The dew-drop from the rose that slipsHath not the sparkle of her lips,My lady's lips.Than her long braids of yellow holdThe dandelion hath not more gold,Her braids like gold.The blue-bell hints not more of skiesThan do the flowers in her eyes,My lady's eyes.The sweet-pea blossom doth not wearMore dainty pinkness than her ear,My lady's ear.So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray,My heart's a garden that is gayThis sorry day.
The dew-drop from the rose that slipsHath not the sparkle of her lips,My lady's lips.
Than her long braids of yellow holdThe dandelion hath not more gold,Her braids like gold.
The blue-bell hints not more of skiesThan do the flowers in her eyes,My lady's eyes.
The sweet-pea blossom doth not wearMore dainty pinkness than her ear,My lady's ear.
So, heigho! then, tho' skies be gray,My heart's a garden that is gayThis sorry day.
When rathe wind-flowers many peerAll rain filled at blue April skies,As on one smiles one's lady dearWith the big tear-drops in her eyes;When budded May-apples, I wis,Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks,Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss,Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;Then do I pine for happier skies,Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn;As one for one's sweet lady's eyes,And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.
When rathe wind-flowers many peerAll rain filled at blue April skies,As on one smiles one's lady dearWith the big tear-drops in her eyes;
When budded May-apples, I wis,Be hidden by lone greenwood creeks,Be bashful as her cheeks we kiss,Be waxen as her dimpled cheeks;
Then do I pine for happier skies,Shy wild-flowers fair by hill and burn;As one for one's sweet lady's eyes,And her white cheeks might pine and yearn.
When the fields are rolled into naked gold,And a ripple of fire and pearl is blentWith the emerald surges of wood and woldLike a flower-foam bursting violent;When the dingles and deeps of the woodlands oldAre glad with a sibilant life new sent,Too rare to be told are the manifoldSweet fancies that quicken redolentIn the heart that no longer is cold.How it knows of the wings of the hawk that swingsFrom the drippled dew scintillant seen;Why the red-bird hides where it sings and singsIn melodious quiverings of green;How the wind to the red-bud and dogwood bringsBig pearls of worth and corals of sheen,Whiles he lisps to the strings of a lute that ringsOf love in the South who is queen,Where the fountain of poesy springs.Go seek in the ray for a sworded fayThe chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;And look in the brook that runs laughing gayFor the nymph with the laughing lips;In the brake for the dryad whose eyes are gray,From whose bosom the perfume drips;The faun hid away where the grasses swayThick ivy low down on his hips,Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.So ho, for the rose, the Romeo rose,And the lyric he hides in his heart;And ho, for the epic the oak tree knows,Sonorous and mighty in art.The lily with woes that her white face showsHath a satire she yearns to impart,But none of those, her hates and her foes,For a heart that sings but for sport,And shifts where the song-wind blows.
When the fields are rolled into naked gold,And a ripple of fire and pearl is blentWith the emerald surges of wood and woldLike a flower-foam bursting violent;When the dingles and deeps of the woodlands oldAre glad with a sibilant life new sent,Too rare to be told are the manifoldSweet fancies that quicken redolentIn the heart that no longer is cold.
How it knows of the wings of the hawk that swingsFrom the drippled dew scintillant seen;Why the red-bird hides where it sings and singsIn melodious quiverings of green;How the wind to the red-bud and dogwood bringsBig pearls of worth and corals of sheen,Whiles he lisps to the strings of a lute that ringsOf love in the South who is queen,Where the fountain of poesy springs.
Go seek in the ray for a sworded fayThe chestnut's buds into blooms that rips;And look in the brook that runs laughing gayFor the nymph with the laughing lips;In the brake for the dryad whose eyes are gray,From whose bosom the perfume drips;The faun hid away where the grasses swayThick ivy low down on his hips,Pursed lips on a syrinx at play.
So ho, for the rose, the Romeo rose,And the lyric he hides in his heart;And ho, for the epic the oak tree knows,Sonorous and mighty in art.The lily with woes that her white face showsHath a satire she yearns to impart,But none of those, her hates and her foes,For a heart that sings but for sport,And shifts where the song-wind blows.
There is not aught more mercilessThan such fast lips that will not speak,That stir not if I curse or blessA God that made them weak.More madd'ning to one there is naught,Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,An exile in the skies.Ah, silent tongue! ah, ear so dull!How angel utterances lowHave wooed you! they more beautifulThan mortal harsh with woe!
There is not aught more mercilessThan such fast lips that will not speak,That stir not if I curse or blessA God that made them weak.
More madd'ning to one there is naught,Than such white eyelids sealed on eyes,Eyes vacant of the thing named thought,An exile in the skies.
Ah, silent tongue! ah, ear so dull!How angel utterances lowHave wooed you! they more beautifulThan mortal harsh with woe!
When the snow was deep on the flower-beds,And the sleet was caked on the brier;When the frost was down in the brown bulbs' heads,And the ways were clogged with mire;When the wind to syringa and bare rose-treeBrought the phantoms of vanished flowers,And the days were sorry as sorry could be,And Time limped cursing his fardle of hours:Heigho! had I not a book and the logs?And I swear that I wasn't mistaken,But I heard the frogs croaking in far-off bogs,And the brush-sparrow's song in the braken.And I strolled by paths which the Springtide knew,In her mossy dells, by her ferny passes,Where the ground was holy with flowers and dew,And the insect life in the grasses.And I knew the Spring as a lover who knowsHis sweetheart, to whom he has givenA kiss on the cheek that warmed its white rose,In her eyes brought the laughter of heaven.For a poem I'd read, a simple thing,A little lyric that had the powerTo make the brush-sparrow come and sing,And the winter woodlands flower.
When the snow was deep on the flower-beds,And the sleet was caked on the brier;When the frost was down in the brown bulbs' heads,And the ways were clogged with mire;
When the wind to syringa and bare rose-treeBrought the phantoms of vanished flowers,And the days were sorry as sorry could be,And Time limped cursing his fardle of hours:
Heigho! had I not a book and the logs?And I swear that I wasn't mistaken,But I heard the frogs croaking in far-off bogs,And the brush-sparrow's song in the braken.
And I strolled by paths which the Springtide knew,In her mossy dells, by her ferny passes,Where the ground was holy with flowers and dew,And the insect life in the grasses.
And I knew the Spring as a lover who knowsHis sweetheart, to whom he has givenA kiss on the cheek that warmed its white rose,In her eyes brought the laughter of heaven.
For a poem I'd read, a simple thing,A little lyric that had the powerTo make the brush-sparrow come and sing,And the winter woodlands flower.
Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumach and wild blackberries,Thick elder and the white wild-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.The limber lizards glide awayGray on its moss and lichens gray;Warm butterflies float in the sun,Gay Ariels of the lonesome day;And there the ground squirrels run.The red-bird stays one note to lift;High overhead dark swallows drift;'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream,Through which hot bits of azure sift,The gray hawks soar and scream.Among the pungent weeds they fillDry grasshoppers pipe with a will;And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirsThe basking snake, mole-crickets shrill;O'er head the locust whirrs.At evening, when the sad West turnsTo dusky Night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing,And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe wind wakes whispering.
Its rotting fence one scarcely seesThrough sumach and wild blackberries,Thick elder and the white wild-rose,Big ox-eyed daisies where the beesHang droning in repose.
The limber lizards glide awayGray on its moss and lichens gray;Warm butterflies float in the sun,Gay Ariels of the lonesome day;And there the ground squirrels run.
The red-bird stays one note to lift;High overhead dark swallows drift;'Neath sun-soaked clouds of beaten cream,Through which hot bits of azure sift,The gray hawks soar and scream.
Among the pungent weeds they fillDry grasshoppers pipe with a will;And in the grass-grown ruts, where stirsThe basking snake, mole-crickets shrill;O'er head the locust whirrs.
At evening, when the sad West turnsTo dusky Night a cheek that burns,The tree-toads in the wild-plum sing,And ghosts of long-dead flowers and fernsThe wind wakes whispering.
IA molten ruby clear as wineAlong the east the dawning swims;The morning-glories swing and shine,The night dews bead their satin rims;The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine,The gold hangs on their limbs.Sweet morn, the South,A royal lover,From his fragrant mouth,Sweet morn, the SouthBreathes on and overKeen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.IIBeside the wall the roses blowLong summer noons the winds forsake;Beside the wall the poppies glowSo full of fire their hearts do ache;The dipping butterflies come slow,Half dreaming, half awake.Sweet noontide, rest,A slave-girl wearyWith her babe at her breast;Sweet noontide, rest,The day grows drearyAs soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.IIIAlong lone paths the cricket criesSad summer nights that know the dew;One mad star thwart the heavens fliesCurved glittering on the glassy blue;Now grows the big moon on the skies.The stars are faint and few.Sweet night, breathe thouWith a passion takenFrom a Romeo's vow;Sweet night, breathe thouLike a beauty shakenOf amorous dreams that have made her waken.
I
A molten ruby clear as wineAlong the east the dawning swims;The morning-glories swing and shine,The night dews bead their satin rims;The bees rob sweets from shrub and vine,The gold hangs on their limbs.
Sweet morn, the South,A royal lover,From his fragrant mouth,Sweet morn, the SouthBreathes on and overKeen scents of wild honey and rosy clover.
II
Beside the wall the roses blowLong summer noons the winds forsake;Beside the wall the poppies glowSo full of fire their hearts do ache;The dipping butterflies come slow,Half dreaming, half awake.
Sweet noontide, rest,A slave-girl wearyWith her babe at her breast;Sweet noontide, rest,The day grows drearyAs soft limbs that are tired and eyes that are teary.
III
Along lone paths the cricket criesSad summer nights that know the dew;One mad star thwart the heavens fliesCurved glittering on the glassy blue;Now grows the big moon on the skies.The stars are faint and few.
Sweet night, breathe thouWith a passion takenFrom a Romeo's vow;Sweet night, breathe thouLike a beauty shakenOf amorous dreams that have made her waken.
Here doth white Spring white violets show,Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sowThrough starry mosses amber-fair,As delicate as ferns that grow,Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.Here fungus life is beautiful,White mushroom and the thick toad-stoolAs various colored as wild blooms;Existences that love the cool,Distinct in rank perfumes.Here stray the wandering cows to rest,The calling cat-bird builds her nestIn spice-wood bushes dark and deep;Here raps the woodpecker his best,And here young rabbits leap.Tall butternuts and hickories,The pawpaw and persimmon trees,The beech, the chestnut, and the oak,Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of beesThrough which gold sun-bits soak.Here to pale melancholy moons.In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,Whose mournful and demonic tunesWild woods with phantoms fill.
Here doth white Spring white violets show,Broadcast doth white, frail wind-flowers sowThrough starry mosses amber-fair,As delicate as ferns that grow,Hart's-tongue and maiden-hair.
Here fungus life is beautiful,White mushroom and the thick toad-stoolAs various colored as wild blooms;Existences that love the cool,Distinct in rank perfumes.
Here stray the wandering cows to rest,The calling cat-bird builds her nestIn spice-wood bushes dark and deep;Here raps the woodpecker his best,And here young rabbits leap.
Tall butternuts and hickories,The pawpaw and persimmon trees,The beech, the chestnut, and the oak,Wall shadows huge, like ghosts of beesThrough which gold sun-bits soak.
Here to pale melancholy moons.In haunted nights of dreamy Junes,Wails wildly the weird whippoorwill,Whose mournful and demonic tunesWild woods with phantoms fill.
Ah, God! were I away, away,By woodland-belted hills!There might be more in Thy bright dayThan my poor spirit thrills.The elder coppice, banks of blooms,The spice-wood brush, the fieldOf tumbled clover, and perfumesHot, weedy pastures yield.The old rail-fence whose angles holdBright briar and sassafras,Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and goldStarred through the moss and grass.The ragged path that winds untoLone cow-behaunted nooks,Through brambles to the shade and dewOf rocks and woody brooks.To see the minnows turn and gleamWhite sparkling bellies, allShoot in gray schools adown the streamLet but a dead leaf fall.The buoyant pleasure and delightOf floating feathered seeds.Capricious wanderers soft and whiteBorn of silk-bearing weeds.Ah, God! were I away, away,Among wild woods and birds!There were more soul within Thy dayThan one might bless with words.
Ah, God! were I away, away,By woodland-belted hills!There might be more in Thy bright dayThan my poor spirit thrills.
The elder coppice, banks of blooms,The spice-wood brush, the fieldOf tumbled clover, and perfumesHot, weedy pastures yield.
The old rail-fence whose angles holdBright briar and sassafras,Sweet priceless wild flowers blue and goldStarred through the moss and grass.
The ragged path that winds untoLone cow-behaunted nooks,Through brambles to the shade and dewOf rocks and woody brooks.
To see the minnows turn and gleamWhite sparkling bellies, allShoot in gray schools adown the streamLet but a dead leaf fall.
The buoyant pleasure and delightOf floating feathered seeds.Capricious wanderers soft and whiteBorn of silk-bearing weeds.
Ah, God! were I away, away,Among wild woods and birds!There were more soul within Thy dayThan one might bless with words.
For him God's birds each merry mornMake of wild throats melodious flutesTo trill such love from brush and thornAs might brim eyes of brutes:Who would believe of such a thing,That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?For him the faultless skies of noonGrow farther in eternal blue,As heavens that buoy the balanced moon,And sow the stars and dew:Who would believe that such deep skiesAre miracles only through her eyes?For him mad sylphs adown domed nightsStud golden globules radiant,Or glass-green transient trails of lightsSpin from their orbs and slant:Who would believe a soul were hersTo make for him a universe?
For him God's birds each merry mornMake of wild throats melodious flutesTo trill such love from brush and thornAs might brim eyes of brutes:Who would believe of such a thing,That 'tis her heart which makes them sing?
For him the faultless skies of noonGrow farther in eternal blue,As heavens that buoy the balanced moon,And sow the stars and dew:Who would believe that such deep skiesAre miracles only through her eyes?
For him mad sylphs adown domed nightsStud golden globules radiant,Or glass-green transient trails of lightsSpin from their orbs and slant:Who would believe a soul were hersTo make for him a universe?
1Big-stomached, like friarsWho ogle a nun,Quaff deep to their bellies' desiresFrom the old abbey's tun,Grapes fatten with firesWarm-filtered from moon and from sun.2As a novice who muses,—Lips a rosary tell,While her thoughts are—a love she refuses?—Nay! mourns as not well:The ripe apple loosesIts holding to rot where it fell.
1
Big-stomached, like friarsWho ogle a nun,Quaff deep to their bellies' desiresFrom the old abbey's tun,Grapes fatten with firesWarm-filtered from moon and from sun.
2
As a novice who muses,—Lips a rosary tell,While her thoughts are—a love she refuses?—Nay! mourns as not well:The ripe apple loosesIts holding to rot where it fell.
I have seen her limpid eyesLarge with gradual laughter riseThrough wild-roses' nettles,Like twin blossoms grow and stare,Then a hating, envious airWhisked them into petals.I have seen her hardy cheekLike a molten coral leakThrough the leafage shadedOf thick Chickasaws, and then,When I made more sure, againTo a red plum faded.I have found her racy lips,And her graceful finger-tips,But a haw and berry;Glimmers of her there and here,Just, forsooth, enough to cheerAnd to make me merry.Often on the ferny rocksDazzling rimples of loose locksAt me she hath shaken,And I've followed—'twas in vain—They had trickled into rainSun-lit on the braken.Once her full limbs flashed on me,Naked where some royal treePowdered all the spacesWith wan sunlight and quaint shade,Such a haunt romance hath madeFor haunched satyr-races.There, I wot, hid amorous Pan,For a sudden pleading ranThrough the maze of myrtle,Whiles a rapid violence tossedAll its flowerage,—'twas the lostCooings of a turtle.
I have seen her limpid eyesLarge with gradual laughter riseThrough wild-roses' nettles,Like twin blossoms grow and stare,Then a hating, envious airWhisked them into petals.
I have seen her hardy cheekLike a molten coral leakThrough the leafage shadedOf thick Chickasaws, and then,When I made more sure, againTo a red plum faded.
I have found her racy lips,And her graceful finger-tips,But a haw and berry;Glimmers of her there and here,Just, forsooth, enough to cheerAnd to make me merry.
Often on the ferny rocksDazzling rimples of loose locksAt me she hath shaken,And I've followed—'twas in vain—They had trickled into rainSun-lit on the braken.
Once her full limbs flashed on me,Naked where some royal treePowdered all the spacesWith wan sunlight and quaint shade,Such a haunt romance hath madeFor haunched satyr-races.
There, I wot, hid amorous Pan,For a sudden pleading ranThrough the maze of myrtle,Whiles a rapid violence tossedAll its flowerage,—'twas the lostCooings of a turtle.
IHow can I help from laughing whileThe daffodilies at me smile;The tickled dew winks tipsilyIn clusters of the lilac-tree;The crocuses and hyacinthsStorm through the grassy labyrinthsA mirth of gold and violet;And roses, bud by bud,Flash from each dainty-lacing netRed lips of maidenhood?IIHow can I help from singing whenThe swallow and the hawk againAre noisy in the hyalineOf happy heavens clear as wine;The robin lustily and shrillPipes on the timber-bosomed hill;And o'er the fallow skim the bold,Mad orioles that glowLike shining shafts of ingot goldShot from the morning's bow?IIIHow can I help from loving, dear,Since love is of the sweetened year?The very vermin feel her power,And chip and chirrup hour by hour:It is the grasshopper at noon,The cricket's at it in the moon,Whiles lizzards glitter in the dew,And bats be on the wing;Such days of joy are short and few.Grant me thy love this spring.
I
How can I help from laughing whileThe daffodilies at me smile;The tickled dew winks tipsilyIn clusters of the lilac-tree;The crocuses and hyacinthsStorm through the grassy labyrinthsA mirth of gold and violet;And roses, bud by bud,Flash from each dainty-lacing netRed lips of maidenhood?
II
How can I help from singing whenThe swallow and the hawk againAre noisy in the hyalineOf happy heavens clear as wine;The robin lustily and shrillPipes on the timber-bosomed hill;And o'er the fallow skim the bold,Mad orioles that glowLike shining shafts of ingot goldShot from the morning's bow?
III
How can I help from loving, dear,Since love is of the sweetened year?The very vermin feel her power,And chip and chirrup hour by hour:It is the grasshopper at noon,The cricket's at it in the moon,Whiles lizzards glitter in the dew,And bats be on the wing;Such days of joy are short and few.Grant me thy love this spring.
IYou will not love me, sweet.When this fair year is past;Or love now at my feetAt others' feet be cast.You will not love me, sweet,When this fair year is past.IINow 'tis the Springtide, dear,The crocus cups hold flameBrimmed to the pregnant year.Who crimsons as with shame.Now 'tis the Springtide, dear,The crocus cups hold flame.IIIAh, heart, the Summer's queen,At her brown throat one rose;The poppies now are seenWith seed-pods thrust in rows.Dear heart, the Summer's queen,At her brown throat one rose.IVNow Autumn reigns, a princeFierce, gipsy-dark; live goldWeighs down the fruited quince,The last chilled violet's told.The Autumn reigns, a prince,A despot crowned with gold.VAlas! rude Winter's king,Snow-driven from chin to head;No wild birds pipe and sing,The wild winds sing instead.Ah me! rude Winter's king,Snow-driven from chin to head.VIWeep now, you once who smiled,Sweet hope that had few fears!And this the end, my child!—Thyself, my shame and tears!Weep now, you once who smiled,Sweet hope, that had few fears!
I
You will not love me, sweet.When this fair year is past;Or love now at my feetAt others' feet be cast.You will not love me, sweet,When this fair year is past.
II
Now 'tis the Springtide, dear,The crocus cups hold flameBrimmed to the pregnant year.Who crimsons as with shame.Now 'tis the Springtide, dear,The crocus cups hold flame.
III
Ah, heart, the Summer's queen,At her brown throat one rose;The poppies now are seenWith seed-pods thrust in rows.Dear heart, the Summer's queen,At her brown throat one rose.
IV
Now Autumn reigns, a princeFierce, gipsy-dark; live goldWeighs down the fruited quince,The last chilled violet's told.The Autumn reigns, a prince,A despot crowned with gold.
V
Alas! rude Winter's king,Snow-driven from chin to head;No wild birds pipe and sing,The wild winds sing instead.Ah me! rude Winter's king,Snow-driven from chin to head.
VI
Weep now, you once who smiled,Sweet hope that had few fears!And this the end, my child!—Thyself, my shame and tears!Weep now, you once who smiled,Sweet hope, that had few fears!
IWhat though the soul be tiredFor that to which 'twas fired,The far, dear, still desired,Beyond the heaven's scope;Beyond us and above us,The thing we would have love us,That will know nothing of us,But only bids us hope.IIIt still behooves us everFrom loving ne'er to sever,To love it though it neverReciprocate our care;For love, when freely given,Lets in soft hints of heavenIn memories that leavenBlack humors of despair.IIIFor in this life diurnalAll earthly, gross, infernal,Conflicts with that eternalTo make its love as lust;To rot the fairest flowerOf thought which is a power,All happiness to sour,And burn our eyes with dust.IVBelieve, some power higherBreathes in us this desireWith purpose strange as fire,And soft though seeming hard;Who to such starved endeavorAnd wasted love, that neverSeems recompensed, foreverGives in His way reward.
I
What though the soul be tiredFor that to which 'twas fired,The far, dear, still desired,Beyond the heaven's scope;Beyond us and above us,The thing we would have love us,That will know nothing of us,But only bids us hope.
II
It still behooves us everFrom loving ne'er to sever,To love it though it neverReciprocate our care;For love, when freely given,Lets in soft hints of heavenIn memories that leavenBlack humors of despair.
III
For in this life diurnalAll earthly, gross, infernal,Conflicts with that eternalTo make its love as lust;To rot the fairest flowerOf thought which is a power,All happiness to sour,And burn our eyes with dust.
IV
Believe, some power higherBreathes in us this desireWith purpose strange as fire,And soft though seeming hard;Who to such starved endeavorAnd wasted love, that neverSeems recompensed, foreverGives in His way reward.
Hangs stormed with stars the night,Deep over deep,A majesty, a might,To feel and keep.2Ah! what is such and such,Love, canst thou tell?That shrinks—though 'tis not much—To weep farewell.3That hates the dawn and lark;Would have the wail,—Sobbed through the ceaseless dark,—O' the nightingale.4Yes, earth, thy life were worthNot much to me,Were there not after earthEternity.5>God gave thee life to keep—And what hath life?—Love, faith, and care, and sleepWhere dreams are rife.6Death's sleep, whose shadows startThe tears in eyesOf love, that fill the heartThat breaks and dies.7And faith is never givenWithout some care,That leadeth us to heavenBy ways of prayer.8The nightingale and darkAre thine then here;Beyond, the light and larkEternal there.
Hangs stormed with stars the night,Deep over deep,A majesty, a might,To feel and keep.
2
Ah! what is such and such,Love, canst thou tell?That shrinks—though 'tis not much—To weep farewell.
3
That hates the dawn and lark;Would have the wail,—Sobbed through the ceaseless dark,—O' the nightingale.
4
Yes, earth, thy life were worthNot much to me,Were there not after earthEternity.
5>
God gave thee life to keep—And what hath life?—Love, faith, and care, and sleepWhere dreams are rife.
6
Death's sleep, whose shadows startThe tears in eyesOf love, that fill the heartThat breaks and dies.
7
And faith is never givenWithout some care,That leadeth us to heavenBy ways of prayer.
8
The nightingale and darkAre thine then here;Beyond, the light and larkEternal there.
1Ha! help!—'twas palpable!A ghost that throngedUp from the mind or hellOf one I wronged!2'Tis past and—silence!—naught!—A vision bornOf the scared mind o'erwroughtWith dreams forlorn:3The bastard brood of DeathAnd Sleep that wakesGrim fancies with its breath,And reason shakes.4Would that the gravecouldrotLike flesh the soul,Gnaw through with worms and notLeave it thus whole,5More than it was in earthBeyond the grave,Much more in death than birthTo conscience slave!
1
Ha! help!—'twas palpable!A ghost that throngedUp from the mind or hellOf one I wronged!
2
'Tis past and—silence!—naught!—A vision bornOf the scared mind o'erwroughtWith dreams forlorn:
3
The bastard brood of DeathAnd Sleep that wakesGrim fancies with its breath,And reason shakes.
4
Would that the gravecouldrotLike flesh the soul,Gnaw through with worms and notLeave it thus whole,
5
More than it was in earthBeyond the grave,Much more in death than birthTo conscience slave!
1Vent all your coward's wrathUpon me so!—Yes, I have crossed your pathAnd will not go!2Storm at me hate, and nameMe all that's vile,"Lust," "filth," "disease," and "shame,"I only smile.3Me brute rage can not hurt,It only flingsIn your own eyes blind dirtThat bites and stings.4Rave at your like such whine,Your fellow-men,This wrath!—great God! and mine!—What is it then?5No words! no oaths! such hateAs devils smileWhen raw success cries "wait!"And "afterwhile!"6A woman I and ill,A courtesanYou wearied of, would kill,And you—a man!7You, you—unnamable!A thing there's not,Too base to burn in Hell,Too vile to rot.
1
Vent all your coward's wrathUpon me so!—Yes, I have crossed your pathAnd will not go!
2
Storm at me hate, and nameMe all that's vile,"Lust," "filth," "disease," and "shame,"I only smile.
3
Me brute rage can not hurt,It only flingsIn your own eyes blind dirtThat bites and stings.
4
Rave at your like such whine,Your fellow-men,This wrath!—great God! and mine!—What is it then?
5
No words! no oaths! such hateAs devils smileWhen raw success cries "wait!"And "afterwhile!"
6
A woman I and ill,A courtesanYou wearied of, would kill,And you—a man!
7
You, you—unnamable!A thing there's not,Too base to burn in Hell,Too vile to rot.
1Hold up thy head and crushThy heart's despair;From thy wan temples brushThe tear-wet hair.2Look on me thus as IGaze upon thee;Nor question how nor whySuch things can be.3Thou thought'st it love!—poor fool!That which was lust!Which made thee, beautiful,Vile as the dust!4Thy flesh I craved, thy face!—Love shrinks at this—Now on thy lips to placeOne farewell kiss!—5Weep not, but die!—'tis given—And so—farewell!—Die!—that which makes death heaven,Makes life a hell.
1
Hold up thy head and crushThy heart's despair;From thy wan temples brushThe tear-wet hair.
2
Look on me thus as IGaze upon thee;Nor question how nor whySuch things can be.
3
Thou thought'st it love!—poor fool!That which was lust!Which made thee, beautiful,Vile as the dust!
4
Thy flesh I craved, thy face!—Love shrinks at this—Now on thy lips to placeOne farewell kiss!—
5
Weep not, but die!—'tis given—And so—farewell!—Die!—that which makes death heaven,Makes life a hell.
1"There is no God," one said,And love is lust;When I am dead I'mdead,And all is dust."Be merry while you canBefore you're gray;With some wild courtesanDrink care away."2One said, "A God there is,And God is love;Death is notdeath, but bliss,And life above."Above all flesh is mind;And faith and truthGod's gifts to poor mankindThat make life youth."3One from a harlot's sideArose at morn;One cursing God had diedThat night forlorn.
1
"There is no God," one said,And love is lust;When I am dead I'mdead,And all is dust.
"Be merry while you canBefore you're gray;With some wild courtesanDrink care away."
2
One said, "A God there is,And God is love;Death is notdeath, but bliss,And life above.
"Above all flesh is mind;And faith and truthGod's gifts to poor mankindThat make life youth."
3
One from a harlot's sideArose at morn;One cursing God had diedThat night forlorn.
IO heart that vainly followsThe flight of summer swallows,Far over holts and hollows,O'er frozen buds and flowers;To violet seas and levels,Where Love Time's locks dishevelsWith merry mimes and revelsOf aphrodisiac Hours.IIO Love who, dreaming, borrowsDead love from sad to-morrows,The broken heart that sorrows,The blighted hopes that weep;Pale faces pale with sleeping;Red eyelids red with weeping;Dead lips dead secrets keeping,That shake the deeps of sleep!IIIO Memory that showersAbout the withered hoursWhite, ruined, sodden flowers,Dead dust and bitter rain;Dead loves with faces teary;Dead passions wan and dreary;The weary, weary, weary,Dead heart-ache and the pain!IVO give us back the blisses,Lost madness of moist kisses,The youth, the joy, the tresses,The fragrant limbs of white;The high heart like a jewelAlive with subtle fuel,Lips beautiful and cruel,Eyes' incarnated light!VInstead of tears, wild laughterThe old hot passions after,The houri sweets that dafterMade flesh and soul a slave!Enough of tearful sorrows;Enough of rank to-morrows;The life that whines and borrowsBut memories of the grave!VIThe grave that breaks no nettingOf care or spint's fretting,No long, long sweet forgettingFor those who would forget;And those who stammer by itHope of an endless quiet,Within them voiceless riotWhen they and it have met.VIIAnd God we pray beseeching,—But Life with finger reaching,Stone-stern, remaineth teachingOur hearts to turn to stone;Then fain are we to followThe last, lorn, soaring swallowPast bourns of holt and hollowForevermore alone.
I
O heart that vainly followsThe flight of summer swallows,Far over holts and hollows,O'er frozen buds and flowers;To violet seas and levels,Where Love Time's locks dishevelsWith merry mimes and revelsOf aphrodisiac Hours.
II
O Love who, dreaming, borrowsDead love from sad to-morrows,The broken heart that sorrows,The blighted hopes that weep;Pale faces pale with sleeping;Red eyelids red with weeping;Dead lips dead secrets keeping,That shake the deeps of sleep!
III
O Memory that showersAbout the withered hoursWhite, ruined, sodden flowers,Dead dust and bitter rain;Dead loves with faces teary;Dead passions wan and dreary;The weary, weary, weary,Dead heart-ache and the pain!
IV
O give us back the blisses,Lost madness of moist kisses,The youth, the joy, the tresses,The fragrant limbs of white;The high heart like a jewelAlive with subtle fuel,Lips beautiful and cruel,Eyes' incarnated light!
V
Instead of tears, wild laughterThe old hot passions after,The houri sweets that dafterMade flesh and soul a slave!Enough of tearful sorrows;Enough of rank to-morrows;The life that whines and borrowsBut memories of the grave!
VI
The grave that breaks no nettingOf care or spint's fretting,No long, long sweet forgettingFor those who would forget;And those who stammer by itHope of an endless quiet,Within them voiceless riotWhen they and it have met.
VII
And God we pray beseeching,—But Life with finger reaching,Stone-stern, remaineth teachingOur hearts to turn to stone;Then fain are we to followThe last, lorn, soaring swallowPast bourns of holt and hollowForevermore alone.
Lay but a finger onThat pallid petal sweet,It trembles gray and wanBeneath the passing feet.But soft! blown rose, we knowA merriment of bloom,A life of sturdy glow,—But no such dear perfume.As some good bard, whose pageOf life with beauty's fraught,Grays on to ripe old ageSweet-mellowed through with thought.So when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,The mind, which is not dead,Sheds round it rare perfume.
Lay but a finger onThat pallid petal sweet,It trembles gray and wanBeneath the passing feet.
But soft! blown rose, we knowA merriment of bloom,A life of sturdy glow,—But no such dear perfume.
As some good bard, whose pageOf life with beauty's fraught,Grays on to ripe old ageSweet-mellowed through with thought.
So when his hoary headIs wept into the tomb,The mind, which is not dead,Sheds round it rare perfume.
A Lorelei full fair she sitsThroned on the stream that dimly rolls;Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men's souls.They hear her harp, they hear her song,Led by the wizard beauty high,Like blind brutes maddened rush along,Sink at her cold feet, gasp and die.
A Lorelei full fair she sitsThroned on the stream that dimly rolls;Still, hope-thrilled, with her wild harp knitsTo her from year to year men's souls.
They hear her harp, they hear her song,Led by the wizard beauty high,Like blind brutes maddened rush along,Sink at her cold feet, gasp and die.
In classic beauty, cold, immaculate,A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands,Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate,That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.
In classic beauty, cold, immaculate,A voiceful sculpture, stern and still she stands,Upon her brow deep chiseled love and hate,That sorrow o'er dead roses in her hands.