering flame, who torchedThat moment when blood branded black its sod,And in the pool a ghastly face sank slowBeneath the storm and rushing fire of God.

Hills rolled in woods, that lair the lynx and fox;Harsh fields, that lean before the woods' advanceAs wild-men fly from hunters, tossing locksThrough which their eyes of yellow fire glance;Great blurs of briers and lugubrious rocks,—A bristling blackness,—with a pool beneath,Whereo'er the wisps, like something evil, dance;And then a house like the wrecked face of death.

Hills rolled in woods, that lair the lynx and fox;

Harsh fields, that lean before the woods' advance

As wild-men fly from hunters, tossing locks

Through which their eyes of yellow fire glance;

Great blurs of briers and lugubrious rocks,—

A bristling blackness,—with a pool beneath,

Whereo'er the wisps, like something evil, dance;

And then a house like the wrecked face of death.

There where the moon hangs sinister, o'er parchedAnd haggard thorns,—a golden battle-bow,Or shield of bronze, old wars have scarred and scorched,—What crime hath cursed it ... who shall ever know?—Night only! Night, with flickering flame, who torchedThat moment when blood branded black its sod,And in the pool a ghastly face sank slowBeneath the storm and rushing fire of God.

There where the moon hangs sinister, o'er parched

And haggard thorns,—a golden battle-bow,

Or shield of bronze, old wars have scarred and scorched,—

What crime hath cursed it ... who shall ever know?—

Night only! Night, with flickering flame, who torched

That moment when blood branded black its sod,

And in the pool a ghastly face sank slow

Beneath the storm and rushing fire of God.

II shall not soon forget her and her eyes,The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to writeIts stealthy name, whose syllables are sighs,In strange and starless night.I shall not soon forget her and her face,So quiet, yet uneasy as a dreamThat stands on tip-toe in a haunted placeAnd listens for a scream.She made me feel as one, alone, may feelIn some grand, ghostly mansion of old time,The presence of a treasure, walls conceal,And secret of a crime.IIWith lambent faces, mimicking the moon,The water lilies lie;Dotting the darkness of the long lagoonAs stars, the sky.A face, the whiteness of a water-flower,With pollen-golden hair,In shadow half, half in the moonlight's glower,Lifts slowly there.A young girl's face, death makes mute marble of,Turned to the moon and me,Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love,Floating to sea.IIIOne listening bent, in dread of something comingHe can not flee nor balk—A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,That haunts a ruined walk.Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavorTo labor, dark and dawn,Dreaming that Love still watched his toil and everTurned kindly eyes thereon.Now in his life, he feels, there nears an hour,Inevitable, alas!When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,And see his dead self pass.

I shall not soon forget her and her eyes,The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to writeIts stealthy name, whose syllables are sighs,In strange and starless night.

I shall not soon forget her and her eyes,

The haunts of hate, where suffering seemed to write

Its stealthy name, whose syllables are sighs,

In strange and starless night.

I shall not soon forget her and her face,So quiet, yet uneasy as a dreamThat stands on tip-toe in a haunted placeAnd listens for a scream.

I shall not soon forget her and her face,

So quiet, yet uneasy as a dream

That stands on tip-toe in a haunted place

And listens for a scream.

She made me feel as one, alone, may feelIn some grand, ghostly mansion of old time,The presence of a treasure, walls conceal,And secret of a crime.

She made me feel as one, alone, may feel

In some grand, ghostly mansion of old time,

The presence of a treasure, walls conceal,

And secret of a crime.

With lambent faces, mimicking the moon,The water lilies lie;Dotting the darkness of the long lagoonAs stars, the sky.

With lambent faces, mimicking the moon,

The water lilies lie;

Dotting the darkness of the long lagoon

As stars, the sky.

A face, the whiteness of a water-flower,With pollen-golden hair,In shadow half, half in the moonlight's glower,Lifts slowly there.

A face, the whiteness of a water-flower,

With pollen-golden hair,

In shadow half, half in the moonlight's glower,

Lifts slowly there.

A young girl's face, death makes mute marble of,Turned to the moon and me,Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love,Floating to sea.

A young girl's face, death makes mute marble of,

Turned to the moon and me,

Sad with the pathos of unspeakable love,

Floating to sea.

III

One listening bent, in dread of something comingHe can not flee nor balk—A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,That haunts a ruined walk.

One listening bent, in dread of something coming

He can not flee nor balk—

A phantom footstep, in the ghostly gloaming,

That haunts a ruined walk.

Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavorTo labor, dark and dawn,Dreaming that Love still watched his toil and everTurned kindly eyes thereon.

Long has he given his whole heart's hard endeavor

To labor, dark and dawn,

Dreaming that Love still watched his toil and ever

Turned kindly eyes thereon.

Now in his life, he feels, there nears an hour,Inevitable, alas!When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,And see his dead self pass.

Now in his life, he feels, there nears an hour,

Inevitable, alas!

When in the darkness he shall cringe and cower,

And see his dead self pass.

Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeatingLove, so bewitched me? or only the gleamThere of the lustres, that set my heart beating,Feeling your presence as one feels a dream?For, on a sudden, the woman of fashion,Soft at my side in her diamonds and lace,Vanished, and pale with reproach or with passion,You, my dead sweetheart, looked up in my face.Music, the nebulous lights, and the siftingFragrance of women made amorous the air;Born of these three and my thoughts you came drifting,Clad in dim muslin, a rose in your hair.There in the waltz, that followed the lancers,Hard to my breast did I crush you and hold;Far through the stir and the throng of the dancersOnward I bore you as often of old.Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tressesPaler of hue than the dreams we have lost;—"Who," then I said, "is it sees or who guesses,Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?"Gone!—And the dance and the music are ended.Gone!—And the rapture is turned into sighs.And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.Had I forgotten? and did she remember?—She who is dead, whom I can not forget:She, for whose sake all my heart is an emberCovered with ashes of dreams and regret.

Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeatingLove, so bewitched me? or only the gleamThere of the lustres, that set my heart beating,Feeling your presence as one feels a dream?

Was it the strain of the waltz that, repeating

Love, so bewitched me? or only the gleam

There of the lustres, that set my heart beating,

Feeling your presence as one feels a dream?

For, on a sudden, the woman of fashion,Soft at my side in her diamonds and lace,Vanished, and pale with reproach or with passion,You, my dead sweetheart, looked up in my face.

For, on a sudden, the woman of fashion,

Soft at my side in her diamonds and lace,

Vanished, and pale with reproach or with passion,

You, my dead sweetheart, looked up in my face.

Music, the nebulous lights, and the siftingFragrance of women made amorous the air;Born of these three and my thoughts you came drifting,Clad in dim muslin, a rose in your hair.

Music, the nebulous lights, and the sifting

Fragrance of women made amorous the air;

Born of these three and my thoughts you came drifting,

Clad in dim muslin, a rose in your hair.

There in the waltz, that followed the lancers,Hard to my breast did I crush you and hold;Far through the stir and the throng of the dancersOnward I bore you as often of old.

There in the waltz, that followed the lancers,

Hard to my breast did I crush you and hold;

Far through the stir and the throng of the dancers

Onward I bore you as often of old.

Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tressesPaler of hue than the dreams we have lost;—"Who," then I said, "is it sees or who guesses,Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?"

Pale were your looks; and the rose in your tresses

Paler of hue than the dreams we have lost;—

"Who," then I said, "is it sees or who guesses,

Here in the hall, that I dance with a ghost?"

Gone!—And the dance and the music are ended.Gone!—And the rapture is turned into sighs.And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.

Gone!—And the dance and the music are ended.

Gone!—And the rapture is turned into sighs.

And, on my arm, in her elegance splendid,

The woman of fashion smiles up in my eyes.

Had I forgotten? and did she remember?—She who is dead, whom I can not forget:She, for whose sake all my heart is an emberCovered with ashes of dreams and regret.

Had I forgotten? and did she remember?—

She who is dead, whom I can not forget:

She, for whose sake all my heart is an ember

Covered with ashes of dreams and regret.

At midnight in the trysting woodI wandered by the waterside,When, soft as mist, before me stoodMy sweetheart who had died.But so unchanged was she, meseemedThat I had only dreamed her dead;Glad in her eyes the lovelight gleamed;Her lips were warm and red.What though the stars shone shadowy throughHer form as by my side she went,And by her feet no drop of dewWas stirred, no blade was bent!What though through her white lovelinessThe wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled,Real to my touch she was; no lessThan when the earth prevailed.She took my hand. My heart beat wild.She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.Then, gazing in my eyes, she smiled:"When did'st thou die?" she said.

At midnight in the trysting woodI wandered by the waterside,When, soft as mist, before me stoodMy sweetheart who had died.

At midnight in the trysting wood

I wandered by the waterside,

When, soft as mist, before me stood

My sweetheart who had died.

But so unchanged was she, meseemedThat I had only dreamed her dead;Glad in her eyes the lovelight gleamed;Her lips were warm and red.

But so unchanged was she, meseemed

That I had only dreamed her dead;

Glad in her eyes the lovelight gleamed;

Her lips were warm and red.

What though the stars shone shadowy throughHer form as by my side she went,And by her feet no drop of dewWas stirred, no blade was bent!

What though the stars shone shadowy through

Her form as by my side she went,

And by her feet no drop of dew

Was stirred, no blade was bent!

What though through her white lovelinessThe wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled,Real to my touch she was; no lessThan when the earth prevailed.

What though through her white loveliness

The wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled,

Real to my touch she was; no less

Than when the earth prevailed.

She took my hand. My heart beat wild.She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.Then, gazing in my eyes, she smiled:"When did'st thou die?" she said.

She took my hand. My heart beat wild.

She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.

Then, gazing in my eyes, she smiled:

"When did'st thou die?" she said.

That night I sat listening, as in a swoon,With half-closed eyes,To far-off bells, low-lulling as a tuneThat drifts and diesBeneath the flowery fingers of the JuneHarping to summer skies.And then I dreamed the world I knew was gone,And some one brought,—Leading me far o'er sainted hill and lawn,In heavenly thought,—My soul where well the sources of the dawnWith dew and fire fraught.Above me the majestic dome of night,With star on star,Sparkled; in which one star shone blinding bright;Radiant as sparThat walls the halls of morning, pearly whiteAround her golden car.About me temples, vast in desert seas,Columned a landOf ruins—bones of old monstrositiesGod's awful handHad smitten; homes of dead idolatries,O'erwhelmed with dust and sand.Their bestial gods, caked thick with gems and gold,Their blasphemiesOf beauty, rent; 'mid ruined altars rolled;Their agoniesAnd rites abolished; and their priests of old—Dust on the desert breeze.Then Syrian valleys, purple with veiling mist,Meseemed I trailed,Where the frail floweret, by the dewdrop kissed,Soft-blushing, quailed;And drowned in dingled deeps of amethystThe moon-mad bulbul wailed.On glimmering wolds I seemed to hear the bleatOf folded flocks:Then shepherds passed me, bare of head and feet;And then an oxLowed; and, above me, swept the solemn beatOf angel wings and locks.A manger then I seemed to see where bent,In adoration,Above a babe, Men of the Orient,Where, low of station,His mother lay, while round them swam sweet scentAnd sounds of jubilation.And then I woke. The rose-white moon aboveBloomed on my sight;—And in her train the stars of winter drove,Light upon light;While Yuletide bells rocked, pealing "peace and love"Down all the aisles of night.

That night I sat listening, as in a swoon,With half-closed eyes,To far-off bells, low-lulling as a tuneThat drifts and diesBeneath the flowery fingers of the JuneHarping to summer skies.

That night I sat listening, as in a swoon,

With half-closed eyes,

To far-off bells, low-lulling as a tune

That drifts and dies

Beneath the flowery fingers of the June

Harping to summer skies.

And then I dreamed the world I knew was gone,And some one brought,—Leading me far o'er sainted hill and lawn,In heavenly thought,—My soul where well the sources of the dawnWith dew and fire fraught.

And then I dreamed the world I knew was gone,

And some one brought,—

Leading me far o'er sainted hill and lawn,

In heavenly thought,—

My soul where well the sources of the dawn

With dew and fire fraught.

Above me the majestic dome of night,With star on star,Sparkled; in which one star shone blinding bright;Radiant as sparThat walls the halls of morning, pearly whiteAround her golden car.

Above me the majestic dome of night,

With star on star,

Sparkled; in which one star shone blinding bright;

Radiant as spar

That walls the halls of morning, pearly white

Around her golden car.

About me temples, vast in desert seas,Columned a landOf ruins—bones of old monstrositiesGod's awful handHad smitten; homes of dead idolatries,O'erwhelmed with dust and sand.

About me temples, vast in desert seas,

Columned a land

Of ruins—bones of old monstrosities

God's awful hand

Had smitten; homes of dead idolatries,

O'erwhelmed with dust and sand.

Their bestial gods, caked thick with gems and gold,Their blasphemiesOf beauty, rent; 'mid ruined altars rolled;Their agoniesAnd rites abolished; and their priests of old—Dust on the desert breeze.

Their bestial gods, caked thick with gems and gold,

Their blasphemies

Of beauty, rent; 'mid ruined altars rolled;

Their agonies

And rites abolished; and their priests of old—

Dust on the desert breeze.

Then Syrian valleys, purple with veiling mist,Meseemed I trailed,Where the frail floweret, by the dewdrop kissed,Soft-blushing, quailed;And drowned in dingled deeps of amethystThe moon-mad bulbul wailed.

Then Syrian valleys, purple with veiling mist,

Meseemed I trailed,

Where the frail floweret, by the dewdrop kissed,

Soft-blushing, quailed;

And drowned in dingled deeps of amethyst

The moon-mad bulbul wailed.

On glimmering wolds I seemed to hear the bleatOf folded flocks:Then shepherds passed me, bare of head and feet;And then an oxLowed; and, above me, swept the solemn beatOf angel wings and locks.

On glimmering wolds I seemed to hear the bleat

Of folded flocks:

Then shepherds passed me, bare of head and feet;

And then an ox

Lowed; and, above me, swept the solemn beat

Of angel wings and locks.

A manger then I seemed to see where bent,In adoration,Above a babe, Men of the Orient,Where, low of station,His mother lay, while round them swam sweet scentAnd sounds of jubilation.

A manger then I seemed to see where bent,

In adoration,

Above a babe, Men of the Orient,

Where, low of station,

His mother lay, while round them swam sweet scent

And sounds of jubilation.

And then I woke. The rose-white moon aboveBloomed on my sight;—And in her train the stars of winter drove,Light upon light;While Yuletide bells rocked, pealing "peace and love"Down all the aisles of night.

And then I woke. The rose-white moon above

Bloomed on my sight;—

And in her train the stars of winter drove,

Light upon light;

While Yuletide bells rocked, pealing "peace and love"

Down all the aisles of night.

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