I.No more for him, where hills look down,Shall Morning crownHer rainy brow with blossom bands!—Whose rosy handsDrop wild flowers of the breaking skiesUpon the sod 'neath which he lies.—No more! no more!II.No more for him where waters sleep,Shall Evening heapThe long gold of the perfect days!Whose pale hand laysGreat poppies of the afterglowUpon the turf he rests below.—No more! no more!III.No more for him, where woodlands loom,Shall Midnight bloomThe star-flow'red acres of the blue!Whose brown hands strewDead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—No more! no more!IV.The hills that Morning's footsteps wake;The waves that takeA brightness from the Eve; the woodsO'er which Night broods,Their spirits have, whose parts are oneWith his whose mortal part is done.Whose part is done!
I.
No more for him, where hills look down,Shall Morning crownHer rainy brow with blossom bands!—Whose rosy handsDrop wild flowers of the breaking skiesUpon the sod 'neath which he lies.—No more! no more!
II.
No more for him where waters sleep,Shall Evening heapThe long gold of the perfect days!Whose pale hand laysGreat poppies of the afterglowUpon the turf he rests below.—No more! no more!
III.
No more for him, where woodlands loom,Shall Midnight bloomThe star-flow'red acres of the blue!Whose brown hands strewDead leaves of darkness, hushed and deep,Upon the grave where he doth sleep.—No more! no more!
IV.
The hills that Morning's footsteps wake;The waves that takeA brightness from the Eve; the woodsO'er which Night broods,Their spirits have, whose parts are oneWith his whose mortal part is done.Whose part is done!
What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?One word to whisper ofLow in his ear;Sweet, but the one word "love"Haply he'll hear.One word to whisper ofLow in his ear.What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Hope, that life long deniedHere to his heart,Sweet, lay it now beside,Never to part.Hope, that life long deniedHere to his heart.
What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be said to him,Now he is dead?
One word to whisper ofLow in his ear;Sweet, but the one word "love"Haply he'll hear.One word to whisper ofLow in his ear.
What shall be given him,Now he is dead?Now that his eyes are dim,Low lies his head?What shall be given him,Now he is dead?
Hope, that life long deniedHere to his heart,Sweet, lay it now beside,Never to part.Hope, that life long deniedHere to his heart.
Though Summer walks the world to-dayWith corn-crowned hours for her guard,Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,And wait in Autumn's weedy yard.And where the larkspur and the phloxSpread carpets wheresoe'er she pass,She seems to stand with sombre locksBound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.—Fall's terra-cotta-colored flowers,Whose disks the trickling wet has tingedWith dingy lustre when the bower'sThin, flame-flecked leaves the frost has singed;Or with slow feet, 'mid gaunt gold bloomsOf marigolds her fingers twist,She seems to pass with Fall's perfumes,And dreams of sullen rain and mist.
Though Summer walks the world to-dayWith corn-crowned hours for her guard,Her thoughts have clad themselves in gray,And wait in Autumn's weedy yard.
And where the larkspur and the phloxSpread carpets wheresoe'er she pass,She seems to stand with sombre locksBound bleak with fog-washed zinnias.—
Fall's terra-cotta-colored flowers,Whose disks the trickling wet has tingedWith dingy lustre when the bower'sThin, flame-flecked leaves the frost has singed;
Or with slow feet, 'mid gaunt gold bloomsOf marigolds her fingers twist,She seems to pass with Fall's perfumes,And dreams of sullen rain and mist.
Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes,Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloomOf tawny twilights; burdened with perfumeOf rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;And all the beauty of the fire-kissedCold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.I think of thee as seated 'mid the showersOf languid leaves that cover up the flowers,—The little flower-sisterhoods, whom JuneOnce gave wild sweetness to, as to a tuneA singer gives her soul's wild melody,—Watching the squirrel store his granary.Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee:Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back;One lovely shoulder bathed with gipsy black;Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweetThe rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?A heart-sick bird, that sang of happier hours?A cricket dirging days that soon must die?Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?
Sad-hearted spirit of the solitudes,Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloomOf tawny twilights; burdened with perfumeOf rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;And all the beauty of the fire-kissedCold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.I think of thee as seated 'mid the showersOf languid leaves that cover up the flowers,—The little flower-sisterhoods, whom JuneOnce gave wild sweetness to, as to a tuneA singer gives her soul's wild melody,—Watching the squirrel store his granary.Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee:Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back;One lovely shoulder bathed with gipsy black;Upon thy palm one nestling cheek, and sweetThe rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?A heart-sick bird, that sang of happier hours?A cricket dirging days that soon must die?Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?
Ah me! too soon the Autumn comesAmong these purple-plaintive hills!Too soon among the forest gumsPremonitory flame she spills,Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.Her white fogs veil the morn that rimsWith wet the moonflow'r's elfin moons;And, like exhausted starlight, dimsThe last slim lily-disk; and swoonsWith scents of hazy afternoons.Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,And build the west's cadaverous fire,Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,And hands that wake her ancient lyre,Beside the ghost of dead Desire.
Ah me! too soon the Autumn comesAmong these purple-plaintive hills!Too soon among the forest gumsPremonitory flame she spills,Bleak, melancholy flame that kills.
Her white fogs veil the morn that rimsWith wet the moonflow'r's elfin moons;And, like exhausted starlight, dimsThe last slim lily-disk; and swoonsWith scents of hazy afternoons.
Her gray mists haunt the sunset skies,And build the west's cadaverous fire,Where Sorrow sits with lonely eyes,And hands that wake her ancient lyre,Beside the ghost of dead Desire.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The lily of our love is gone,That touched our spring with golden scent;Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire;The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.The songs Love sang to us are dead;Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow;Haply its bitterness will beSweeter than love of long ago.The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue;The apathy to us not lessDear than the dreams our summer knew.
The songs Love sang to us are dead:Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.
The lily of our love is gone,That touched our spring with golden scent;Now in the garden low uponThe wind-stripped way its stalk is bent.
Our rose of dreams is passed away,That lit our summer with sweet fire;The storm beats bare each thorny spray,And its dead leaves are trod in mire.
The songs Love sang to us are dead;Yet shall he sing to us again,When the dull days are wrapped in lead,And the red woodland drips with rain.
The marigold of memoryShall fill our autumn then with glow;Haply its bitterness will beSweeter than love of long ago.
The cypress of forgetfulnessShall haunt our winter with its hue;The apathy to us not lessDear than the dreams our summer knew.
I.The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain;Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose.The day was dim; now eve comes on again,Grave as a life weighed down by many woes,—So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died;Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side:The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf.The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide,Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief,—So doth the hope go and despair abide.An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled;Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red:The frost is subtle as a serpent's breath.The dusk was sad; now night is overhead,Grim as a soul brought face to face with death—So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.II.Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me nowTo seek with high face for a star of hope?Or up endeavor's unsubmissive slopeAdvance a bosom of desire, and bowA back of patience in a thankless task?Alone beside the grave of love I ask,Shalt thou? or thou?Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk aloneThe easy ways of silence and of sleep.What though I go with eyes that cannot weep,And lips contracted with no uttered moan,Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,A dead-sea path of desert night that leadsTo one white stone!Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,Night lie before me and behind me night,And God within far Heaven refuse to lightThe consolation of the dawn for me,—Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,It is enough love leaves my soul to dwellWith memory.
I.
The last rose falls, wrecked of the wind and rain;Where once it bloomed the thorns alone remain:Dead in the wet the slow rain strews the rose.The day was dim; now eve comes on again,Grave as a life weighed down by many woes,—So is the joy dead, and alive the pain.
The brown leaf flutters where the green leaf died;Bare are the boughs, and bleak the forest side:The wind is whirling with the last wild leaf.The eve was strange; now dusk comes weird and wide,Gaunt as a life that lives alone with grief,—So doth the hope go and despair abide.
An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled;Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red:The frost is subtle as a serpent's breath.The dusk was sad; now night is overhead,Grim as a soul brought face to face with death—So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.
II.
Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me nowTo seek with high face for a star of hope?Or up endeavor's unsubmissive slopeAdvance a bosom of desire, and bowA back of patience in a thankless task?Alone beside the grave of love I ask,Shalt thou? or thou?
Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk aloneThe easy ways of silence and of sleep.What though I go with eyes that cannot weep,And lips contracted with no uttered moan,Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds,A dead-sea path of desert night that leadsTo one white stone!
Though sands be black and bitter black the sea,Night lie before me and behind me night,And God within far Heaven refuse to lightThe consolation of the dawn for me,—Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell,It is enough love leaves my soul to dwellWith memory.
The days that clothed white limbs with heat,And rocked the red rose on their breast,Have passed with amber-sandalled feetInto the ruby-gated west.These were the days that filled the heartWith overflowing riches ofLife; in whose soul no dream shall startBut hath its origin in love.Now come the days gray-huddled inThe haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;Who pin beneath a gipsy chinThe frosty marigold and hip.—The days, whose forms fall shadowyAthwart the heart; whose misty breathShapes saddest sweets of memoryOut of the bitterness of death.
The days that clothed white limbs with heat,And rocked the red rose on their breast,Have passed with amber-sandalled feetInto the ruby-gated west.
These were the days that filled the heartWith overflowing riches ofLife; in whose soul no dream shall startBut hath its origin in love.
Now come the days gray-huddled inThe haze; whose foggy footsteps drip;Who pin beneath a gipsy chinThe frosty marigold and hip.—
The days, whose forms fall shadowyAthwart the heart; whose misty breathShapes saddest sweets of memoryOut of the bitterness of death.
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a westOf copper, cavernous with fire;A wind of frost that gives no restTo such lean leaves as haunt the brier,And hide the cricket's vibrant wire.Sear, shivering shocks, and stubble blurredWith bramble-blots of dull maroon;And creekless hills whereon no herdFinds pasture, and whereo'er the loonFlies, haggard as the rainless moon.
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a westOf copper, cavernous with fire;A wind of frost that gives no restTo such lean leaves as haunt the brier,And hide the cricket's vibrant wire.
Sear, shivering shocks, and stubble blurredWith bramble-blots of dull maroon;And creekless hills whereon no herdFinds pasture, and whereo'er the loonFlies, haggard as the rainless moon.
All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold;And through the snow the muffled waters fell;The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell,Like some old hermit whose last bead is told.At eve the wind woke, and the snow-clouds rolledAside to leave the fierce sky visible;Harsh as an iron landscape of wan hellThe dark hills hung framed in with gloomy gold.And then, towards night, the wind seemed some one atMy window wailing: now a little childCrying outside the door; and now the longHowl of some starved beast down the flue. I satAnd knew 'twas Winter with his madman songOf miseries, whereon he stared and smiled.
All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold;And through the snow the muffled waters fell;The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell,Like some old hermit whose last bead is told.At eve the wind woke, and the snow-clouds rolledAside to leave the fierce sky visible;Harsh as an iron landscape of wan hellThe dark hills hung framed in with gloomy gold.And then, towards night, the wind seemed some one atMy window wailing: now a little childCrying outside the door; and now the longHowl of some starved beast down the flue. I satAnd knew 'twas Winter with his madman songOf miseries, whereon he stared and smiled.
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shookMinutest frosty fire in the air.All night the wind was still as lonely CareWho sighs before her shivering ingle-nook.The face of Winter wore a crueler lookThan when he shakes the icicles from his hair,And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stareFreeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.He is the despot now who sits and dreamsOf Desolation and Despair, and smilesAt Poverty, who hath no place to rest,Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles,And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams,And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shookMinutest frosty fire in the air.All night the wind was still as lonely CareWho sighs before her shivering ingle-nook.The face of Winter wore a crueler lookThan when he shakes the icicles from his hair,And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stareFreeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook.He is the despot now who sits and dreamsOf Desolation and Despair, and smilesAt Poverty, who hath no place to rest,Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles,And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams,And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
I.When black frosts pluck the acorns down,And in the lane the waters freeze;And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,And death sits grimly 'mid the trees;When home-lights glitter in the brownOf dusk like shaggy eyes,—Before the door his feet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet.II.When ways are drifted with the leaves,And winds make music in the thorns;And lone and lost above the frostThe new moon shows its silver horns;When underneath the lamp-lit eavesThe opened door is crossed,—A happy heart and light, sweetheart,And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart,And lips to kiss good-night.
I.
When black frosts pluck the acorns down,And in the lane the waters freeze;And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies,And death sits grimly 'mid the trees;When home-lights glitter in the brownOf dusk like shaggy eyes,—Before the door his feet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet, sweetheart,And two white arms that greet.
II.
When ways are drifted with the leaves,And winds make music in the thorns;And lone and lost above the frostThe new moon shows its silver horns;When underneath the lamp-lit eavesThe opened door is crossed,—A happy heart and light, sweetheart,And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart,And lips to kiss good-night.
I.He sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:"When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring,—concealedIn the odorous green,—is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!"II.He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:"When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs that loom and leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"III.He hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:"When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"IV.He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:"When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"
I.
He sang a song as he sowed the field,Sowed the field at break of day:"When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yieldBalm and balsam, and Spring,—concealedIn the odorous green,—is so revealed,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the woods and the far away!"
II.
He trilled a song as he mowed the mead,Mowed the mead as noon begun:"When the hills are gold with the ripened seed,As the sunset stairs that loom and leadTo the sky where Summer knows naught of need,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"
III.
He hummed a song as he swung the flail,Swung the flail in the afternoon:"When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale,That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale,As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail,Halloo and oh!Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"
IV.
He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe,Shouldered his axe in the evening storm:"When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks,And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks,With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs,Halloo and oh!Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"
I.What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quinces where the blue-birds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.II.What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, 'neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.III.What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap themselves in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,'Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.IV.What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me o'er the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl's welcome-giving face.
I.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—The path that takes me, in the spring,Past quinces where the blue-birds sing,Where peonies are blossoming,Unto a porch, wistaria-hung,Around whose steps May-lilies blow,A fair girl reaches down among,Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
II.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—Another path that leads me, whenThe summer-time is here again,Past hollyhocks that shame the westWhen the red sun has sunk to rest;To roses bowering a nest,A lattice, 'neath which mignonetteAnd deep geraniums surge and sough,Where, in the twilight, starless yet,A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.
III.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that takes me, when the daysOf autumn wrap themselves in haze,Beneath the pippin-pelting tree,'Mid flitting butterfly and bee;Unto a door where, fiery,The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued,The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare,And in the door, where shades intrude,Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.
IV.
What words of mine can tell the spellOf garden ways I know so well?—A path that brings me o'er the frostOf winter, when the moon is tossedIn clouds; beneath great cedars, weakWith shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleakWith shivering leaves; to eaves that leakThe tattered ice, whereunder isA fire-flickering window-space;And in the light, with lips to kiss,A fair girl's welcome-giving face.
I.When in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound;When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A glinting gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.II.When late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes;When to the door the goodman's bootsStamp through the snow the light stains red,The fire-light's red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedWith a dream of the summer, dearie.III.When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows;And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.
I.
When in the wind the vane turns round,And round, and round;And in his kennel whines the hound;When all the gable eaves are boundWith icicles of ragged gray,A glinting gray;There is little to do, and much to say,And you hug your fire and pass the dayWith a thought of the springtime, dearie.
II.
When late at night the owlet hoots,And hoots, and hoots;And wild winds make of keyholes flutes;When to the door the goodman's bootsStamp through the snow the light stains red,The fire-light's red;There is nothing to do, and all is said,And you quaff your cider and go to bedWith a dream of the summer, dearie.
III.
When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows,And crows, and crows;And from the barn the milch-cow lows;And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose,And the still skies show a star or two,Or one or two;There is little to say, and much to do,And the heartier done the happier you,With a song of the winter, dearie.
I.While sunset burns and stars are few,And roses scent the fading light,And like a slim urn, dripping dew,A spirit carries through the night,The pearl-pale moon hangs new,—I think of you, of you.II.While waters flow, and soft winds wooThe golden-hearted bud with sighs;And, like a flower an angel threw,Out of the momentary skiesA star falls burning blue,—I dream of you, of you.III.While love believes, and hearts are true,So let me think, so let me dream;The thought and dream so wedded toYour face, that, far apart, I seemTo see each thing you do,And be with you, with you.
I.
While sunset burns and stars are few,And roses scent the fading light,And like a slim urn, dripping dew,A spirit carries through the night,The pearl-pale moon hangs new,—I think of you, of you.
II.
While waters flow, and soft winds wooThe golden-hearted bud with sighs;And, like a flower an angel threw,Out of the momentary skiesA star falls burning blue,—I dream of you, of you.
III.
While love believes, and hearts are true,So let me think, so let me dream;The thought and dream so wedded toYour face, that, far apart, I seemTo see each thing you do,And be with you, with you.
I.The winds are whist; and, hid in mist,The moon hangs o'er the wooded height;The bushy bee, with unkempt head,Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed,And sleeps half-hid from sight.The owlet makes us melody—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.II.The dew is damp; the glow-worm's lampBlurs in the moss its tawny light;The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep,Where, in an elfin-laundered heap,The lily-gowns hang white.The crickets make us minstrelsy—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.III.With scents of heat, dew-chilled and sweet,The new-cut hay smells by the bight;The ghost of some dead pansy bloom,The butterfly dreams in the gloom,Its pied wings folded tight.The world is lost in fantasy,—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.
I.
The winds are whist; and, hid in mist,The moon hangs o'er the wooded height;The bushy bee, with unkempt head,Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed,And sleeps half-hid from sight.The owlet makes us melody—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.
II.
The dew is damp; the glow-worm's lampBlurs in the moss its tawny light;The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep,Where, in an elfin-laundered heap,The lily-gowns hang white.The crickets make us minstrelsy—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.
III.
With scents of heat, dew-chilled and sweet,The new-cut hay smells by the bight;The ghost of some dead pansy bloom,The butterfly dreams in the gloom,Its pied wings folded tight.The world is lost in fantasy,—Come dance with us in Faëry,Come dance with us to-night.
The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.She stands with Lilith finger tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe wild wine of all life; and sipsWith Lilith-laughter-lightened lipsThe soul as from a crystal cup.What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her curled lips' kiss, that stained the clay,Her fingers' touch—shall not these stay,That made its nothingness divine?Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept flame once 'neath the snowOf her mooned breasts,—and this is much!
The roses of voluptuousnessWreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes;Her limbs are flower-like nakedness,Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press,The blossom-blood of Paradise.
She stands with Lilith finger tips,With Lilith hands; and gathers upThe wild wine of all life; and sipsWith Lilith-laughter-lightened lipsThe soul as from a crystal cup.
What though she cast the cup away!The empty bowl that flashed with wine!Her curled lips' kiss, that stained the clay,Her fingers' touch—shall not these stay,That made its nothingness divine?
Through one again shall live the glow,Immortalizing, of her touch;And through the other, sweet to knowHow life swept flame once 'neath the snowOf her mooned breasts,—and this is much!
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day's dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellions hair?—Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup's bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Binding her brow with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams' wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith given from God's hands.The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals—as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note;—And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Fed with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood's tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent's hiss.He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.He, whom she wins, hath nothing 'neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,—Life's bitter bread his heart's fierce tears make wet.What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull.
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell.Man holds her in his heart as night doth holdThe moonlight memories of day's dead gold;Or as a winter-withered asphodelIn its dead loveliness holds scents of old.And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.
Who would not follow her whose glory sits,Imperishably lovely on the air?Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flitsWith eyes defiant and rebellions hair?—Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.
He who hath seen, what shall it profit him?He who doth love, what shall his passion gain?When disappointment at her cup's bright brimPoisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain?Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.
How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes,Making their night clairvoyant! And how longSince Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise,Binding her brow with prophecy and song!Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies,Giving into her hands the right of wrong!
Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought,Unearthly bannered; and her dreams' wild bandsBesiege the heavens like a twilight fraughtWith recollections of lost stars. She standsRadiant as Lilith given from God's hands.
The golden rose of patience at her throatDrops fragrant petals—as a pensive tuneDrops its surrendered sweetness note by note;—And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn,Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.
So in her flowers man seats him at her feetIn star-faced worship, knowing all of this;And now to him to die seems very sweet,Fed with the fire of her look and kiss;While in his heart the blood's tumultuous beatDrowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent's hiss.
He who hath dreamed but of her world shall giveAll of his soul unto her restlessly:He who hath seen but her far face shall liveNo more for things we name reality:Such is the power of her tyranny.
He, whom she wins, hath nothing 'neath the sun;Forgetting all that she may not forgetHe loves her, who still feeds his soul uponDreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,—Life's bitter bread his heart's fierce tears make wet.
What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wakeHim now! or song of magic now to dullThe dreams he lives in! or what charm to breakThe spell that makes her evil beautiful!What charm to show her beauty hides a snake,Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull.
Here in the dusk I see her face againAs then I knew it, ere she fell asleep;Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul's inmost deep.I shall not see its like again! the browOf passive marble, purely aureoled,—As some pale lily in the afterglow,—With supernatural gold.As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardBy some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters 'round.So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections—as the stars suggestThe silence, purity and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal—The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.
Here in the dusk I see her face againAs then I knew it, ere she fell asleep;Renunciation glorifying painOf her soul's inmost deep.
I shall not see its like again! the browOf passive marble, purely aureoled,—As some pale lily in the afterglow,—With supernatural gold.
As if a rose should speak and, somehow heardBy some strange sense, the unembodied soundGrow visible, her mouth was as a wordA sweet thought falters 'round.
So do I still remember eyes imbuedWith far reflections—as the stars suggestThe silence, purity and solitudeOf infinite peace and rest.
She was my all. I loved her as men loveA high desire, religion, an ideal—The meaning purpose in the loss whereofGod shall alone reveal.
Ah me! I shall not waken soonFrom dreams of such divinity!A spirit singing in the moonTo me.White sea-spray driven of the stormWere not so wildly white as she!She beckoned with a foam-white armTo me.With eyes dark green, and golden-greenLoose locks that sparkled drippingly,Out of the green wave she did leanTo me.And sang; till Earth and Heaven wereA far, forgotten memory;For more than Heaven seemed hid in herTo me:—Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home;Love, more than immortality;And music of the dreamy foamFor me.Pass over her with all thy shipsWith all thy stormy tides, O sea!The memory of immortal lipsFor me!
Ah me! I shall not waken soonFrom dreams of such divinity!A spirit singing in the moonTo me.
White sea-spray driven of the stormWere not so wildly white as she!She beckoned with a foam-white armTo me.
With eyes dark green, and golden-greenLoose locks that sparkled drippingly,Out of the green wave she did leanTo me.
And sang; till Earth and Heaven wereA far, forgotten memory;For more than Heaven seemed hid in herTo me:—
Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home;Love, more than immortality;And music of the dreamy foamFor me.
Pass over her with all thy shipsWith all thy stormy tides, O sea!The memory of immortal lipsFor me!
With moon-white hearts that held a gleam,I gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odor of the wildwood bud.From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman's eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman's blossom breasts of snow.Out of a rose-bud's veins I drewThe fragrant crimson beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy's drowsiness.Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o'er her eyes' blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.A shadow's shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass:And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.
With moon-white hearts that held a gleam,I gathered wild flowers in a dream,And shaped a woman, whose sweet bloodWas odor of the wildwood bud.
From dew, the starlight arrowed through,I wrought a woman's eyes of blue;The lids, that on her eyeballs lay,Were rose-pale petals of the May.
I took the music of the breeze,And water whispering in the trees,And shaped the soul that breathed belowA woman's blossom breasts of snow.
Out of a rose-bud's veins I drewThe fragrant crimson beating throughThe languid lips of her, whose kissWas as a poppy's drowsiness.
Out of the moonlight and the airI wrought the glory of her hair,That o'er her eyes' blue heaven layLike some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.
A shadow's shadow in the glassOf sleep, my spirit saw her pass:And, thinking of it now, meseemsWe only live within our dreams.
For in that time she was to meMore real than our reality;More real than Earth, more real than I—The unreal things that pass and die.
A lily in a twilight place?A moonflow'r in the lonely night?—Strange beauty of a woman's faceOf wildflow'r-white!The rain that hangs a star's green raySlim on a leaf-point's restlessness,Is not so glimmering green and grayAs was her dress.I drew her dark hair from her eyes,And in their deeps beheld a whileSuch shadowy moonlight as the skiesOf Hell may smile.She held her mouth up redly wan,And burning cold,—I bent and kissedSuch rosy snow as some wild dawnMakes of a mist.God shall not take from me that hour,When round my neck her white arms clung!When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,Her white throat swung!Or words she murmured while she leaned!Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—The spell that binds me to a fiendUntil I die.
A lily in a twilight place?A moonflow'r in the lonely night?—Strange beauty of a woman's faceOf wildflow'r-white!
The rain that hangs a star's green raySlim on a leaf-point's restlessness,Is not so glimmering green and grayAs was her dress.
I drew her dark hair from her eyes,And in their deeps beheld a whileSuch shadowy moonlight as the skiesOf Hell may smile.
She held her mouth up redly wan,And burning cold,—I bent and kissedSuch rosy snow as some wild dawnMakes of a mist.
God shall not take from me that hour,When round my neck her white arms clung!When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower,Her white throat swung!
Or words she murmured while she leaned!Witch-words, she holds me softly by,—The spell that binds me to a fiendUntil I die.
I.There in the calamus he standsWith frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;And elfishly, and elfishly,Above the gleam of owlet eyes,A death's-moth cap of downy dyesNods out at me, nods out at me.II.Now in the reeds his face looks whiteAs witch-down on a witches' night;Now through the dark old haunted mill,So eerily, so eerily,He flits; and with a whippoorwillMouth calls, and seems to syllable,"Come follow me! come follow me!"III.Now o'er the sluggish stream he wends,A slim light at his finger-ends;The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,Slips oozily, slips oozily;His easy footsteps seem to come—Like bubble-gaspings of the scum—Now near to me, now near to me.IV.There by the stagnant pool he stands,A fox-fire lamp in flickering hands;The weeds are slimy to the tread,And mockingly, and mockingly,With slanted eyes and eldritch headHe leans above a face long dead,—The face of me! the face of me!
I.
There in the calamus he standsWith frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands;His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise;And elfishly, and elfishly,Above the gleam of owlet eyes,A death's-moth cap of downy dyesNods out at me, nods out at me.
II.
Now in the reeds his face looks whiteAs witch-down on a witches' night;Now through the dark old haunted mill,So eerily, so eerily,He flits; and with a whippoorwillMouth calls, and seems to syllable,"Come follow me! come follow me!"
III.
Now o'er the sluggish stream he wends,A slim light at his finger-ends;The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb,Slips oozily, slips oozily;His easy footsteps seem to come—Like bubble-gaspings of the scum—Now near to me, now near to me.
IV.
There by the stagnant pool he stands,A fox-fire lamp in flickering hands;The weeds are slimy to the tread,And mockingly, and mockingly,With slanted eyes and eldritch headHe leans above a face long dead,—The face of me! the face of me!