NIGHTFALL

The cross I bear no man shall know—No man shall see the cross I bear!—Alas! the thorny path of woeUp the steep hill of care!There is no word to comfort me;No sign to ease my cross-bowed head:Deep night is in the heart of me,And in my soul is dread.To strive, it seems, that I was born,For that which others shall obtain;The disappointment and the scornAlone for me remain.One half my life is overpast;The other half I contemplate—Meseems the past doth but forecastA darker future state.Sick to the heart of that which makesMe hope and struggle and desire,The aspiration here that achesWith ineffectual fire:While inwardly I know the lackOf thought, the paucity of power,Each past day’s retrospect makes blackEach onward-coming hour.Now in my youth would I could die!Would God that I could lay me downAnd pass away without a sigh,Oblivious of renown!

The cross I bear no man shall know—No man shall see the cross I bear!—Alas! the thorny path of woeUp the steep hill of care!

There is no word to comfort me;No sign to ease my cross-bowed head:Deep night is in the heart of me,And in my soul is dread.

To strive, it seems, that I was born,For that which others shall obtain;The disappointment and the scornAlone for me remain.

One half my life is overpast;The other half I contemplate—Meseems the past doth but forecastA darker future state.

Sick to the heart of that which makesMe hope and struggle and desire,The aspiration here that achesWith ineffectual fire:

While inwardly I know the lackOf thought, the paucity of power,Each past day’s retrospect makes blackEach onward-coming hour.

Now in my youth would I could die!Would God that I could lay me downAnd pass away without a sigh,Oblivious of renown!

O day, so sicklied o’er with night!O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—A Circe orange, golden-bright,With horror ’neath its husk.—And I, who gave the promise heedThat made life’s tempting surface fair,Have I not eaten to the seedIts ashes of despair!O silence of the drifted grass!And immemorial eloquenceOf stars and winds and waves that pass!And God’s indifference!Leave me alone with sleep that knowsNot anything that life may keep—Not e’en the pulse that comes and goesIn germs that climb and creep.Or if an aspiration paleMust quicken there—oh, let the spotGrow weeds! that dust may so prevailWhere spirit once could not!

O day, so sicklied o’er with night!O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!—A Circe orange, golden-bright,With horror ’neath its husk.—

And I, who gave the promise heedThat made life’s tempting surface fair,Have I not eaten to the seedIts ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass!And immemorial eloquenceOf stars and winds and waves that pass!And God’s indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knowsNot anything that life may keep—Not e’en the pulse that comes and goesIn germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration paleMust quicken there—oh, let the spotGrow weeds! that dust may so prevailWhere spirit once could not!

Thou too art sick of dreams, that stainThe aisle, along which life must pass,With hues of mystic-colored glass,That fills the windows of the brain.Thou too art sick of thoughts, that carveThe house of days with arabesquesAnd gargoyles, where the mind grotesquesIn masks of hope and faith who starve.Come, lay thy over-weary headUpon my bosom! Do not weep!—“He giveth His beloved sleep."—Heart of my heart, be comforted.

Thou too art sick of dreams, that stainThe aisle, along which life must pass,With hues of mystic-colored glass,That fills the windows of the brain.

Thou too art sick of thoughts, that carveThe house of days with arabesquesAnd gargoyles, where the mind grotesquesIn masks of hope and faith who starve.

Come, lay thy over-weary headUpon my bosom! Do not weep!—“He giveth His beloved sleep."—Heart of my heart, be comforted.

We went by ways of bygone days,Up mountain heights of story,Where, lost in vague, historic haze,Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,Sat ’mid her ruins hoary.Where, wing to wing, the eagles clingAnd torrents have their sources,War rose with bugle voice to singOf woods of spears and swords a-swing,And rush of men and horses.Then deep below, where orchards showA home here, there a steeple,We heard a simple shepherd go,Singing,—within the afterglow,—A love-song of the people.As ’mid the trees his song did cease,With voice most sweet and holy,Peace,—’mid the cornlands of increaseAnd rose-beds of love’s victories,—Took up his music lowly.

We went by ways of bygone days,Up mountain heights of story,Where, lost in vague, historic haze,Tradition, crowned with battle-bays,Sat ’mid her ruins hoary.

Where, wing to wing, the eagles clingAnd torrents have their sources,War rose with bugle voice to singOf woods of spears and swords a-swing,And rush of men and horses.

Then deep below, where orchards showA home here, there a steeple,We heard a simple shepherd go,Singing,—within the afterglow,—A love-song of the people.

As ’mid the trees his song did cease,With voice most sweet and holy,Peace,—’mid the cornlands of increaseAnd rose-beds of love’s victories,—Took up his music lowly.

It seems that dawn will never climbThe eastern hills;And, clad in mist and flame and rime,Make flashing highways of the rills.The night is as an ancient wayThrough some dead land,Whereon the ghosts of MemoryAnd Sorrow wander, hand in hand.By which man’s works ignoble seem,Unbeautiful;And grandeur, but the ruined dreamOf some dead queen, crowned with a skull.A way, Past-peopled, dark and old,That stretches far—Its only real thing, the coldVague light of Sleep’s one fitful star.

It seems that dawn will never climbThe eastern hills;And, clad in mist and flame and rime,Make flashing highways of the rills.

The night is as an ancient wayThrough some dead land,Whereon the ghosts of MemoryAnd Sorrow wander, hand in hand.

By which man’s works ignoble seem,Unbeautiful;And grandeur, but the ruined dreamOf some dead queen, crowned with a skull.

A way, Past-peopled, dark and old,That stretches far—Its only real thing, the coldVague light of Sleep’s one fitful star.

To help our tired hope to toil,Lo! have we not the council hereOf trees, that to my heart appearAs sermons of the soil?To help our flagging faith to rise,Lo! have we not the high adviceOf stars, that for my soul sufficeAs gospels of the skies?Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb,With hope and faith made strong and great,The rock-rough pathway of our fate,The care-dark way of time.

To help our tired hope to toil,Lo! have we not the council hereOf trees, that to my heart appearAs sermons of the soil?

To help our flagging faith to rise,Lo! have we not the high adviceOf stars, that for my soul sufficeAs gospels of the skies?

Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb,With hope and faith made strong and great,The rock-rough pathway of our fate,The care-dark way of time.

The wind was on the forest,And silence on the wold;And darkness on the waters,And heaven was starry cold;When Sleep, with all her magic,Made me this thing behold:This side, an iron woodland;That side, an iron waste;Between which rose a tower,Wherein a wan light paced,A light, or phantom womanIce-eyed and icy-faced.And through the iron towerOf silence and of night,My Soul and I went only,My Soul, whose face was white,Whose one hand signed me listen,One bore a taper-light.For, lo! a voice behind meKept sighing in my earThe dreams my mind accepted,My heart refused to hear—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit now was near,And, lo! a voice before meKept calling constantlyThe hopes my heart accepted,My mind refused to see—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit spake to me.This way the one would bid me;This way the other saith:—Sweet is the voice behind meOf Life that followeth;And sweet the voice before meOf Life whose name is Death.

The wind was on the forest,And silence on the wold;And darkness on the waters,And heaven was starry cold;When Sleep, with all her magic,Made me this thing behold:

This side, an iron woodland;That side, an iron waste;Between which rose a tower,Wherein a wan light paced,A light, or phantom womanIce-eyed and icy-faced.

And through the iron towerOf silence and of night,My Soul and I went only,My Soul, whose face was white,Whose one hand signed me listen,One bore a taper-light.

For, lo! a voice behind meKept sighing in my earThe dreams my mind accepted,My heart refused to hear—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit now was near,

And, lo! a voice before meKept calling constantlyThe hopes my heart accepted,My mind refused to see—Of one I loved and loved not,Whose spirit spake to me.

This way the one would bid me;This way the other saith:—Sweet is the voice behind meOf Life that followeth;And sweet the voice before meOf Life whose name is Death.

I looked into the night and sawGod writing with tumultuous flameUpon the thunder’s front of awe,—As on sonorous brass,—the Law,Terrific, of His judgment name.Weary of all life’s best and worst,With hands of hate, I—who had pled,I, who had prayed for death at firstAnd had not died—now stood and cursedGod, yet He would not strike me dead.

I looked into the night and sawGod writing with tumultuous flameUpon the thunder’s front of awe,—As on sonorous brass,—the Law,Terrific, of His judgment name.

Weary of all life’s best and worst,With hands of hate, I—who had pled,I, who had prayed for death at firstAnd had not died—now stood and cursedGod, yet He would not strike me dead.

Last night I watched for Death—So sick of life was I!—When, in the street beneath,I heard his watchman cryThe hour, while passing by.I called. And in the nightI heard him stop below,His owlish lanthorn’s lightBlurring the windy snow—How long the time and slow!I said, “Why dost thou cowerThere at my door and knock?Come in! It is the hour!Cease fumbling at the lock!Naught’s well! ’Tis no o’clock!”Black through the door with himSwept in the Winter’s breath;His cloak was great and grim—But he who smiled beneathHad the face of Love not Death.

Last night I watched for Death—So sick of life was I!—When, in the street beneath,I heard his watchman cryThe hour, while passing by.

I called. And in the nightI heard him stop below,His owlish lanthorn’s lightBlurring the windy snow—How long the time and slow!

I said, “Why dost thou cowerThere at my door and knock?Come in! It is the hour!Cease fumbling at the lock!Naught’s well! ’Tis no o’clock!”

Black through the door with himSwept in the Winter’s breath;His cloak was great and grim—But he who smiled beneathHad the face of Love not Death.

I know not where I found youWith your wild hair a-blow,Nor why the world around youWould never let me know:Perhaps ’twas Heaven relented;Perhaps ’twas Hell resentedMy hope, and grimly ventedIts hate upon me so.In Shadowland I met youWhere all life’s shadows meet;Within my heart I set you,A woman bitter-sweet:No hope for me to win you,Though I with soul and sinewStrove on and on, when in youThere was no heart or heat.Still always, aye, and ever,Although I knew you lied,I followed on, but neverWould your fair form abide:With loving arms stretched meward,As Sirens beckon seawardTo some frail vessel leeward,Before me you would glide.But like an evil fairy,That mocks one with a light,Now near, you led your airy,Now far, your fitful flight:With red-gold tresses blowing,And eyes of sapphire glowing,With raiment white and flowing,You lured me through the night.To some unearthly revelOf mimes, a motley crew,’Twixt Angel-land and Devil-,You lured me on, I knew,And lure me still! soft whilingThe way with hopes beguiling,While dark Despair sits smilingBehind the eyes of you.

In Shadowland I met youWhere all life’s shadows meet;Within my heart I set you,A woman bitter-sweet:No hope for me to win you,Though I with soul and sinewStrove on and on, when in youThere was no heart or heat.

Still always, aye, and ever,Although I knew you lied,I followed on, but neverWould your fair form abide:With loving arms stretched meward,As Sirens beckon seawardTo some frail vessel leeward,Before me you would glide.

But like an evil fairy,That mocks one with a light,Now near, you led your airy,Now far, your fitful flight:With red-gold tresses blowing,And eyes of sapphire glowing,With raiment white and flowing,You lured me through the night.

To some unearthly revelOf mimes, a motley crew,’Twixt Angel-land and Devil-,You lured me on, I knew,And lure me still! soft whilingThe way with hopes beguiling,While dark Despair sits smilingBehind the eyes of you.

I would not see, yet must beholdThe lie they preach in church and hall;And question thus,—Is death then all,And life an idle tale that’s told?The myriad wonders art hath wroughtMen deem eternal as God’s love:No more than shadows these shall prove,And insubstantial, too, as thought.And love and labor, who have gone,Hand in close hand, and civilizedThe wilderness, these shall be prizedNo more than if they had not done.Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bendBeneath a burden so unjust—Our works are builded of the dust,And dust our universal end.

I would not see, yet must beholdThe lie they preach in church and hall;And question thus,—Is death then all,And life an idle tale that’s told?

The myriad wonders art hath wroughtMen deem eternal as God’s love:No more than shadows these shall prove,And insubstantial, too, as thought.

And love and labor, who have gone,Hand in close hand, and civilizedThe wilderness, these shall be prizedNo more than if they had not done.

Then wherefore strive? Why strain and bendBeneath a burden so unjust—Our works are builded of the dust,And dust our universal end.

Night, and vast caverns of rock and of iron:Voices like water, and voices like wind:Horror, and tempests of hail that environShapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing upliftingFaces that loved once, forever they go,Tristram and Isolt, the lovers, go drifting,The simmer and laughter of Hell below.

Night, and vast caverns of rock and of iron:Voices like water, and voices like wind:Horror, and tempests of hail that environShapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.

Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing upliftingFaces that loved once, forever they go,Tristram and Isolt, the lovers, go drifting,The simmer and laughter of Hell below.

Lo! where the champion, Day, down slopes of flame,In golden armor, quits the evening skies!And as his glowing steeds, with manes of fire,Rush from the world, a dust of glimmering goldFrom their fierce hoofs o’er heaven’s azure meadsRolls to one star that blossoms near the moon.With solemn tread and holy-stoled, star-bound,Night, like a votaress, a shadowy nun,Paces the lonely corridors of heaven,The vasty-arched and ebon halls of sky.How still! how beautiful! her raven locksPale-filleted with stars that dance their sheenOn her deep, vestal eyes, and woo the soulTo wonder, and to dream of far-off things.How calm o’er this great river, in its flowSilent and dark, smoothes Earth’s cold sister sphereHer lunar chasteness, whiter than blown foam!As o’er a troubled brow a hand of love:As on a restless heart the balm of sleep,Caressing softening all care away.See, where the roses, at the wood’s dark edge,In many a languid bloom, bow to the moonAnd the dim river’s lisp; sleep weighs their eyesWith damask lashes of deep petals fringed,That the rude, frolic bee,—rough paramour,—So often kissed beneath the noonday sun.How cool the breezes touch the tired head!As if with unseen fingers, soft and slow,Smoothing away the weariness of day.And on the breeze, hark! to that melody,Borne from that thorn-tree, white with fragrant bloom,The dreaming nocturne of a mocking-bird,—Ave Maria, nun-like, slumbering sung,—There on its couch of clustered snow and scent.See, where the violet mound nods many a flower!Dreamily sad as Sorrow’s own sad eyes,And lost in thought, and great with dewy grief,As are her eyes when haltingly she bendsO’er Lethe’s waves, and, stooping down to drink,Delays to drink, and faltering remains.The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist and windSwept o’er them now, but as she passed she bent,Meseemed, and kissed each modest bloom and leftA brilliant on its brow, that bashful hung,Freighted with love: then, groping up her trainOf star-stained crape, that billowed breeze-like by,I seemed to hear her whisper as she passed:“Sleep, sleep, my children! Lo, I bring to youGod’s best gift, sleep! the soft, the misty eyed;The strange, the wonderful! the cure for care!”And all things slept, the trees, the rocks, the soil,Sleep’s soft ablution in them washing outThe fever and the frenzy of the day:But I, I slept not with them, though the worldAnd all its peoples slept, I could not sleep,My heart being brimmed with love, with joy and love,With thoughts and dreams of love’s first happiness;Until the Night turned from the slumbering world,From her dim vigil turned,—as, from her child,A loving mother turns, who, all night long,Hath bent above its cradle, and with songsAnd kisses soothed to rest:—and in the eastThe first faint streaks of dawn made gray the heaven,And the rathe cock, like some clear clarion, crew.

See, where the roses, at the wood’s dark edge,In many a languid bloom, bow to the moonAnd the dim river’s lisp; sleep weighs their eyesWith damask lashes of deep petals fringed,That the rude, frolic bee,—rough paramour,—So often kissed beneath the noonday sun.How cool the breezes touch the tired head!As if with unseen fingers, soft and slow,Smoothing away the weariness of day.And on the breeze, hark! to that melody,Borne from that thorn-tree, white with fragrant bloom,The dreaming nocturne of a mocking-bird,—Ave Maria, nun-like, slumbering sung,—There on its couch of clustered snow and scent.

See, where the violet mound nods many a flower!Dreamily sad as Sorrow’s own sad eyes,And lost in thought, and great with dewy grief,As are her eyes when haltingly she bendsO’er Lethe’s waves, and, stooping down to drink,Delays to drink, and faltering remains.The Night with feet of moon-tinged mist and windSwept o’er them now, but as she passed she bent,Meseemed, and kissed each modest bloom and leftA brilliant on its brow, that bashful hung,Freighted with love: then, groping up her trainOf star-stained crape, that billowed breeze-like by,I seemed to hear her whisper as she passed:“Sleep, sleep, my children! Lo, I bring to youGod’s best gift, sleep! the soft, the misty eyed;The strange, the wonderful! the cure for care!”

And all things slept, the trees, the rocks, the soil,Sleep’s soft ablution in them washing outThe fever and the frenzy of the day:But I, I slept not with them, though the worldAnd all its peoples slept, I could not sleep,My heart being brimmed with love, with joy and love,With thoughts and dreams of love’s first happiness;Until the Night turned from the slumbering world,From her dim vigil turned,—as, from her child,A loving mother turns, who, all night long,Hath bent above its cradle, and with songsAnd kisses soothed to rest:—and in the eastThe first faint streaks of dawn made gray the heaven,And the rathe cock, like some clear clarion, crew.

Mist on the mountain heightSilverly creeping:Incarnate beads of lightBloom-cradled sleeping,Dripped from the brow of Night.

Shadows and winds that riseOver the mountain:Stars in the spar that liesLost in the fountain,Cold as the waking skies.

Sheep in the fenced-in foldsDreamily bleating,Dim on the thistled wolds,Where, glad with meeting,Twilight the Night enfolds.

Sleep on the restless seaHushing its trouble:Rest on the dreams that beHued in Life’s bubble:Calm on the heart of me.

Mist from the mountain heightHurriedly fleeting:Star in the locks of NightThrobbing and beating,Thrilled with the coming light.

Flocks on the musky strips;Pearl on the fountain:Winds from the heavens’ lips;And, on the mountain,Dawn with her rose that drips.

River, winding from the west,Winding from the River May,Often hath the Indian pressedThrough your black-gums and your mosses,Where the alligator crossesStill some lily-paven bay,Basking there in lazy rest.Still the spider-lily loopsSprawling flowers, peels of pearl,Where the green magnolia stoopsBuds to yellow-lily bonnets;Where, the morning dew upon itsGolden funnels, curl on curl,The festooning jasmine droops.Who may paint the beauty ofOrchids blooming late in June,Bristling on the boughs above!Cypress trees where vine and flower,Long, liana’d blossoms showerOn the deer that come at noonTo the inlets that they love.Lilied inlets,—where the tealDabble ’mid the water-grasses,—That some treasure seem to sealWith white blooms that star the river:Bays, the swift kingfishers shiverInto circles as each passesO’er their mirrors that reveal.Bends, reflecting root and moss,Where the tall palmettos throng’Mid the live-oaks; tower and tossPanther necks whose heads are heavy:Hamaks, where the perfumes levyTribute from the birds in song,From the mocking-birds that cross.Logs, the turtles haunt; and deepsOf lagoons the searching craneWades; and where the heron sleeps;Where the screaming limpkins listen,And the leaping mullet glisten;Where the bream and bass show plain,And the dark didapper sweeps.Coäcoochee! Coäcoochee!Still your loved magnolias bloom,Still the tangled Cherokee;Still the blazing-star spreads splendorThrough the forest, and the tenderDiscs of the hibiscus loom,Rosy, where you once roamed free.Osceola! Osceola!Phantoms of your vanquished raceSeem around me: overaweAll my soul here. Mossy regionsSwarm with Seminoles: lost legionsRise, the war-paint on each face—Dead, long dead for Florida!

Still the spider-lily loopsSprawling flowers, peels of pearl,Where the green magnolia stoopsBuds to yellow-lily bonnets;Where, the morning dew upon itsGolden funnels, curl on curl,The festooning jasmine droops.

Who may paint the beauty ofOrchids blooming late in June,Bristling on the boughs above!Cypress trees where vine and flower,Long, liana’d blossoms showerOn the deer that come at noonTo the inlets that they love.

Lilied inlets,—where the tealDabble ’mid the water-grasses,—That some treasure seem to sealWith white blooms that star the river:Bays, the swift kingfishers shiverInto circles as each passesO’er their mirrors that reveal.

Bends, reflecting root and moss,Where the tall palmettos throng’Mid the live-oaks; tower and tossPanther necks whose heads are heavy:Hamaks, where the perfumes levyTribute from the birds in song,From the mocking-birds that cross.

Logs, the turtles haunt; and deepsOf lagoons the searching craneWades; and where the heron sleeps;Where the screaming limpkins listen,And the leaping mullet glisten;Where the bream and bass show plain,And the dark didapper sweeps.

Coäcoochee! Coäcoochee!Still your loved magnolias bloom,Still the tangled Cherokee;Still the blazing-star spreads splendorThrough the forest, and the tenderDiscs of the hibiscus loom,Rosy, where you once roamed free.

Osceola! Osceola!Phantoms of your vanquished raceSeem around me: overaweAll my soul here. Mossy regionsSwarm with Seminoles: lost legionsRise, the war-paint on each face—Dead, long dead for Florida!

The mocking-bird may singLoud welcomes in the Spring;The farewell of our nightingalesPrevails, prevails!No thing may hush their song:In sleep they sing the clearer—It’s “home, home, home,” the whole night long—What wonder that we feel our wrongThe nearer!

Hibiscus blooms surpriseThe swamp with rosy eyes;The Balearic girl but knowsOur rose, our rose!No slavery may undoHer dream it makes the purer,With “love, love, love,” the long night through,—That makes the day’s long heartbreak tooThe surer.

The wind from out the westWould teach our souls unrest;We will not hear until hath ceasedThe East, the East!Within its whispering sweepThe olive sounds and rushes;It’s “rest, rest, rest,” while night doth keepThe weight of memory asleepThat crushes.

Deep ocean brings us shells,Like dead but fond farewells,And calls to us with all its tongues of foam,“From home! from home!”And then the stars on highLook down and say, “Come, cherishHope, hope, sweet hope,” our hearts denyUs while we toil all day and sigh,And perish.

Crab-apples make the western beltOf hamak one gay holiday of pink;And through palmetto deeps, on winds like felt,The jasmine odors sink.The wind blows blurs of peach and pearlAround the villa by the river’s side;The guava blossoms and the orange-trees whirlAroma far and wide.“He courts her!” sings the mocking-bird;“He courts her, and she missesThis word, or that, she might have heard,Had he not crushed a sweeter wordOn her sweet mouth with kisses.He courts her.”

Crab-apples make the western beltOf hamak one gay holiday of pink;And through palmetto deeps, on winds like felt,The jasmine odors sink.

The wind blows blurs of peach and pearlAround the villa by the river’s side;The guava blossoms and the orange-trees whirlAroma far and wide.

“He courts her!” sings the mocking-bird;“He courts her, and she missesThis word, or that, she might have heard,Had he not crushed a sweeter wordOn her sweet mouth with kisses.He courts her.”

Chameleons haunt the sunlight there,Where lemons firmament with blooms the way:The white rose gives its soul up and the airEnsnares it in a ray.Great lilies open mouths of muskAnd stun the wind with scent; the loaded lightSwoons with japonicas; and, tusk on tusk,Magnolias bud in sight.The red-bird sings, “Oh, haste, haste, haste!Sweetheart! no longer tarry!Go, clasp her sweetly by the waist!And ask her, like a poppy faced,Sweetheart! if she will marry.Oh, haste, haste, haste!”

Chameleons haunt the sunlight there,Where lemons firmament with blooms the way:The white rose gives its soul up and the airEnsnares it in a ray.

Great lilies open mouths of muskAnd stun the wind with scent; the loaded lightSwoons with japonicas; and, tusk on tusk,Magnolias bud in sight.

The red-bird sings, “Oh, haste, haste, haste!Sweetheart! no longer tarry!Go, clasp her sweetly by the waist!And ask her, like a poppy faced,Sweetheart! if she will marry.Oh, haste, haste, haste!”

There the verandah, spilled and spunWith deep bignonia, foaming all its frameWith fiery blooms, seems pouring for the sunA cataract of flame.The oleander hedges soakThe dusk with fragrance: and the gray moss sweepsIts streamers from the cypress and live-oakWhere blue the ocean sleeps.“Oh, love, love, love!” the wood-dove coos;“Oh, love, love, love, for ever!They who the crimson rose refuse,All other flowers, too, may lose—So choose thou now or never!Oh, love, love, love!”

There the verandah, spilled and spunWith deep bignonia, foaming all its frameWith fiery blooms, seems pouring for the sunA cataract of flame.

The oleander hedges soakThe dusk with fragrance: and the gray moss sweepsIts streamers from the cypress and live-oakWhere blue the ocean sleeps.

“Oh, love, love, love!” the wood-dove coos;“Oh, love, love, love, for ever!They who the crimson rose refuse,All other flowers, too, may lose—So choose thou now or never!Oh, love, love, love!”

When the winter wind comes sighingLike a ghost, and softly tryingDoor and window, and the dyingLight upon the hearth burns low;How his heart, that’s old, remembersLove that faded as the embersInto ashes, or December’sVanished snow.And he seems to see her sittingWith the tranquil firelight flittingOn her face and fitful knitting,While her chair goes to and fro;As she sat once in the hoursThat are gone; that, like the flowers,Died, with all that youth embowers,Long ago.Then he seems to hear her speaking,And her rocker faintly creaking,And his hand goes dimly seekingHers that is not there, ah, no!Hers, whose memory keeps reachingFrom the past fond arms, beseechingHeart and soul till, past all preaching,Both o’erflow.Oh, caresses lost that take himIn his dreams and wildly wake him!Tears that blind and sighs that shake him,Is there any cure for woe?—Answer, love, whose eyes once merried!Joy, whose cheeks and lips were cherried!You, whom long ago he buried,Long ago.

And he seems to see her sittingWith the tranquil firelight flittingOn her face and fitful knitting,While her chair goes to and fro;As she sat once in the hoursThat are gone; that, like the flowers,Died, with all that youth embowers,Long ago.

Then he seems to hear her speaking,And her rocker faintly creaking,And his hand goes dimly seekingHers that is not there, ah, no!Hers, whose memory keeps reachingFrom the past fond arms, beseechingHeart and soul till, past all preaching,Both o’erflow.

Oh, caresses lost that take himIn his dreams and wildly wake him!Tears that blind and sighs that shake him,Is there any cure for woe?—Answer, love, whose eyes once merried!Joy, whose cheeks and lips were cherried!You, whom long ago he buried,Long ago.

A Sufi said to me in dreams:Behold! from Sodomite to PeriEarth tablets us: man lives and isMan’s own long commentary.Is one begat at Bassora,One lies at Damietta dying—The plausibilities of GodAll possibles o’erlying.But when lust burns within the flesh—Hell’s but a homily on Heaven—Put then the individual first,And of thyself be shriven.Neither in adamant nor brassThe scrutinizing eye records it:The arm is rooted in the heart,The heart that rules and lords it.Be that it is and thou art all:And what thou art so hast thou writtenThee of the lutanists of Love,Or of the torture-smitten.

A Sufi said to me in dreams:Behold! from Sodomite to PeriEarth tablets us: man lives and isMan’s own long commentary.

Is one begat at Bassora,One lies at Damietta dying—The plausibilities of GodAll possibles o’erlying.

But when lust burns within the flesh—Hell’s but a homily on Heaven—Put then the individual first,And of thyself be shriven.

Neither in adamant nor brassThe scrutinizing eye records it:The arm is rooted in the heart,The heart that rules and lords it.

Be that it is and thou art all:And what thou art so hast thou writtenThee of the lutanists of Love,Or of the torture-smitten.

God knew he strove against pale lust and vice,Wound in the net of their voluptuous hair:God knew that to their kisses he was ice,Their arms around him there.God knew against the front of fate he setA front as stern, with lips as sternly pressed;Raised clenched and ineffectual hands that metThe iron of her breast.God knew what motive his sad soul inspired:God knew the star for which he climbed and craved:God knew, and only God, the hell that firedHis heart and in it raved.And yet he failed! failed utterly!—No lieOf Hell, that writhes within its simmering pit,Sank deeper down than he, who, with the cry,“Now shall I rest from it!”Died; was remembered, haply, for a day;Who hoped to rise rolled in the morning’s rose,The flame of fame, and still lies laid awayWhere no one cares or knows.

God knew he strove against pale lust and vice,Wound in the net of their voluptuous hair:God knew that to their kisses he was ice,Their arms around him there.

God knew against the front of fate he setA front as stern, with lips as sternly pressed;Raised clenched and ineffectual hands that metThe iron of her breast.

God knew what motive his sad soul inspired:God knew the star for which he climbed and craved:God knew, and only God, the hell that firedHis heart and in it raved.

And yet he failed! failed utterly!—No lieOf Hell, that writhes within its simmering pit,Sank deeper down than he, who, with the cry,“Now shall I rest from it!”

Died; was remembered, haply, for a day;Who hoped to rise rolled in the morning’s rose,The flame of fame, and still lies laid awayWhere no one cares or knows.

When rose-leaves ’neath the rose-bush lieAnd lilies bloom and lilacs die,When days fall sadder than a sigh,Lay me asleep;Where breezes blow the rose-leaves by,Lay me asleep.

When to the dusty, dreary dayNo lonely cloud brings cooling gray,And languidly the tree-tops swayAnd flowers there,Come thou as silently and prayAs flowers there.

Then pass as softly: shed no tearNor flaw with sighs the peace that’s here;The pallid silence, far and near,So weary grown;Nor bring the world to jar the earSo weary grown.

There is a legend of an old Hartz towerThat tells of one, a noble, who had soldHis soul unto the Fiend; who grew not oldOn this condition: that the Demon’s powerCease every midnight for a single hour,And, in that hour, his body should lie coldWith limbs up-shriveled, and with face, behold!Shrunk to a death’s-head in the taper’s glower.—So unto Sin Life gives his best. Her artsMake all his outward seeming beautifulBefore the world; but in his heart of heartsAbides an hour when her strength is null;When he shall feel the death through all his partsStrike, and his countenance become a skull.

Vast are its halls, as vast the halls and loneWhere Death sits, listening to the wind and rain;And dark the house, where I shall meet againThat long-dead Sin in some dread way unknown:For I have dreamed of stairs of haunted stone,And spectre footsteps I have fled in vain;And windows glaring with a blood-red stain,And hollow eyes, that burn me to the bone,Within a face that looks as that black nightIt looked when deep I dug for it a grave,—The dagger wound above the brow, the thinBlood trickling slantwise down the cheek’s dead white;—And I have dreamed not even God can saveMe and my soul from that arisen Sin.

Still shall I stand the everlasting hateColossal Chaos builded ’neath thine eyes,The symbol of all evil, that defiesThy victory, and, vanquished, still can wait.Scar me again with such vast flame as lateHurled abrupt thunder and archangel cries,’Mid fiery whirlwinds of the terrible skies,Down the deep’s roar against Hell’s monster gate!Thy wrath can not abolish or make lessMe, an eternal wile opposed to wrath:Me, who to thwart thee evermore shall plan!Behold thy Eden’s vanished loveliness!—Why hast thou set a sword within its path,And cursed and exiled thine own image, Man?

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