PROEM

AROUNDHIMMERMAIDSSINGFOAM-CLAD(See page168)FrontispiecePAGESTARED ANDWHISPERED ANDSMILED ANDWEPT(See page49)124THATREED-SLENDERGIRLWHOMPANPURSUED242

Not while I live may I forgetThat garden which my spirit trod!Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,And beautiful as God.Not while I breathe, awake, adream,Shall live again for me those hours,When, in its mystery and gleam,I met her 'mid the flowers.Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,Beneath mesmeric lashes, whereThe sorceries of love and hopeHad made a shining lair.And daydawn brows, whereover hungThe twilight of dark locks; wild birds,Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongueIn fragrance-voweled words.I will not speak of cheeks and chin,That held me as sweet language holds;Nor of the eloquence withinHer breasts' twin-moonéd molds.Nor of her body's languorousWind-grace, that glanced like starlight throughHer clinging robe's diaphanousWeb of the mist and dew.There is no star so pure and highAs was her look; no fragrance suchAs her soft presence; and no sighOf music like her touch.Not while I live may I forgetThat garden of dim dreams, where IAnd Song within the spirit met,Sweet Song, who passed me by.

Not while I live may I forgetThat garden which my spirit trod!Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,And beautiful as God.

Not while I live may I forget

That garden which my spirit trod!

Where dreams were flowers, wild and wet,

And beautiful as God.

Not while I breathe, awake, adream,Shall live again for me those hours,When, in its mystery and gleam,I met her 'mid the flowers.

Not while I breathe, awake, adream,

Shall live again for me those hours,

When, in its mystery and gleam,

I met her 'mid the flowers.

Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,Beneath mesmeric lashes, whereThe sorceries of love and hopeHad made a shining lair.

Eyes, talismanic heliotrope,

Beneath mesmeric lashes, where

The sorceries of love and hope

Had made a shining lair.

And daydawn brows, whereover hungThe twilight of dark locks; wild birds,Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongueIn fragrance-voweled words.

And daydawn brows, whereover hung

The twilight of dark locks; wild birds,

Her lips, that spoke the rose's tongue

In fragrance-voweled words.

I will not speak of cheeks and chin,That held me as sweet language holds;Nor of the eloquence withinHer breasts' twin-moonéd molds.

I will not speak of cheeks and chin,

That held me as sweet language holds;

Nor of the eloquence within

Her breasts' twin-moonéd molds.

Nor of her body's languorousWind-grace, that glanced like starlight throughHer clinging robe's diaphanousWeb of the mist and dew.

Nor of her body's languorous

Wind-grace, that glanced like starlight through

Her clinging robe's diaphanous

Web of the mist and dew.

There is no star so pure and highAs was her look; no fragrance suchAs her soft presence; and no sighOf music like her touch.

There is no star so pure and high

As was her look; no fragrance such

As her soft presence; and no sigh

Of music like her touch.

Not while I live may I forgetThat garden of dim dreams, where IAnd Song within the spirit met,Sweet Song, who passed me by.

Not while I live may I forget

That garden of dim dreams, where I

And Song within the spirit met,

Sweet Song, who passed me by.

IWithout a moon when night comes onThere is a sighing in its treesAs of sad lips that no one sees;And the far-dwindling forest, largeBeyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawnInto its shadows. Faint and wan,By the wistariaed porticoStealing, I goThrough gardens where the weeds are rank:Where, here and there, in clump and bank,Spiræas rise, whose dotted bloomsSeem clustered starlight; and the fourSyringas sweet heap, powdered o'er,Thin flower-beakers of perfumes;And the dead flowering-almond tree,That once was pink as her young cheek,Now withered leans within the glooms.—Why must I walk here? seek and seekHer, long since gone?—Still bower on bowerThe roses climb in blushing flower.—Ah, 'mid the roses could I seeHer eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers,Or like the dew that lies for hoursWithin their hearts, then it might beI might find comfort here, althoughWistful, as if reproaching me,Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.IIWhen midnight comes it brings a moon:A scent is strewnOf honey and wild-thorns broadcastBeneath the stars. When I have passedUnder dark cedars, solemn pines,Through dodder-drowned petunias,Corn-flower and the columbine,To where azaleas, choked with grass,And peonies, like great wisps, shine,I reach banked honeysuckle vines,Piled deep and trammeled with the gourdAnd morning-glory—one wild hoardOf rich aroma—where the seat,The rustic bench, where oft we sat,—Now warped and old with rain and heat,—Still stands upon its mossy mat:And here I rest; and then—a wordI seem to hear;A soft word whispered in my ear;Her voice it seems; no thing is near;I look around:—I have but heardThe plaintive note of some lost birdTrickle through night,—awakened where,'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs,The jarring and incessant grigsHum:—dream-drugged so, the haunted airMakes all my soul as heavy asDew-poppied grass.IIIOnce when the moon rose, fair and full,—Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool,A splash of gold through tangling trees,—Or like the Island beautifulOf Avalon in haunted seas,—There came a sighing in the treesAs of sad lips; there was no breeze,And yet sad sighings shook the trees.And when, all in a mystic space,Her orb swam, amiable white,Right in that shattered casement, byThe broken porch the creepers lace,Born of a moonbeam and a sigh,I sawherface,Pale through a mist of tears; so slight,So immaterial, ah me!In pensiveness, and vanished grace,'Twas like an olden melody.IVI know long-angled on its floors,Where windows face the anxious east,The moonshine poursWhite squares of glitter and, at least,Gives glimmer to its whispering halls:Its corridors,Sleep-tapestried, are guled with barsOf moonlight: by its wasted wallsCrouch shadows: and,—where streaked dusts layTheir undisturbed, deep grayUpon its stairs,—dim, vision-footed, glideFaint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs,As to and fro, athwart the skies,—Wind-swung against the moon outside,—The twisted branches swayOf one great tree; I stand below,And listen now,Hearing a murmur come and goThrough its gnarled boughs; remembering howShady this chestnut made her room,And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom;And how the broad and gusty fluesOf the old house sang when the rain let looseIts winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse,Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom,And growled carousal; goblin tunesThe hylas pipe to rainy moonsOf March; or, in the afternoonsOf summer, singing in their course,—Where blossoms drip,—all wet of back,—The crickets drone in avenuesOf locusts leading to the gate.And in the dark here where I waitMeseems I hear the silence creepAnd crepitateFrom hall to hall; as one in sleepI hear, yet hear not; feel that thereHer soul walks, waking on each stairStrange echoes; and the stealthy crackOf old and warping floors: I seemTo follow her; and in a dreamTo see, yet see not; in the blackThat drapes each room, my mind informsWith shapes, that hide behind each doorAnd fling from closets phantom arms.VI see her face, as once before,Bewildered with its terror, pressedTo the dark, polished floor; distressed,Clasped in her blind and covering hands;So desolate with anguish, wrenchedWith wild remorse, no man could see,Could see and turn away like me,No man that sees and understandsLove and its mortal agony.Again, like some automaton,Part of that ghostly tragedy,Myself I see, the fool who fled,Who sneered and fled. And then againCame stealing back. Again, with blenchedAnd bending face I stand, and clenchedAnd icy hands, and staring eyes,Looking upon her face, as wanAs water; eyes all wide with pain;Cramped to dilation, packed with loss:Again I seem to lean acrossThe years, and hear my heart's deep groanAbove the young gold of her head,Above that huddled heap alone,—Her, white and dead.VIYes, there is moanOf lamentation and hushed screamsIn all its crannies; and sad shadesHaunt all its rooms, the moonlight braids,With melancholy. Slow have flownThe weary years: and I have knownAn anguish and remorse far worseThan usual life's; and live, it seems,Because to live is but a curse....VIIThere she lies buried; there! that groundGated with rusty iron, whereShe and her stanch forefathers sleep;So old, the turf scarce shows a mound;So gray, you scarce distinguish thereA headstone where the ivies creepAnd myrtles bloom. A wall of stoneSquares it around; a place for dreams;A mossy spot of sorrow;—lone,Nay, lonelier, wilder now it seems,Though just the same: its roses wasteTheir petals there as oft of yore;Their placid petals, as before;Pale, pensive petals: yonder someLie faint as puffs of foamWithin the moonlight, dimly tracedBeneath the boughs; some few are strownOn the usurping weeds, great grownAround her tomb, on which two dead leaves lie....Here let my sick heart break and dieAmid their wiltings, on her grave,Here in her dim, old burying-groundThe druid cedars guard aroundAnd roses and wild thorns. AloneShe shall not lie! Ah, let me moanMy life out here where rose-leaves fall,And rest by her who was my all!

Without a moon when night comes onThere is a sighing in its treesAs of sad lips that no one sees;And the far-dwindling forest, largeBeyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawnInto its shadows. Faint and wan,By the wistariaed porticoStealing, I goThrough gardens where the weeds are rank:Where, here and there, in clump and bank,Spiræas rise, whose dotted bloomsSeem clustered starlight; and the fourSyringas sweet heap, powdered o'er,Thin flower-beakers of perfumes;And the dead flowering-almond tree,That once was pink as her young cheek,Now withered leans within the glooms.—Why must I walk here? seek and seekHer, long since gone?—Still bower on bowerThe roses climb in blushing flower.—Ah, 'mid the roses could I seeHer eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers,Or like the dew that lies for hoursWithin their hearts, then it might beI might find comfort here, althoughWistful, as if reproaching me,Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.

Without a moon when night comes on

There is a sighing in its trees

As of sad lips that no one sees;

And the far-dwindling forest, large

Beyond fenced fields, seems shadowy drawn

Into its shadows. Faint and wan,

By the wistariaed portico

Stealing, I go

Through gardens where the weeds are rank:

Where, here and there, in clump and bank,

Spiræas rise, whose dotted blooms

Seem clustered starlight; and the four

Syringas sweet heap, powdered o'er,

Thin flower-beakers of perfumes;

And the dead flowering-almond tree,

That once was pink as her young cheek,

Now withered leans within the glooms.—

Why must I walk here? seek and seek

Her, long since gone?—Still bower on bower

The roses climb in blushing flower.—

Ah, 'mid the roses could I see

Her eyes, her sad eyes, shine like flowers,

Or like the dew that lies for hours

Within their hearts, then it might be

I might find comfort here, although

Wistful, as if reproaching me,

Her sad eyes look, saying what none may know.

When midnight comes it brings a moon:A scent is strewnOf honey and wild-thorns broadcastBeneath the stars. When I have passedUnder dark cedars, solemn pines,Through dodder-drowned petunias,Corn-flower and the columbine,To where azaleas, choked with grass,And peonies, like great wisps, shine,I reach banked honeysuckle vines,Piled deep and trammeled with the gourdAnd morning-glory—one wild hoardOf rich aroma—where the seat,The rustic bench, where oft we sat,—Now warped and old with rain and heat,—Still stands upon its mossy mat:And here I rest; and then—a wordI seem to hear;A soft word whispered in my ear;Her voice it seems; no thing is near;I look around:—I have but heardThe plaintive note of some lost birdTrickle through night,—awakened where,'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs,The jarring and incessant grigsHum:—dream-drugged so, the haunted airMakes all my soul as heavy asDew-poppied grass.

When midnight comes it brings a moon:

A scent is strewn

Of honey and wild-thorns broadcast

Beneath the stars. When I have passed

Under dark cedars, solemn pines,

Through dodder-drowned petunias,

Corn-flower and the columbine,

To where azaleas, choked with grass,

And peonies, like great wisps, shine,

I reach banked honeysuckle vines,

Piled deep and trammeled with the gourd

And morning-glory—one wild hoard

Of rich aroma—where the seat,

The rustic bench, where oft we sat,—

Now warped and old with rain and heat,—

Still stands upon its mossy mat:

And here I rest; and then—a word

I seem to hear;

A soft word whispered in my ear;

Her voice it seems; no thing is near;

I look around:—I have but heard

The plaintive note of some lost bird

Trickle through night,—awakened where,

'Neath its thick lair of twisted twigs,

The jarring and incessant grigs

Hum:—dream-drugged so, the haunted air

Makes all my soul as heavy as

Dew-poppied grass.

III

Once when the moon rose, fair and full,—Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool,A splash of gold through tangling trees,—Or like the Island beautifulOf Avalon in haunted seas,—There came a sighing in the treesAs of sad lips; there was no breeze,And yet sad sighings shook the trees.And when, all in a mystic space,Her orb swam, amiable white,Right in that shattered casement, byThe broken porch the creepers lace,Born of a moonbeam and a sigh,I sawherface,Pale through a mist of tears; so slight,So immaterial, ah me!In pensiveness, and vanished grace,'Twas like an olden melody.

Once when the moon rose, fair and full,—

Like some sea-seen Hesperian pool,

A splash of gold through tangling trees,—

Or like the Island beautiful

Of Avalon in haunted seas,—

There came a sighing in the trees

As of sad lips; there was no breeze,

And yet sad sighings shook the trees.

And when, all in a mystic space,

Her orb swam, amiable white,

Right in that shattered casement, by

The broken porch the creepers lace,

Born of a moonbeam and a sigh,

I sawherface,

Pale through a mist of tears; so slight,

So immaterial, ah me!

In pensiveness, and vanished grace,

'Twas like an olden melody.

I know long-angled on its floors,Where windows face the anxious east,The moonshine poursWhite squares of glitter and, at least,Gives glimmer to its whispering halls:Its corridors,Sleep-tapestried, are guled with barsOf moonlight: by its wasted wallsCrouch shadows: and,—where streaked dusts layTheir undisturbed, deep grayUpon its stairs,—dim, vision-footed, glideFaint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs,As to and fro, athwart the skies,—Wind-swung against the moon outside,—The twisted branches swayOf one great tree; I stand below,And listen now,Hearing a murmur come and goThrough its gnarled boughs; remembering howShady this chestnut made her room,And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom;And how the broad and gusty fluesOf the old house sang when the rain let looseIts winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse,Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom,And growled carousal; goblin tunesThe hylas pipe to rainy moonsOf March; or, in the afternoonsOf summer, singing in their course,—Where blossoms drip,—all wet of back,—The crickets drone in avenuesOf locusts leading to the gate.And in the dark here where I waitMeseems I hear the silence creepAnd crepitateFrom hall to hall; as one in sleepI hear, yet hear not; feel that thereHer soul walks, waking on each stairStrange echoes; and the stealthy crackOf old and warping floors: I seemTo follow her; and in a dreamTo see, yet see not; in the blackThat drapes each room, my mind informsWith shapes, that hide behind each doorAnd fling from closets phantom arms.

I know long-angled on its floors,

Where windows face the anxious east,

The moonshine pours

White squares of glitter and, at least,

Gives glimmer to its whispering halls:

Its corridors,

Sleep-tapestried, are guled with bars

Of moonlight: by its wasted walls

Crouch shadows: and,—where streaked dusts lay

Their undisturbed, deep gray

Upon its stairs,—dim, vision-footed, glide

Faint gossamer gleams, like visible sighs,

As to and fro, athwart the skies,—

Wind-swung against the moon outside,—

The twisted branches sway

Of one great tree; I stand below,

And listen now,

Hearing a murmur come and go

Through its gnarled boughs; remembering how

Shady this chestnut made her room,

And sweet, in June, with plumes of bloom;

And how the broad and gusty flues

Of the old house sang when the rain let loose

Its winds, and each flue seemed a hoarse,

Sonorous throat, filled with the storm's wild boom,

And growled carousal; goblin tunes

The hylas pipe to rainy moons

Of March; or, in the afternoons

Of summer, singing in their course,—

Where blossoms drip,—all wet of back,—

The crickets drone in avenues

Of locusts leading to the gate.

And in the dark here where I wait

Meseems I hear the silence creep

And crepitate

From hall to hall; as one in sleep

I hear, yet hear not; feel that there

Her soul walks, waking on each stair

Strange echoes; and the stealthy crack

Of old and warping floors: I seem

To follow her; and in a dream

To see, yet see not; in the black

That drapes each room, my mind informs

With shapes, that hide behind each door

And fling from closets phantom arms.

I see her face, as once before,Bewildered with its terror, pressedTo the dark, polished floor; distressed,Clasped in her blind and covering hands;So desolate with anguish, wrenchedWith wild remorse, no man could see,Could see and turn away like me,No man that sees and understandsLove and its mortal agony.Again, like some automaton,Part of that ghostly tragedy,Myself I see, the fool who fled,Who sneered and fled. And then againCame stealing back. Again, with blenchedAnd bending face I stand, and clenchedAnd icy hands, and staring eyes,Looking upon her face, as wanAs water; eyes all wide with pain;Cramped to dilation, packed with loss:Again I seem to lean acrossThe years, and hear my heart's deep groanAbove the young gold of her head,Above that huddled heap alone,—Her, white and dead.

I see her face, as once before,

Bewildered with its terror, pressed

To the dark, polished floor; distressed,

Clasped in her blind and covering hands;

So desolate with anguish, wrenched

With wild remorse, no man could see,

Could see and turn away like me,

No man that sees and understands

Love and its mortal agony.

Again, like some automaton,

Part of that ghostly tragedy,

Myself I see, the fool who fled,

Who sneered and fled. And then again

Came stealing back. Again, with blenched

And bending face I stand, and clenched

And icy hands, and staring eyes,

Looking upon her face, as wan

As water; eyes all wide with pain;

Cramped to dilation, packed with loss:

Again I seem to lean across

The years, and hear my heart's deep groan

Above the young gold of her head,

Above that huddled heap alone,—

Her, white and dead.

Yes, there is moanOf lamentation and hushed screamsIn all its crannies; and sad shadesHaunt all its rooms, the moonlight braids,With melancholy. Slow have flownThe weary years: and I have knownAn anguish and remorse far worseThan usual life's; and live, it seems,Because to live is but a curse....

Yes, there is moan

Of lamentation and hushed screams

In all its crannies; and sad shades

Haunt all its rooms, the moonlight braids,

With melancholy. Slow have flown

The weary years: and I have known

An anguish and remorse far worse

Than usual life's; and live, it seems,

Because to live is but a curse....

VII

There she lies buried; there! that groundGated with rusty iron, whereShe and her stanch forefathers sleep;So old, the turf scarce shows a mound;So gray, you scarce distinguish thereA headstone where the ivies creepAnd myrtles bloom. A wall of stoneSquares it around; a place for dreams;A mossy spot of sorrow;—lone,Nay, lonelier, wilder now it seems,Though just the same: its roses wasteTheir petals there as oft of yore;Their placid petals, as before;Pale, pensive petals: yonder someLie faint as puffs of foamWithin the moonlight, dimly tracedBeneath the boughs; some few are strownOn the usurping weeds, great grownAround her tomb, on which two dead leaves lie....Here let my sick heart break and dieAmid their wiltings, on her grave,Here in her dim, old burying-groundThe druid cedars guard aroundAnd roses and wild thorns. AloneShe shall not lie! Ah, let me moanMy life out here where rose-leaves fall,And rest by her who was my all!

There she lies buried; there! that ground

Gated with rusty iron, where

She and her stanch forefathers sleep;

So old, the turf scarce shows a mound;

So gray, you scarce distinguish there

A headstone where the ivies creep

And myrtles bloom. A wall of stone

Squares it around; a place for dreams;

A mossy spot of sorrow;—lone,

Nay, lonelier, wilder now it seems,

Though just the same: its roses waste

Their petals there as oft of yore;

Their placid petals, as before;

Pale, pensive petals: yonder some

Lie faint as puffs of foam

Within the moonlight, dimly traced

Beneath the boughs; some few are strown

On the usurping weeds, great grown

Around her tomb, on which two dead leaves lie....

Here let my sick heart break and die

Amid their wiltings, on her grave,

Here in her dim, old burying-ground

The druid cedars guard around

And roses and wild thorns. Alone

She shall not lie! Ah, let me moan

My life out here where rose-leaves fall,

And rest by her who was my all!

He held it possible that heWho idolizes one that's dead,With that strange liquid instantlyMight raise them, living red:And so he thought, "'Tis mine at lastTo live and love the love that's past;The joy without the grief and pain.The dead shall live and love again."For he had loved one till for himHer face had grown his spirit-part:Though dead, she seemed to him less dimThan men in street and mart.He labored on; for, truth to say,In toil alone his pleasure lay,His art, through which, sometime, he thought,Back to his arms she would be brought.He kept such trysts as phantoms keep,Pale distances about his soul;And moved like one who walks asleep,Attaining no sure goal:Yet blither than a younger heartAt crucible and glass retortHe labored; for his love was prismTo irisate toil's egoism.He drained wan draughts from out a cup,A globe of vague and flaming gold,Held from the darkness, brimming up,By something white and cold,That wreathed faint fingers round its brim,Slim flakes of foam; and, soft and dim,Stooped out of fiery-bound abyssesTo print his brow with icy kisses.At last within his trembling handAn ancient flask burnt, starry rose;A liquid flame of ruby fanned,Heart-like, with crimson throes:And in the liquid, like a flower,A starlike face bloomed for an hour,Then slowly faded to a skullWith eyes that mocked the beautiful.'Though all his life had been so strange,Yet stranger now it seemed to be;—What was it led him forth to range'Mid graves and mystery?What led him to that one dim tomb,Where he could read within the gloomThe name of one who lay withinWith all of silence, naught of sin?Untainted, so it seemed, and madeBy death's cold kisses still more fair,He found her; raised her; softly laidHer raven depths of hairUpon his shoulder: and the pearls,Around her neck and in her curls,Less pale were than the kingly calmUpon his face that showed no qualm.And through the night, beneath the moon,Across the windy hill, the gloomOf forests where the leaves lay strewn,He brought her to his room:And in the awfulness of death,That filled her wide eyes with its breath,He set her in a carven chairWhere the still moon could kiss her hair.One moment then he paused to think:Then to her lips, all drawn and dead,His strange elixir pressed and—"Drink!Drink life and love!" he said.And it—it drank; the dead drank slow:And in its eyes there came a glow:Yet still as stone its body sate,With eyes of hell and lips of hate.Still as fall-frozen ice its face,And thin its voice as drizzled rain,When in its rotting silk and laceIt rose and lived again:Its bosom moved not while it spake;Nor moved its lips; and half awakeIts eyes seemed with enchanted sleepA century long in night's old keep.And, stooping o'er, it whispered low—A sound like a vibrating wire,Or like the hiss of falling snowIn flutterings faint of fire:—"In me, behold, you see your toil!In me your love! A thing to coilAround your life thus!—Make entire!—The demon of your dead desire!"And where, before, was quietness,Was violence of hate and evil—Yet all its form seemed passionless,A corpse that held a devil!...But who shall say the hands were itsThat made within his throat these pits?—They found him dead; and by him, oneWho clasped him close, a skeleton.

He held it possible that he

Who idolizes one that's dead,

With that strange liquid instantly

Might raise them, living red:

And so he thought, "'Tis mine at last

To live and love the love that's past;

The joy without the grief and pain.

The dead shall live and love again."

For he had loved one till for himHer face had grown his spirit-part:Though dead, she seemed to him less dimThan men in street and mart.He labored on; for, truth to say,In toil alone his pleasure lay,His art, through which, sometime, he thought,Back to his arms she would be brought.

For he had loved one till for him

Her face had grown his spirit-part:

Though dead, she seemed to him less dim

Than men in street and mart.

He labored on; for, truth to say,

In toil alone his pleasure lay,

His art, through which, sometime, he thought,

Back to his arms she would be brought.

He kept such trysts as phantoms keep,Pale distances about his soul;And moved like one who walks asleep,Attaining no sure goal:Yet blither than a younger heartAt crucible and glass retortHe labored; for his love was prismTo irisate toil's egoism.

He kept such trysts as phantoms keep,

Pale distances about his soul;

And moved like one who walks asleep,

Attaining no sure goal:

Yet blither than a younger heart

At crucible and glass retort

He labored; for his love was prism

To irisate toil's egoism.

He drained wan draughts from out a cup,A globe of vague and flaming gold,Held from the darkness, brimming up,By something white and cold,That wreathed faint fingers round its brim,Slim flakes of foam; and, soft and dim,Stooped out of fiery-bound abyssesTo print his brow with icy kisses.

He drained wan draughts from out a cup,

A globe of vague and flaming gold,

Held from the darkness, brimming up,

By something white and cold,

That wreathed faint fingers round its brim,

Slim flakes of foam; and, soft and dim,

Stooped out of fiery-bound abysses

To print his brow with icy kisses.

At last within his trembling handAn ancient flask burnt, starry rose;A liquid flame of ruby fanned,Heart-like, with crimson throes:And in the liquid, like a flower,A starlike face bloomed for an hour,Then slowly faded to a skullWith eyes that mocked the beautiful.

At last within his trembling hand

An ancient flask burnt, starry rose;

A liquid flame of ruby fanned,

Heart-like, with crimson throes:

And in the liquid, like a flower,

A starlike face bloomed for an hour,

Then slowly faded to a skull

With eyes that mocked the beautiful.

'Though all his life had been so strange,Yet stranger now it seemed to be;—What was it led him forth to range'Mid graves and mystery?What led him to that one dim tomb,Where he could read within the gloomThe name of one who lay withinWith all of silence, naught of sin?

'Though all his life had been so strange,

Yet stranger now it seemed to be;—

What was it led him forth to range

'Mid graves and mystery?

What led him to that one dim tomb,

Where he could read within the gloom

The name of one who lay within

With all of silence, naught of sin?

Untainted, so it seemed, and madeBy death's cold kisses still more fair,He found her; raised her; softly laidHer raven depths of hairUpon his shoulder: and the pearls,Around her neck and in her curls,Less pale were than the kingly calmUpon his face that showed no qualm.

Untainted, so it seemed, and made

By death's cold kisses still more fair,

He found her; raised her; softly laid

Her raven depths of hair

Upon his shoulder: and the pearls,

Around her neck and in her curls,

Less pale were than the kingly calm

Upon his face that showed no qualm.

And through the night, beneath the moon,Across the windy hill, the gloomOf forests where the leaves lay strewn,He brought her to his room:And in the awfulness of death,That filled her wide eyes with its breath,He set her in a carven chairWhere the still moon could kiss her hair.

And through the night, beneath the moon,

Across the windy hill, the gloom

Of forests where the leaves lay strewn,

He brought her to his room:

And in the awfulness of death,

That filled her wide eyes with its breath,

He set her in a carven chair

Where the still moon could kiss her hair.

One moment then he paused to think:Then to her lips, all drawn and dead,His strange elixir pressed and—"Drink!Drink life and love!" he said.And it—it drank; the dead drank slow:And in its eyes there came a glow:Yet still as stone its body sate,With eyes of hell and lips of hate.

One moment then he paused to think:

Then to her lips, all drawn and dead,

His strange elixir pressed and—"Drink!

Drink life and love!" he said.

And it—it drank; the dead drank slow:

And in its eyes there came a glow:

Yet still as stone its body sate,

With eyes of hell and lips of hate.

Still as fall-frozen ice its face,And thin its voice as drizzled rain,When in its rotting silk and laceIt rose and lived again:Its bosom moved not while it spake;Nor moved its lips; and half awakeIts eyes seemed with enchanted sleepA century long in night's old keep.

Still as fall-frozen ice its face,

And thin its voice as drizzled rain,

When in its rotting silk and lace

It rose and lived again:

Its bosom moved not while it spake;

Nor moved its lips; and half awake

Its eyes seemed with enchanted sleep

A century long in night's old keep.

And, stooping o'er, it whispered low—A sound like a vibrating wire,Or like the hiss of falling snowIn flutterings faint of fire:—"In me, behold, you see your toil!In me your love! A thing to coilAround your life thus!—Make entire!—The demon of your dead desire!"

And, stooping o'er, it whispered low—

A sound like a vibrating wire,

Or like the hiss of falling snow

In flutterings faint of fire:—

"In me, behold, you see your toil!

In me your love! A thing to coil

Around your life thus!—Make entire!—

The demon of your dead desire!"

And where, before, was quietness,Was violence of hate and evil—Yet all its form seemed passionless,A corpse that held a devil!...But who shall say the hands were itsThat made within his throat these pits?—They found him dead; and by him, oneWho clasped him close, a skeleton.

And where, before, was quietness,

Was violence of hate and evil—

Yet all its form seemed passionless,

A corpse that held a devil!...

But who shall say the hands were its

That made within his throat these pits?—

They found him dead; and by him, one

Who clasped him close, a skeleton.

The moonbeams on the hollies glowPale where she left me; and the snowLies bleak in moonshine on the graves,Ribbed with each gust that shakes and wavesAncestral cedars by her tomb....She lay so beautiful in death,My Gloramone,—whose lovelinessDeath had not dimmed with all its doom,—That, urged by my divine distress,I sought her sepulchre: the gloom,The iciness that takes the breath,The sense of fear, were not too strongTo keep me from beholding long.I stole into its sorrow; burst,With what I know was hand accursed,Its seal, the gated silence ofHer old armorial tomb: but loveHad sighed sweet romance to my heart;And here, I thought, another partOur souls would play. I did not startWhen indistinctness of pale lipsBreathed on my hair; faint finger-tipsFluttered their starlight on my brow;When on my eyes, I knew not whence,Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow,Within my heart, an aching senseOf vampire winning. And I heardHer name slow-syllabled—a wordOf haunting harmony—and thenLow-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!"And sighs of shadowy lips again.How madly strange that this should be!For, had she loved me here on Earth,It had not then been marvelousThat she should now remember me,Returning love for love, though worthLess, yes, far less to both of us.And so I wondered, listening there:How was it that her soul was broughtSo near to mine now, whom in lifeShe hated so? And everywhereAbout my life I thought and thoughtAnd found no reason why her loveShould now be mine. We were at strifeForever here; her hatred droveMe to despair: I cast my gloveInto the frowning face of fate,And lost her. Yea, it was her hateThat made her Appolonio's wife.Her hate! her lovely hate!—for ofHer naught I found unlovely;—andI felt she did not understandMy passion, and 'twere well to wait.And now I felt her presence near,I, full of life; yet knew no fearThere in the sombre silence, mark.And it was dark, yes, deadly dark:But when I slowly drew awayThe pall, death modeled with her face,—From her fair form it fell and layRich in the dust,—the shrouded placeWas glittering daggered by the sparkOf one wild ruby at her throat,Red-arrowed as a star with throbsOf pulsing flame. And note on noteThe night seemed filled with tenuous sobsOf fire that flickered from that stone,That, lustrous, lay against her throat,Large as her eyes, and shadowy.And standing by the dead aloneI marveled not that this should be.The essence of an hundred stars,Of fretful crimson, through and throughIts bezels beat, when, bending downMy hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars,Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue,Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; andThe vault rang; and I felt a handLike fire in mine. And, lo, a frownBroke up her face as gently asThe surface of a fountain's glassA zephyr moves, that jolts the grassSpilling its rain-drops. When this passed,Through song-soft slumber, binding fast,Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful;And with each smile I heard the dullDeep music of her heart, and saw,As by some necromantic law,Faint tremblings of a lubric lightFlush her white temples and her throat:And each long pulse was as a note,That, gathering, like a strong surpriseWith all of happiness, made sweetWith dim carnation in wild wiseThe arch of her pale lips, and beatLike moonlight from her head to feet.I bent and kissed her once again:And with that kiss it seemed that pain,Which long had ached beneath her smileAnd eyelids, vanished. In a whileI saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white,Fair as she was before she died,She rose upon the bier; a sightTo marvel at, whose truth beliedAll fiction. Yet I saw her eyesGrow wide unto my kiss,—like skiesOf starless dawn.—And all the fireOf that dark ruby at her throatAround her presence seemed to float,A mist of rose, wherein like lightShe moved, or music exquisite.What followed then I scarcely know:All I remember is, I caughtHer hand; and from the tomb I broughtHer beautiful: and o'er the snow,Where moonbeams on the hollies glow,I led her. But her feet no printLeft of their nakedness, no dint,No faintest trace in frost. I thought,"The moonlight fills them with its glow,So soft they fall; or 'tis the snowCovers them o'er!—the tomb was black,And—this strong light blinds!"—Turning backMy eyes met hers; and as I turned,Flashing centupled facets, burnedThat ruby at her throat; and IStudied its beauty for a while:How came it there, and when, and why?Who set it at her throat? Again,Was it a ruby?—Pondering,I stood and gazed. A far, strange smileFilled all her face, and as with painI seemed to hear her speak, or sing,These words, that meant not anything,Yet more than any words may mean:"Thy blood it is," she said; then sighed:"See where thy heart's blood beateth! hereThy heart's blood, that my lips did drainIn life; I live by still, unseen,Long as thy passion shall remain.—Canst thou behold and have no fear?—Yea, if I am not dead, 'tis thou!—Look how thy heart's blood flashes now!—Blood of my life and soul, beat on!Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn;And heat the heart of me, his bride!"And then she leaned against me, eyedLike some white serpent, strangely still,That binds one with its glittering stare,That at wild stars hath gazed untilIts eyes have learned their golden glare.And then I took her by the wristsAnd drew her to me. Faintly feltThe shadow of her hair, whose mistsWere twilight-deep and dimly smeltOf shroud and sepulchre. And sheSmiled on me with such sorceryAs well might win a soul from GodTo Hell and torments. And I trodOn white enchantments and was longA song and harp-string to a song,Love's battle in my blood. And there,Kissing her mouth, all unawareThe ruby loosened at her throat,And, ere I wist, hung o'er my hand,And on the brink I seemed to standOf something that cried out, "AdmireThe beauty of this gem of fire,Its witchcraft and its workmanship."Then from her throat it seemed to slip,And, in the hollow of my hand,A rosy spasm, a bubble-boatOf living flame, it seemed to float;A fretful fire; a heart, fierce fannedOf red convulsions. Like a brand,A blaze, it touched me; seemed to runLike fever through my pulses, swift,Of torrid poison. One by one,Now burning ice, now freezing sun,I felt my veins swell. Then I feltMy palm brim up and overflowWith blood that, beads of oozing glow,Dripped, drop by drop, upon the snow,Like holly-berries on the snow.Then something darkly seemed to meltWithin me, and I heard a sighSo like a moan, 'twas as if yearsOf anguish bore it; and the skySwam near me as when seen through tears—And she was gone.... In ghostly gloomOf dark, scarred pines a crumbling tombLoomed like a mist. Carved in its stone,Above the grated portal deep,Glimmered this legend:—"Let her sleep,Crowned with dim death, our lovely one,Known here on Earth as Gloramone.Our hearts bow down by her and weep,And one sits weeping all alone."

The moonbeams on the hollies glowPale where she left me; and the snowLies bleak in moonshine on the graves,Ribbed with each gust that shakes and wavesAncestral cedars by her tomb....

The moonbeams on the hollies glow

Pale where she left me; and the snow

Lies bleak in moonshine on the graves,

Ribbed with each gust that shakes and waves

Ancestral cedars by her tomb....

She lay so beautiful in death,My Gloramone,—whose lovelinessDeath had not dimmed with all its doom,—That, urged by my divine distress,I sought her sepulchre: the gloom,The iciness that takes the breath,The sense of fear, were not too strongTo keep me from beholding long.

She lay so beautiful in death,

My Gloramone,—whose loveliness

Death had not dimmed with all its doom,—

That, urged by my divine distress,

I sought her sepulchre: the gloom,

The iciness that takes the breath,

The sense of fear, were not too strong

To keep me from beholding long.

I stole into its sorrow; burst,With what I know was hand accursed,Its seal, the gated silence ofHer old armorial tomb: but loveHad sighed sweet romance to my heart;And here, I thought, another partOur souls would play. I did not startWhen indistinctness of pale lipsBreathed on my hair; faint finger-tipsFluttered their starlight on my brow;When on my eyes, I knew not whence,Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow,Within my heart, an aching senseOf vampire winning. And I heardHer name slow-syllabled—a wordOf haunting harmony—and thenLow-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!"And sighs of shadowy lips again.

I stole into its sorrow; burst,

With what I know was hand accursed,

Its seal, the gated silence of

Her old armorial tomb: but love

Had sighed sweet romance to my heart;

And here, I thought, another part

Our souls would play. I did not start

When indistinctness of pale lips

Breathed on my hair; faint finger-tips

Fluttered their starlight on my brow;

When on my eyes, I knew not whence,

Vague kisses fell: then, like a vow,

Within my heart, an aching sense

Of vampire winning. And I heard

Her name slow-syllabled—a word

Of haunting harmony—and then

Low-whispered, "Thou! at last, 'tis thou!"

And sighs of shadowy lips again.

How madly strange that this should be!For, had she loved me here on Earth,It had not then been marvelousThat she should now remember me,Returning love for love, though worthLess, yes, far less to both of us.And so I wondered, listening there:How was it that her soul was broughtSo near to mine now, whom in lifeShe hated so? And everywhereAbout my life I thought and thoughtAnd found no reason why her loveShould now be mine. We were at strifeForever here; her hatred droveMe to despair: I cast my gloveInto the frowning face of fate,And lost her. Yea, it was her hateThat made her Appolonio's wife.Her hate! her lovely hate!—for ofHer naught I found unlovely;—andI felt she did not understandMy passion, and 'twere well to wait.

How madly strange that this should be!

For, had she loved me here on Earth,

It had not then been marvelous

That she should now remember me,

Returning love for love, though worth

Less, yes, far less to both of us.

And so I wondered, listening there:

How was it that her soul was brought

So near to mine now, whom in life

She hated so? And everywhere

About my life I thought and thought

And found no reason why her love

Should now be mine. We were at strife

Forever here; her hatred drove

Me to despair: I cast my glove

Into the frowning face of fate,

And lost her. Yea, it was her hate

That made her Appolonio's wife.

Her hate! her lovely hate!—for of

Her naught I found unlovely;—and

I felt she did not understand

My passion, and 'twere well to wait.

And now I felt her presence near,I, full of life; yet knew no fearThere in the sombre silence, mark.And it was dark, yes, deadly dark:But when I slowly drew awayThe pall, death modeled with her face,—From her fair form it fell and layRich in the dust,—the shrouded placeWas glittering daggered by the sparkOf one wild ruby at her throat,Red-arrowed as a star with throbsOf pulsing flame. And note on noteThe night seemed filled with tenuous sobsOf fire that flickered from that stone,That, lustrous, lay against her throat,Large as her eyes, and shadowy.And standing by the dead aloneI marveled not that this should be.The essence of an hundred stars,Of fretful crimson, through and throughIts bezels beat, when, bending downMy hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars,Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue,Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; andThe vault rang; and I felt a handLike fire in mine. And, lo, a frownBroke up her face as gently asThe surface of a fountain's glassA zephyr moves, that jolts the grassSpilling its rain-drops. When this passed,Through song-soft slumber, binding fast,Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful;And with each smile I heard the dullDeep music of her heart, and saw,As by some necromantic law,Faint tremblings of a lubric lightFlush her white temples and her throat:And each long pulse was as a note,That, gathering, like a strong surpriseWith all of happiness, made sweetWith dim carnation in wild wiseThe arch of her pale lips, and beatLike moonlight from her head to feet.I bent and kissed her once again:And with that kiss it seemed that pain,Which long had ached beneath her smileAnd eyelids, vanished. In a whileI saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white,Fair as she was before she died,She rose upon the bier; a sightTo marvel at, whose truth beliedAll fiction. Yet I saw her eyesGrow wide unto my kiss,—like skiesOf starless dawn.—And all the fireOf that dark ruby at her throatAround her presence seemed to float,A mist of rose, wherein like lightShe moved, or music exquisite.

And now I felt her presence near,

I, full of life; yet knew no fear

There in the sombre silence, mark.

And it was dark, yes, deadly dark:

But when I slowly drew away

The pall, death modeled with her face,—

From her fair form it fell and lay

Rich in the dust,—the shrouded place

Was glittering daggered by the spark

Of one wild ruby at her throat,

Red-arrowed as a star with throbs

Of pulsing flame. And note on note

The night seemed filled with tenuous sobs

Of fire that flickered from that stone,

That, lustrous, lay against her throat,

Large as her eyes, and shadowy.

And standing by the dead alone

I marveled not that this should be.

The essence of an hundred stars,

Of fretful crimson, through and through

Its bezels beat, when, bending down

My hot lips pressed her mouth. And scars,

Aurora-scarlet, veiny blue,

Flame-hearted, blurred the midnight; and

The vault rang; and I felt a hand

Like fire in mine. And, lo, a frown

Broke up her face as gently as

The surface of a fountain's glass

A zephyr moves, that jolts the grass

Spilling its rain-drops. When this passed,

Through song-soft slumber, binding fast,

Slow smiles dreamed outward beautiful;

And with each smile I heard the dull

Deep music of her heart, and saw,

As by some necromantic law,

Faint tremblings of a lubric light

Flush her white temples and her throat:

And each long pulse was as a note,

That, gathering, like a strong surprise

With all of happiness, made sweet

With dim carnation in wild wise

The arch of her pale lips, and beat

Like moonlight from her head to feet.

I bent and kissed her once again:

And with that kiss it seemed that pain,

Which long had ached beneath her smile

And eyelids, vanished. In a while

I saw she breathed. Then, wondrous white,

Fair as she was before she died,

She rose upon the bier; a sight

To marvel at, whose truth belied

All fiction. Yet I saw her eyes

Grow wide unto my kiss,—like skies

Of starless dawn.—And all the fire

Of that dark ruby at her throat

Around her presence seemed to float,

A mist of rose, wherein like light

She moved, or music exquisite.

What followed then I scarcely know:All I remember is, I caughtHer hand; and from the tomb I broughtHer beautiful: and o'er the snow,Where moonbeams on the hollies glow,I led her. But her feet no printLeft of their nakedness, no dint,No faintest trace in frost. I thought,"The moonlight fills them with its glow,So soft they fall; or 'tis the snowCovers them o'er!—the tomb was black,And—this strong light blinds!"—Turning backMy eyes met hers; and as I turned,Flashing centupled facets, burnedThat ruby at her throat; and IStudied its beauty for a while:How came it there, and when, and why?Who set it at her throat? Again,Was it a ruby?—Pondering,I stood and gazed. A far, strange smileFilled all her face, and as with painI seemed to hear her speak, or sing,These words, that meant not anything,Yet more than any words may mean:"Thy blood it is," she said; then sighed:"See where thy heart's blood beateth! hereThy heart's blood, that my lips did drainIn life; I live by still, unseen,Long as thy passion shall remain.—Canst thou behold and have no fear?—Yea, if I am not dead, 'tis thou!—Look how thy heart's blood flashes now!—Blood of my life and soul, beat on!Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn;And heat the heart of me, his bride!"And then she leaned against me, eyedLike some white serpent, strangely still,That binds one with its glittering stare,That at wild stars hath gazed untilIts eyes have learned their golden glare.

What followed then I scarcely know:

All I remember is, I caught

Her hand; and from the tomb I brought

Her beautiful: and o'er the snow,

Where moonbeams on the hollies glow,

I led her. But her feet no print

Left of their nakedness, no dint,

No faintest trace in frost. I thought,

"The moonlight fills them with its glow,

So soft they fall; or 'tis the snow

Covers them o'er!—the tomb was black,

And—this strong light blinds!"—Turning back

My eyes met hers; and as I turned,

Flashing centupled facets, burned

That ruby at her throat; and I

Studied its beauty for a while:

How came it there, and when, and why?

Who set it at her throat? Again,

Was it a ruby?—Pondering,

I stood and gazed. A far, strange smile

Filled all her face, and as with pain

I seemed to hear her speak, or sing,

These words, that meant not anything,

Yet more than any words may mean:

"Thy blood it is," she said; then sighed:

"See where thy heart's blood beateth! here

Thy heart's blood, that my lips did drain

In life; I live by still, unseen,

Long as thy passion shall remain.—

Canst thou behold and have no fear?—

Yea, if I am not dead, 'tis thou!—

Look how thy heart's blood flashes now!—

Blood of my life and soul, beat on!

Beat on! and fill my veins with dawn;

And heat the heart of me, his bride!"

And then she leaned against me, eyed

Like some white serpent, strangely still,

That binds one with its glittering stare,

That at wild stars hath gazed until

Its eyes have learned their golden glare.

And then I took her by the wristsAnd drew her to me. Faintly feltThe shadow of her hair, whose mistsWere twilight-deep and dimly smeltOf shroud and sepulchre. And sheSmiled on me with such sorceryAs well might win a soul from GodTo Hell and torments. And I trodOn white enchantments and was longA song and harp-string to a song,Love's battle in my blood. And there,Kissing her mouth, all unawareThe ruby loosened at her throat,And, ere I wist, hung o'er my hand,And on the brink I seemed to standOf something that cried out, "AdmireThe beauty of this gem of fire,Its witchcraft and its workmanship."Then from her throat it seemed to slip,And, in the hollow of my hand,A rosy spasm, a bubble-boatOf living flame, it seemed to float;A fretful fire; a heart, fierce fannedOf red convulsions. Like a brand,A blaze, it touched me; seemed to runLike fever through my pulses, swift,Of torrid poison. One by one,Now burning ice, now freezing sun,I felt my veins swell. Then I feltMy palm brim up and overflowWith blood that, beads of oozing glow,Dripped, drop by drop, upon the snow,Like holly-berries on the snow.

And then I took her by the wrists

And drew her to me. Faintly felt

The shadow of her hair, whose mists

Were twilight-deep and dimly smelt

Of shroud and sepulchre. And she

Smiled on me with such sorcery

As well might win a soul from God

To Hell and torments. And I trod

On white enchantments and was long

A song and harp-string to a song,

Love's battle in my blood. And there,

Kissing her mouth, all unaware

The ruby loosened at her throat,

And, ere I wist, hung o'er my hand,

And on the brink I seemed to stand

Of something that cried out, "Admire

The beauty of this gem of fire,

Its witchcraft and its workmanship."

Then from her throat it seemed to slip,

And, in the hollow of my hand,

A rosy spasm, a bubble-boat

Of living flame, it seemed to float;

A fretful fire; a heart, fierce fanned

Of red convulsions. Like a brand,

A blaze, it touched me; seemed to run

Like fever through my pulses, swift,

Of torrid poison. One by one,

Now burning ice, now freezing sun,

I felt my veins swell. Then I felt

My palm brim up and overflow

With blood that, beads of oozing glow,

Dripped, drop by drop, upon the snow,

Like holly-berries on the snow.

Then something darkly seemed to meltWithin me, and I heard a sighSo like a moan, 'twas as if yearsOf anguish bore it; and the skySwam near me as when seen through tears—And she was gone.... In ghostly gloomOf dark, scarred pines a crumbling tombLoomed like a mist. Carved in its stone,Above the grated portal deep,Glimmered this legend:—

Then something darkly seemed to melt

Within me, and I heard a sigh

So like a moan, 'twas as if years

Of anguish bore it; and the sky

Swam near me as when seen through tears—

And she was gone.... In ghostly gloom

Of dark, scarred pines a crumbling tomb

Loomed like a mist. Carved in its stone,

Above the grated portal deep,

Glimmered this legend:—

"Let her sleep,Crowned with dim death, our lovely one,Known here on Earth as Gloramone.Our hearts bow down by her and weep,And one sits weeping all alone."

"Let her sleep,

Crowned with dim death, our lovely one,

Known here on Earth as Gloramone.

Our hearts bow down by her and weep,

And one sits weeping all alone."

IThe slow reflection of a woman's faceGrew, as by witchcraft, in the oval spaceOf that strange glass on which the moon looked in:—As cruel as death beneath the auburn hairThe dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,—Evil as night, yet as the daybreak fair,—Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.IIThe glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crestsOf snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,Filled soul and body with the old desire.—Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fireHad burnt to ashes of satiety!You, who had sunk my soul in crime's red mire!IIIHow came your image there? and in that room!Where she, the all-adored, my life's sweet bloom,Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride—Yes, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,Thinking her death would win me to your side.It won me; yes! but.... Well, it made some stir—By your own hand, I think, they said you died.IVTime passed. And then—was it the curse of crime,That night of nights, which forced my feet to climbTo that locked bridal-room?—'Twas midnight whenA longing, like to madness, mastered me,Compelled me to that chamber, which for tenLong years was sealed: a dark necessityTo gaze upon—I knew not what again.VLove's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvatureOf that orbed mirror, something that might cureThe ache in me—some message, said perchanceOf her dead loveliness,—which once it glassed,—That might repeat again my lost romanceIn momentary pictures of the past,While in its depths her image swam in trance.VII did not dream to see the soulless eyesOfyouI hated; nor the lips where liesAnd kisses curled:yourfeatures,—that were tunedTo all demonic,—smiling up as mightSome deep damnation! while ... my God! I swooned!...Oozed slowly out, between the breasts' dead white,The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.

The slow reflection of a woman's faceGrew, as by witchcraft, in the oval spaceOf that strange glass on which the moon looked in:—As cruel as death beneath the auburn hairThe dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,—Evil as night, yet as the daybreak fair,—Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.

The slow reflection of a woman's face

Grew, as by witchcraft, in the oval space

Of that strange glass on which the moon looked in:—

As cruel as death beneath the auburn hair

The dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,—

Evil as night, yet as the daybreak fair,—

Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.

The glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crestsOf snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,Filled soul and body with the old desire.—Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fireHad burnt to ashes of satiety!You, who had sunk my soul in crime's red mire!

The glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crests

Of snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,

Filled soul and body with the old desire.—

Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?

You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fire

Had burnt to ashes of satiety!

You, who had sunk my soul in crime's red mire!

III

How came your image there? and in that room!Where she, the all-adored, my life's sweet bloom,Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride—Yes, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,Thinking her death would win me to your side.It won me; yes! but.... Well, it made some stir—By your own hand, I think, they said you died.

How came your image there? and in that room!

Where she, the all-adored, my life's sweet bloom,

Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride—

Yes, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,

Thinking her death would win me to your side.

It won me; yes! but.... Well, it made some stir—

By your own hand, I think, they said you died.

Time passed. And then—was it the curse of crime,That night of nights, which forced my feet to climbTo that locked bridal-room?—'Twas midnight whenA longing, like to madness, mastered me,Compelled me to that chamber, which for tenLong years was sealed: a dark necessityTo gaze upon—I knew not what again.

Time passed. And then—was it the curse of crime,

That night of nights, which forced my feet to climb

To that locked bridal-room?—'Twas midnight when

A longing, like to madness, mastered me,

Compelled me to that chamber, which for ten

Long years was sealed: a dark necessity

To gaze upon—I knew not what again.

Love's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvatureOf that orbed mirror, something that might cureThe ache in me—some message, said perchanceOf her dead loveliness,—which once it glassed,—That might repeat again my lost romanceIn momentary pictures of the past,While in its depths her image swam in trance.

Love's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvature

Of that orbed mirror, something that might cure

The ache in me—some message, said perchance

Of her dead loveliness,—which once it glassed,—

That might repeat again my lost romance

In momentary pictures of the past,

While in its depths her image swam in trance.

I did not dream to see the soulless eyesOfyouI hated; nor the lips where liesAnd kisses curled:yourfeatures,—that were tunedTo all demonic,—smiling up as mightSome deep damnation! while ... my God! I swooned!...Oozed slowly out, between the breasts' dead white,The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.

I did not dream to see the soulless eyes

OfyouI hated; nor the lips where lies

And kisses curled:yourfeatures,—that were tuned

To all demonic,—smiling up as might

Some deep damnation! while ... my God! I swooned!...

Oozed slowly out, between the breasts' dead white,

The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.

The year was dying, and the dayWas almost dead;The west, beneath a sombre gray,Was sombre red:The gravestones in the ghostly light,That glimmered there,Seemed phantoms, wandering wan and white,'Mid trees half bare.I stood beside the grave of oneWho, here in life,Was false to me; who had undoneMy child and wife:I stood beside his grave untilThe moon came up—It seemed the dark, unhallowed hillLifted a cup.No stone was there to mark his grave,No flower to grace—'Twas meet that weeds alone should waveIn such a place:I stood beside his grave untilThe stars swam high,And all the night was iron-stillFrom sky to sky.What cared I though strange eyes glowed brightWithin the gloom!Though, evil blue, a witch's-lightBurnt by each tomb!Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemedA hag, black-cloaked!Or that the owl above me screamed,The raven croaked!I cursed him: cursed him when the dayBurnt sullen red;Had cursed him when the west was gray,And day was dead:And now when night made dark the pole,Both soon and lateI cursed his body, yea, and soul,With th' hate of hate.Once at my side I seemed to hearA low voice say,—"'Twere better to forgive,—and fearThy God,—and pray."I laughed; and from pale lips of stoneOn sculptured tombsWild laughter leapt, and then a moanSwept through the glooms.And then I felt a change—a force,That seemed to seizeMy body, like some fearful curse,And, fastening, freezeIt downward, deeper than the knees,Into the earth—While still among the twisted treesRang mocking mirth.And then I felt such fear, despair,As lost ones feel,When, knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,They feel the steelOf devils' forks lift up, through sleetOf Hell's slant fire,Then plunge,—as white from head to feetI grew entire.A voice without me, yet within,As still as frost,Intoned: "Thy sin is more than sin,O damned and lost!Behold, how God would punish theeFor this thy crime—Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—Through endless time!"O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,Record what goodHe did on Earth! and let him liveLoved, understood!Be memory thine of all the worstHe did thine own!"...There at the head of him I cursedI stood—a stone.

The year was dying, and the day

Was almost dead;

The west, beneath a sombre gray,

Was sombre red:

The gravestones in the ghostly light,

That glimmered there,

Seemed phantoms, wandering wan and white,

'Mid trees half bare.

I stood beside the grave of oneWho, here in life,Was false to me; who had undoneMy child and wife:I stood beside his grave untilThe moon came up—It seemed the dark, unhallowed hillLifted a cup.

I stood beside the grave of one

Who, here in life,

Was false to me; who had undone

My child and wife:

I stood beside his grave until

The moon came up—

It seemed the dark, unhallowed hill

Lifted a cup.

No stone was there to mark his grave,No flower to grace—'Twas meet that weeds alone should waveIn such a place:I stood beside his grave untilThe stars swam high,And all the night was iron-stillFrom sky to sky.

No stone was there to mark his grave,

No flower to grace—

'Twas meet that weeds alone should wave

In such a place:

I stood beside his grave until

The stars swam high,

And all the night was iron-still

From sky to sky.

What cared I though strange eyes glowed brightWithin the gloom!Though, evil blue, a witch's-lightBurnt by each tomb!Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemedA hag, black-cloaked!Or that the owl above me screamed,The raven croaked!

What cared I though strange eyes glowed bright

Within the gloom!

Though, evil blue, a witch's-light

Burnt by each tomb!

Or that each crooked thorn-tree seemed

A hag, black-cloaked!

Or that the owl above me screamed,

The raven croaked!

I cursed him: cursed him when the dayBurnt sullen red;Had cursed him when the west was gray,And day was dead:And now when night made dark the pole,Both soon and lateI cursed his body, yea, and soul,With th' hate of hate.

I cursed him: cursed him when the day

Burnt sullen red;

Had cursed him when the west was gray,

And day was dead:

And now when night made dark the pole,

Both soon and late

I cursed his body, yea, and soul,

With th' hate of hate.

Once at my side I seemed to hearA low voice say,—"'Twere better to forgive,—and fearThy God,—and pray."I laughed; and from pale lips of stoneOn sculptured tombsWild laughter leapt, and then a moanSwept through the glooms.

Once at my side I seemed to hear

A low voice say,—

"'Twere better to forgive,—and fear

Thy God,—and pray."

I laughed; and from pale lips of stone

On sculptured tombs

Wild laughter leapt, and then a moan

Swept through the glooms.

And then I felt a change—a force,That seemed to seizeMy body, like some fearful curse,And, fastening, freezeIt downward, deeper than the knees,Into the earth—While still among the twisted treesRang mocking mirth.

And then I felt a change—a force,

That seemed to seize

My body, like some fearful curse,

And, fastening, freeze

It downward, deeper than the knees,

Into the earth—

While still among the twisted trees

Rang mocking mirth.

And then I felt such fear, despair,As lost ones feel,When, knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,They feel the steelOf devils' forks lift up, through sleetOf Hell's slant fire,Then plunge,—as white from head to feetI grew entire.

And then I felt such fear, despair,

As lost ones feel,

When, knotted in their pitch-stiff hair,

They feel the steel

Of devils' forks lift up, through sleet

Of Hell's slant fire,

Then plunge,—as white from head to feet

I grew entire.

A voice without me, yet within,As still as frost,Intoned: "Thy sin is more than sin,O damned and lost!Behold, how God would punish theeFor this thy crime—Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—Through endless time!

A voice without me, yet within,

As still as frost,

Intoned: "Thy sin is more than sin,

O damned and lost!

Behold, how God would punish thee

For this thy crime—

Thy crime of hate and blasphemy—

Through endless time!

"O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,Record what goodHe did on Earth! and let him liveLoved, understood!Be memory thine of all the worstHe did thine own!"...There at the head of him I cursedI stood—a stone.

"O'er him, whom thou wouldst not forgive,

Record what good

He did on Earth! and let him live

Loved, understood!

Be memory thine of all the worst

He did thine own!"...

There at the head of him I cursed

I stood—a stone.

On the wild South Fork of Harrod's Creek,O'ergrown with creepers, if you should seek,You will find an ancient water-millOf stone below a wooded hill.Its weedy wheel is not less stillThan its image that sleeps in the grassy poolWhere the moccasin swims; and, slimly coolLike streaks of light through blurs of sun,The silver minnows and crawfish run.So lone the place, in its sycamoreThe blue crane builds; and from the shoreThe shitepoke wanders about its door.The burdock sprawls on its sill of pine;And, in its pathway, eglantineAnd blackberry tangle and intertwine;Ox-daisies checker with pearl and goldThe bushy banks of its mill-race old;The owl in its loft as safely lairsAs the fox in its cellar, that whelps and caresNaught for the hunters who gallop byWith their baying hounds; the martins flyAround its chimney and build therein;And wasp and hornet, with murmurous din,Plaster their nests, that none disturb,On window-lintel and hopper-curb.Once I stood in this old, stone mill,Once as the day died over the hill,And night came on; and stark and stillI met with phantoms upon its stairs;Shadows, that took me unawares,Eyed with fire and cowled with gloom—Twilight phantoms, that crowded, dark,Its dim interior, each eye a sparkOf sunset, creviced, within the room—While a moist, chill, moldering, dead perfumeOf crumbling timbers and rotting grain,On floors all warped with the sun and rain,Made of the stagnant air a cell,Round the cobwebbed rafters hung like a spell;Making my mind, despite me, runOn thoughts of a hidden skeleton,There in the walls; or, dripping dank,Under the floor, 'neath a certain plank;Glowering, grim in the mossy wet,In its hollow eyes a dark regret.I had entered when the evening-starIn the saffron heaven was sparkling afar,In all its glory of light divine,Like a diamond drowned in kingly wine;And I stayed till the heavens hung low and gray,And the clouds of the storm drove down and away,Like the tattered leaves of an Autumn day;And the wild rain beat on the rotting roofThe goblin dance of the Fiend's own hoof,Till the spider dropped from its dusty woof;And the thunder throbbed like a mighty heart;And the wild wind filled each crannied partOf the mill with moanings, that seemed to beThe voice of an ancient agony—Till the beetle shrunk in its board of pine;—While the lightning lit with its instant shineThe tossing terror of tree and vine ...Then, all on a sudden, the storm was still—And I sawherthere, near the shattered sill,At the window, gazing from the millInto the darkness under the storm;Around her flickering hair and formUnearthly glimmer. She seemed to leanTo the rushing waters that roared unseen:A moment only she seemed to swayBefore me there in the lightning gray,Then vanished utterly away:Like a blown-out light....And was it she,The miller's daughter who died, they say,Who flung herself on the mill's great wheel,Long years ago, in her heart's despair?—Or was it a dream, a fantasy,That the place and the moment made me feel,And imagination imaged there?

On the wild South Fork of Harrod's Creek,

O'ergrown with creepers, if you should seek,

You will find an ancient water-mill

Of stone below a wooded hill.

Its weedy wheel is not less still

Than its image that sleeps in the grassy pool

Where the moccasin swims; and, slimly cool

Like streaks of light through blurs of sun,

The silver minnows and crawfish run.

So lone the place, in its sycamore

The blue crane builds; and from the shore

The shitepoke wanders about its door.

The burdock sprawls on its sill of pine;

And, in its pathway, eglantine

And blackberry tangle and intertwine;

Ox-daisies checker with pearl and gold

The bushy banks of its mill-race old;

The owl in its loft as safely lairs

As the fox in its cellar, that whelps and cares

Naught for the hunters who gallop by

With their baying hounds; the martins fly

Around its chimney and build therein;

And wasp and hornet, with murmurous din,

Plaster their nests, that none disturb,

On window-lintel and hopper-curb.

Once I stood in this old, stone mill,Once as the day died over the hill,And night came on; and stark and stillI met with phantoms upon its stairs;Shadows, that took me unawares,Eyed with fire and cowled with gloom—Twilight phantoms, that crowded, dark,Its dim interior, each eye a sparkOf sunset, creviced, within the room—While a moist, chill, moldering, dead perfumeOf crumbling timbers and rotting grain,On floors all warped with the sun and rain,Made of the stagnant air a cell,Round the cobwebbed rafters hung like a spell;Making my mind, despite me, runOn thoughts of a hidden skeleton,There in the walls; or, dripping dank,Under the floor, 'neath a certain plank;Glowering, grim in the mossy wet,In its hollow eyes a dark regret.I had entered when the evening-starIn the saffron heaven was sparkling afar,In all its glory of light divine,Like a diamond drowned in kingly wine;And I stayed till the heavens hung low and gray,And the clouds of the storm drove down and away,Like the tattered leaves of an Autumn day;And the wild rain beat on the rotting roofThe goblin dance of the Fiend's own hoof,Till the spider dropped from its dusty woof;And the thunder throbbed like a mighty heart;And the wild wind filled each crannied partOf the mill with moanings, that seemed to beThe voice of an ancient agony—Till the beetle shrunk in its board of pine;—While the lightning lit with its instant shineThe tossing terror of tree and vine ...Then, all on a sudden, the storm was still—And I sawherthere, near the shattered sill,At the window, gazing from the millInto the darkness under the storm;Around her flickering hair and formUnearthly glimmer. She seemed to leanTo the rushing waters that roared unseen:A moment only she seemed to swayBefore me there in the lightning gray,Then vanished utterly away:Like a blown-out light....

Once I stood in this old, stone mill,

Once as the day died over the hill,

And night came on; and stark and still

I met with phantoms upon its stairs;

Shadows, that took me unawares,

Eyed with fire and cowled with gloom—

Twilight phantoms, that crowded, dark,

Its dim interior, each eye a spark

Of sunset, creviced, within the room—

While a moist, chill, moldering, dead perfume

Of crumbling timbers and rotting grain,

On floors all warped with the sun and rain,

Made of the stagnant air a cell,

Round the cobwebbed rafters hung like a spell;

Making my mind, despite me, run

On thoughts of a hidden skeleton,

There in the walls; or, dripping dank,

Under the floor, 'neath a certain plank;

Glowering, grim in the mossy wet,

In its hollow eyes a dark regret.

I had entered when the evening-star

In the saffron heaven was sparkling afar,

In all its glory of light divine,

Like a diamond drowned in kingly wine;

And I stayed till the heavens hung low and gray,

And the clouds of the storm drove down and away,

Like the tattered leaves of an Autumn day;

And the wild rain beat on the rotting roof

The goblin dance of the Fiend's own hoof,

Till the spider dropped from its dusty woof;

And the thunder throbbed like a mighty heart;

And the wild wind filled each crannied part

Of the mill with moanings, that seemed to be

The voice of an ancient agony—

Till the beetle shrunk in its board of pine;—

While the lightning lit with its instant shine

The tossing terror of tree and vine ...

Then, all on a sudden, the storm was still—

And I sawherthere, near the shattered sill,

At the window, gazing from the mill

Into the darkness under the storm;

Around her flickering hair and form

Unearthly glimmer. She seemed to lean

To the rushing waters that roared unseen:

A moment only she seemed to sway

Before me there in the lightning gray,

Then vanished utterly away:

Like a blown-out light....

And was it she,The miller's daughter who died, they say,Who flung herself on the mill's great wheel,Long years ago, in her heart's despair?—Or was it a dream, a fantasy,That the place and the moment made me feel,And imagination imaged there?

And was it she,

The miller's daughter who died, they say,

Who flung herself on the mill's great wheel,

Long years ago, in her heart's despair?—

Or was it a dream, a fantasy,

That the place and the moment made me feel,

And imagination imaged there?

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is still,And pale on the pool where the creek-frogs croon,Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;And under the willows, where shadows lie,The torch of the firefly wanders by;—They say that the miller walks here, walks here,All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;The old, lame miller hung many a year:When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,He walks in the night by Harrod's mill.When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is chillWith the autumn wind, and the waters creepWhere the starlight fails and the shadows sleep;And under the willows, that toss and moan,The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;—They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,In a weedy space that the lilies lace,A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face;The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,She floats in the night by Harrod's mill.When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,And the thunder mutters and rain-winds sob,And the foxfire glows like the lamp of a Lob;And under the willows, that gloom and glance,The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devil's-dance;—They say that that crime is reacted again.And each cranny and chink of the mill doth winkWith the light o' hell, or the lightning's blink,And a woman's shrieks are heard through the rain:When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,No man will walk by Harrod's mill.

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,

At twelve o'clock when the night is still,

And pale on the pool where the creek-frogs croon,

Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;

And under the willows, where shadows lie,

The torch of the firefly wanders by;—

They say that the miller walks here, walks here,

All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,

And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;

The old, lame miller hung many a year:

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,

He walks in the night by Harrod's mill.

When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is chillWith the autumn wind, and the waters creepWhere the starlight fails and the shadows sleep;And under the willows, that toss and moan,The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;—They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,In a weedy space that the lilies lace,A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face;The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,She floats in the night by Harrod's mill.

When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,

At twelve o'clock when the night is chill

With the autumn wind, and the waters creep

Where the starlight fails and the shadows sleep;

And under the willows, that toss and moan,

The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;—

They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,

In a weedy space that the lilies lace,

A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face;

The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:

When the bark of the fox sounds lone on the hill,

She floats in the night by Harrod's mill.

When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,And the thunder mutters and rain-winds sob,And the foxfire glows like the lamp of a Lob;And under the willows, that gloom and glance,The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devil's-dance;—They say that that crime is reacted again.And each cranny and chink of the mill doth winkWith the light o' hell, or the lightning's blink,And a woman's shrieks are heard through the rain:When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,No man will walk by Harrod's mill.

When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,

At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,

And the thunder mutters and rain-winds sob,

And the foxfire glows like the lamp of a Lob;

And under the willows, that gloom and glance,

The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devil's-dance;—

They say that that crime is reacted again.

And each cranny and chink of the mill doth wink

With the light o' hell, or the lightning's blink,

And a woman's shrieks are heard through the rain:

When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,

No man will walk by Harrod's mill.

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