As some warm moment of reposeIn one rich roseSums all the summer's lovely bloomAnd pure perfume—So did her soul epitomizeAll hopes that make life wise,Who lies before us now with lidded eyes,Faith's amaranth of truthCrowning her youth.
As some warm moment of reposeIn one rich roseSums all the summer's lovely bloomAnd pure perfume—So did her soul epitomizeAll hopes that make life wise,Who lies before us now with lidded eyes,Faith's amaranth of truthCrowning her youth.
As some melodious note or strainMay so containAll of sweet music in one chord,Or lyric word—So did her loving heart suggestAll dreams that make life blest,Who lies before us now with pulseless breast,Love's asphodel of dutyCrowning her beauty.
As some melodious note or strainMay so containAll of sweet music in one chord,Or lyric word—So did her loving heart suggestAll dreams that make life blest,Who lies before us now with pulseless breast,Love's asphodel of dutyCrowning her beauty.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleepThe twilight comes like a little goose-girl,Herding her owls with many "tu-whoos,"Her little brown owls in the woodland deep,Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,And gown of glimmering pearl.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;This is the road to Rockaby Town.Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;Here you can buy any dream for a crown.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleepThe twilight comes like a little goose-girl,Herding her owls with many "tu-whoos,"Her little brown owls in the woodland deep,Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes,And gown of glimmering pearl.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;This is the road to Rockaby Town.Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap;Here you can buy any dream for a crown.Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep,The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town.Now you go up, sweet, now you go down,Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wearsA mantle of purple so old, so old!Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs,Up which you can see her come, silent of tread,On hoofs of pale silver and gold.Dream, dream, little one, dream;This is the way to Lullaby Land.Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream,Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand.Dream, dream, little one, dream;The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam,The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land.Over the sea, sweet, over the sand,Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wearsA mantle of purple so old, so old!Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said,In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs,Up which you can see her come, silent of tread,On hoofs of pale silver and gold.
Dream, dream, little one, dream;This is the way to Lullaby Land.Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream,Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand.Dream, dream, little one, dream;The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam,The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land.Over the sea, sweet, over the sand,Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know,And each to the other is true, is true!And there on the moon through the heavens they ride,With the little brown owls all huddled arow,Through meadows of heaven where, every side,Blossom the stars and the dew.Rest, rest, little one, rest;Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle.Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nestDeep in the heart of a song and a smile.Rest, rest, little one, rest;The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast,The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle.Out of the East, sweet, into the West,Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know,And each to the other is true, is true!And there on the moon through the heavens they ride,With the little brown owls all huddled arow,Through meadows of heaven where, every side,Blossom the stars and the dew.
Rest, rest, little one, rest;Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle.Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nestDeep in the heart of a song and a smile.Rest, rest, little one, rest;The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast,The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle.Out of the East, sweet, into the West,Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
Now with the marriage of the lip and beakerLet Joy be born! and in the rosy shine,The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor,Let Care, the hag, be drowned! No more repineAt all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher inPhilosophies of old AnacreonAnd Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn,Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.
Now with the marriage of the lip and beakerLet Joy be born! and in the rosy shine,The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor,Let Care, the hag, be drowned! No more repineAt all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine!Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher inPhilosophies of old AnacreonAnd Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn,Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.
Some lives need less than others.—Who can everSay truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is neverSure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless;And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess."All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs;And in this world what has more right than Wrong?Come! let us hush remembrance with a song,And learn with folly to be glad and wise.
Some lives need less than others.—Who can everSay truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness?Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is neverSure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless;And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess."All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs;And in this world what has more right than Wrong?Come! let us hush remembrance with a song,And learn with folly to be glad and wise.
There was a poet of the East named Hafiz,Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us goPraising them too. And where good wine to quaff isAnd maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe;For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know,Where wine and love are not, where, sans disguise,Each one must lie in his strait bed apart,The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart,And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.
There was a poet of the East named Hafiz,Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us goPraising them too. And where good wine to quaff isAnd maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe;For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know,Where wine and love are not, where, sans disguise,Each one must lie in his strait bed apart,The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart,And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.
There are some soulsWhose lot it is to set their hearts on goalsThat adverse Fate controls.While others winWith little labor through life's dust and din,And lord-like enter inImmortal gates;And, of Success the high-born intimates,Inherit Fame's estates....Why is 't the lotOf merit oft to struggle and yet notAttain? to toil—for what?Simply to knowThe disappointment, the despair and woeOf effort here below?Ambitious still to reachThose lofty peaks, which men aspiring preach,For which their souls beseech:Those heights that swellRemote, removed, and unattainable,Pinnacle on pinnacle:Still yearning to attainTheir far repose, above life's stress and strain,But all in vain, in vain!...Why hath God putGreat longings in some souls and straightway shutAll doors of their clay hut?The clay accurstThat holds achievement back; from which, immersed,The spirit may not burst.Were it, at least,Not better to have sat at Circe's feast,If afterwards a beast?Than aye to bleed,To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed,And nevermore succeed?
There are some soulsWhose lot it is to set their hearts on goalsThat adverse Fate controls.
While others winWith little labor through life's dust and din,And lord-like enter in
Immortal gates;And, of Success the high-born intimates,Inherit Fame's estates....
Why is 't the lotOf merit oft to struggle and yet notAttain? to toil—for what?
Simply to knowThe disappointment, the despair and woeOf effort here below?
Ambitious still to reachThose lofty peaks, which men aspiring preach,For which their souls beseech:
Those heights that swellRemote, removed, and unattainable,Pinnacle on pinnacle:
Still yearning to attainTheir far repose, above life's stress and strain,But all in vain, in vain!...
Why hath God putGreat longings in some souls and straightway shutAll doors of their clay hut?
The clay accurstThat holds achievement back; from which, immersed,The spirit may not burst.
Were it, at least,Not better to have sat at Circe's feast,If afterwards a beast?
Than aye to bleed,To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed,And nevermore succeed?
Let us mix a cup of JoyThat the wretched may employ,Whom the Fates have made their toy.Who have given brain and heartTo the thankless world of Art,And from Fame have won no part.Who have labored long at thought;Starved and toiled and all for naught;Sought and found not what they sought....Let our goblet be the skullOf a fool; made beautifulWith a gold nor base nor dull:Gold of madcap fancies, onceIt contained, that,—sage or dunce,—Each can read whoever runs.First we pour the liquid lightOf our dreams in; then the brightBeauty that makes day of night.Let this be the must wherefrom,In due time, the mettlesomeCare-destroying drink shall come.Folly next: with which mix inLaughter of a child of sin,And the red of mouth and chin.These shall give the tang thereto,Effervescence and rich hueWhich to all good wine are due.Then into our cup we pressOne wild kiss of wantonness,And a glance that says not less.Sparkles both that give a fineLustre to the drink divine,Necessary to good wine.Lastly in the goblet goesSweet a love-song, then a roseWarmed uponherbreast's repose.These bouquet our drink.—Now measureWith your arm the waist you treasure—Lift the cup and, "Here's to Pleasure!"
Let us mix a cup of JoyThat the wretched may employ,Whom the Fates have made their toy.
Who have given brain and heartTo the thankless world of Art,And from Fame have won no part.
Who have labored long at thought;Starved and toiled and all for naught;Sought and found not what they sought....
Let our goblet be the skullOf a fool; made beautifulWith a gold nor base nor dull:
Gold of madcap fancies, onceIt contained, that,—sage or dunce,—Each can read whoever runs.
First we pour the liquid lightOf our dreams in; then the brightBeauty that makes day of night.
Let this be the must wherefrom,In due time, the mettlesomeCare-destroying drink shall come.
Folly next: with which mix inLaughter of a child of sin,And the red of mouth and chin.
These shall give the tang thereto,Effervescence and rich hueWhich to all good wine are due.
Then into our cup we pressOne wild kiss of wantonness,And a glance that says not less.
Sparkles both that give a fineLustre to the drink divine,Necessary to good wine.
Lastly in the goblet goesSweet a love-song, then a roseWarmed uponherbreast's repose.
These bouquet our drink.—Now measureWith your arm the waist you treasure—Lift the cup and, "Here's to Pleasure!"
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat,'Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon,Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,A tawny horror coiling at her feet—Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like,Untilhereyes shall bid him rise and strike.
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat,'Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon,Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon,A tawny horror coiling at her feet—Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like,Untilhereyes shall bid him rise and strike.
All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost,Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost,Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost;Only the chrism and sacrament of flame,Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
How often in our search for joy belowHoping for happiness we chance on woe.
How often in our search for joy belowHoping for happiness we chance on woe.
They who take courage from their own defeatAre victors too, no matter how much beat.
They who take courage from their own defeatAre victors too, no matter how much beat.
How often hope's fair flower blooms richest whereThe soul was fertilized with black despair.
How often hope's fair flower blooms richest whereThe soul was fertilized with black despair.
Those unrequited in their love who dieHave never drained life's chief illusion dry.
Those unrequited in their love who dieHave never drained life's chief illusion dry.
Success allures us in the earth and skies:We seek to win her, but, too amorous,Mocking, she flees us.—Haply, were we wise,We would not strive and she would come to us.
Success allures us in the earth and skies:We seek to win her, but, too amorous,Mocking, she flees us.—Haply, were we wise,We would not strive and she would come to us.
Miranda-like, above the world she wavesThe wand of Prospero; and, beautiful,Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,—Lightning and steam,—are her unwilling slaves.
Miranda-like, above the world she wavesThe wand of Prospero; and, beautiful,Ariel the airy, Caliban the dull,—Lightning and steam,—are her unwilling slaves.
Dweller in hollow places, hills and rocks,Daughter of Silence and old Solitude,Tip-toe she stands within her cave or wood,Her only life the noises that she mocks.
Dweller in hollow places, hills and rocks,Daughter of Silence and old Solitude,Tip-toe she stands within her cave or wood,Her only life the noises that she mocks.
Wild son of Heav'n, with laughter and alarm,Now East, now West, now North, now South he goes,Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm,And in the other, sunshine and a rose.
Wild son of Heav'n, with laughter and alarm,Now East, now West, now North, now South he goes,Bearing in one harsh hand dark death and storm,And in the other, sunshine and a rose.
Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chastenethWith disappointments, so that this side death,Through suffering and failure, they know HellTo make them worthy in that Heaven to dwellOf Love's attainment, where they come to beParts of its beauty and divinity.
Yea, whom He loves the Lord God chastenethWith disappointments, so that this side death,Through suffering and failure, they know HellTo make them worthy in that Heaven to dwellOf Love's attainment, where they come to beParts of its beauty and divinity.
Summer met Sleep at sunset,Dreaming within the south,—Drugged with his soul's deep slumber,Red with her heart's hot drouth,These are the drowsy kissesShe pressed upon his mouth.
Summer met Sleep at sunset,Dreaming within the south,—Drugged with his soul's deep slumber,Red with her heart's hot drouth,These are the drowsy kissesShe pressed upon his mouth.
There is no Paradise like that which liesDeep in the heavens of her azure eyes:There is no Eden here on Earth that glowsLike that which smiles rich in her mouth's red rose.
There is no Paradise like that which liesDeep in the heavens of her azure eyes:There is no Eden here on Earth that glowsLike that which smiles rich in her mouth's red rose.
To me not only does her soul suggestPalms and the peace of tropic shore and wood,But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.
To me not only does her soul suggestPalms and the peace of tropic shore and wood,But, oceaned far beyond the golden West,The Fortunate Islands of true Womanhood.
The gladness of our Southern spring; the graceOf summer; and the dreaminess of fallAre parts of her sweet nature.—Such a faceWas Ruth's, methinks, divinely spiritual.
The gladness of our Southern spring; the graceOf summer; and the dreaminess of fallAre parts of her sweet nature.—Such a faceWas Ruth's, methinks, divinely spiritual.
It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of this world are a fleeting show.
It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of this world are a fleeting show.
The postchaise Time that all must takeIs old with clay and dust;Two horses strain its rusty brakeNamed Pleasure and Disgust.Our baggage totters on its roof,Of Vanity and Care,As Hope, the postboy, spurs each hoof,Or heavy-eyed Despair.And now a comrade with us rides,Love, haply, or Remorse;And that dim traveler besides,Gaunt Memory on a horse.And be we king or be we kernWho ride the roads of Sin,No matter how the roads may turnThey lead us to that Inn.Unto that Inn within that landOf silence and of gloom,Whose ghastly landlord takes our handAnd leads us to our room.
The postchaise Time that all must takeIs old with clay and dust;Two horses strain its rusty brakeNamed Pleasure and Disgust.
Our baggage totters on its roof,Of Vanity and Care,As Hope, the postboy, spurs each hoof,Or heavy-eyed Despair.
And now a comrade with us rides,Love, haply, or Remorse;And that dim traveler besides,Gaunt Memory on a horse.
And be we king or be we kernWho ride the roads of Sin,No matter how the roads may turnThey lead us to that Inn.
Unto that Inn within that landOf silence and of gloom,Whose ghastly landlord takes our handAnd leads us to our room.
It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of this world are a fleeting show.
It's "Gallop and go!" and "Slow, now, slow!"With every man in this life below—But the things of this world are a fleeting show.
Some drink to Friendship, some to Love,—Through whom the world is fair, perdie!—But I to one these others prove,Who leaps 'mid lions for a glove,Or dies to set another free—I drink to Loyalty.
Some drink to Friendship, some to Love,—Through whom the world is fair, perdie!—But I to one these others prove,Who leaps 'mid lions for a glove,Or dies to set another free—I drink to Loyalty.
No dagger his, no cloak and mask,Free-faced he stands so all may see;Let Friendship set him any task,Or Love—reward he does not ask,The deed is done whate'er it be—So here's to Loyalty.
No dagger his, no cloak and mask,Free-faced he stands so all may see;Let Friendship set him any task,Or Love—reward he does not ask,The deed is done whate'er it be—So here's to Loyalty.
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;From out her form a pearly light is shed,As from a lily, in a lily-bed,A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,And languid as a cloud that drifts aloneIn starry heav'n. And her diaphanous feetAre easy as the dew or opaline heatOf summer.Lo! with ears—aurora pinkAs Dawn's—she leans and listens on the brinkOf being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,And palpitations beat—like some huge heartOf Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breathOf wind, goes wand'ring; whispering low of things,The irremediable, where sorrow clings.Around her limbs a veil of woven mistWavers, and turns from fibered amethystTo textured crystal; through which symboled barsOf silver burn, and cabalistic starsOf nebulous gold.Shrouding her feet and hair,Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,Dreams come and go; the instant imagesOf things she sees and thinks; realities,Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarmThat in the veil take momentary form:Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,And now the hell of every soul's desire;Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,Beyond the world we know and touch and see.
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;From out her form a pearly light is shed,As from a lily, in a lily-bed,A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,And languid as a cloud that drifts aloneIn starry heav'n. And her diaphanous feetAre easy as the dew or opaline heatOf summer.
Lo! with ears—aurora pinkAs Dawn's—she leans and listens on the brinkOf being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,And palpitations beat—like some huge heartOf Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breathOf wind, goes wand'ring; whispering low of things,The irremediable, where sorrow clings.Around her limbs a veil of woven mistWavers, and turns from fibered amethystTo textured crystal; through which symboled barsOf silver burn, and cabalistic starsOf nebulous gold.
Shrouding her feet and hair,Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,Dreams come and go; the instant imagesOf things she sees and thinks; realities,Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarmThat in the veil take momentary form:Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,And now the hell of every soul's desire;Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,Beyond the world we know and touch and see.
Know'st thou the land where the lemon-tree flowers;The orange glows gold in the darkness of bowers,Out of blue heaven a softer zephyr blows,And still the myrtle, tall the laurel grows?Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Would I with thee, O my belovéd, flee.Know'st thou the house? Columns support its beams,Its long hall glitters and its gallery gleams;And sculpture glows and asks, in marble mild,"What have they done to thee, thou poor, poor child?"Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Would I with thee, O my protector, flee.Know'st thou the mountain and its cloud-built bridge?In mist the mule treads cautiously its ridge;The dragon's ancient brood still haunts its caves;Down the loud crag the plunging torrent raves.Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Our pathway leads! O father, let us flee!
Know'st thou the land where the lemon-tree flowers;The orange glows gold in the darkness of bowers,Out of blue heaven a softer zephyr blows,And still the myrtle, tall the laurel grows?Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Would I with thee, O my belovéd, flee.
Know'st thou the house? Columns support its beams,Its long hall glitters and its gallery gleams;And sculpture glows and asks, in marble mild,"What have they done to thee, thou poor, poor child?"Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Would I with thee, O my protector, flee.
Know'st thou the mountain and its cloud-built bridge?In mist the mule treads cautiously its ridge;The dragon's ancient brood still haunts its caves;Down the loud crag the plunging torrent raves.Know'st it indeed?Thither, ah, me! ah, me!Our pathway leads! O father, let us flee!
At midnight in the trysting woodI wandered by the waterside,When, soft as mist, before me stoodMy sweetheart who had died.But so unchanged was she, meseemedThat I had only dreamed her dead;Glad in her eyes the love-light gleamed;Her lips were warm and red.What though the stars shone shadowy throughHer form as by my side she went,And by her feet no drop of dewWas stirred, no blade was bent!What though through her white lovelinessThe wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled,Real to my touch she was; no lessThan when the earth prevailed.She took my hand. My heart beat wild.She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.Then gazing in my eyes, she smiled:"When did'st thou die?" she said.
At midnight in the trysting woodI wandered by the waterside,When, soft as mist, before me stoodMy sweetheart who had died.
But so unchanged was she, meseemedThat I had only dreamed her dead;Glad in her eyes the love-light gleamed;Her lips were warm and red.
What though the stars shone shadowy throughHer form as by my side she went,And by her feet no drop of dewWas stirred, no blade was bent!
What though through her white lovelinessThe wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled,Real to my touch she was; no lessThan when the earth prevailed.
She took my hand. My heart beat wild.She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.Then gazing in my eyes, she smiled:"When did'st thou die?" she said.
Again, in dreams, the veteran hearsThe bugle and the drum;Again the boom of battle nears,Again the bullets hum:Again he mounts, again he cheers,Again his charge speeds home—O memories of those long gone years!O years that are to come!We live in dreams as well as deeds, in thoughts as well as acts;And life through things we feel, not know, is realized the most;The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face of facts,If they still feel their cause was just who fought for it and lost.
Again, in dreams, the veteran hearsThe bugle and the drum;Again the boom of battle nears,Again the bullets hum:Again he mounts, again he cheers,Again his charge speeds home—O memories of those long gone years!O years that are to come!
We live in dreams as well as deeds, in thoughts as well as acts;And life through things we feel, not know, is realized the most;The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face of facts,If they still feel their cause was just who fought for it and lost.
Again, in thought, he hears at dawnThe far reveille die;Again he marches stern and wanBeneath a burning sky:He bivouacs; the night comes on;His comrades 'round him lie—O memories of the years long gone!O years that now go by!The vintager of Earth is War, is War whose grapes are men;Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steaming red:The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a den,Drunk with the must of Hell that spurts beneath his iron tread.
Again, in thought, he hears at dawnThe far reveille die;Again he marches stern and wanBeneath a burning sky:He bivouacs; the night comes on;His comrades 'round him lie—O memories of the years long gone!O years that now go by!
The vintager of Earth is War, is War whose grapes are men;Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steaming red:The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a den,Drunk with the must of Hell that spurts beneath his iron tread.
Again, in mind, he's lying whereThe trenches slay with heat;Again his flag floats o'er him, fairIn charge or fierce retreat:Again all's lost; again despairMakes death seem three times sweet—O years of tears that crowned his hairWith laurels of defeat!There is reward for those who dare, for those who dare and do:Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know no shame;Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn they blew,—Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a name.
Again, in mind, he's lying whereThe trenches slay with heat;Again his flag floats o'er him, fairIn charge or fierce retreat:Again all's lost; again despairMakes death seem three times sweet—O years of tears that crowned his hairWith laurels of defeat!
There is reward for those who dare, for those who dare and do:Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know no shame;Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn they blew,—Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a name.
It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe'en,Where silence and darkness had built them a lair,That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen,And heard her still step on the ghost-haunted air.It was last Hallowe'en in the glimmer and swoonOf mist and of moonlight that thickened and thinned,That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon,And hair, like a raven, blown wild in the wind.It was last Hallowe'en where starlight and dewMade mystical marriage on flower and leaf,That she led me with looks of a love that I knew,And lured with the voice of a heart-buried grief.It was last Hallowe'en in the forest of dreams,Where trees are eidolons and shadows have eyes,That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams,And heard, like the leaf-lisp, her tears and her sighs.It was last Hallowe'en, the haunted, the dread,In the wind-tattered wood by the storm-twisted pine,That I, who am living, kept tryst with the dead,And clasped her a moment and dreamed she was mine.
It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe'en,Where silence and darkness had built them a lair,That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen,And heard her still step on the ghost-haunted air.
It was last Hallowe'en in the glimmer and swoonOf mist and of moonlight that thickened and thinned,That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon,And hair, like a raven, blown wild in the wind.
It was last Hallowe'en where starlight and dewMade mystical marriage on flower and leaf,That she led me with looks of a love that I knew,And lured with the voice of a heart-buried grief.
It was last Hallowe'en in the forest of dreams,Where trees are eidolons and shadows have eyes,That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams,And heard, like the leaf-lisp, her tears and her sighs.
It was last Hallowe'en, the haunted, the dread,In the wind-tattered wood by the storm-twisted pine,That I, who am living, kept tryst with the dead,And clasped her a moment and dreamed she was mine.
The slow reflection of a woman's faceGrew, as by witchcraft, in the oval spaceOf that strange glass on which the moon looked in:—As cruel as death beneath the auburn hairThe dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,—Evil as night yet as the daybreak fair,—Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.
The slow reflection of a woman's faceGrew, as by witchcraft, in the oval spaceOf that strange glass on which the moon looked in:—As cruel as death beneath the auburn hairThe dark eyes burned; and, o'er the faultless chin,—Evil as night yet as the daybreak fair,—Rose-red and sensual smiled the mouth of sin.
The glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crestsOf snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,Filled soul and body with the old desire.—Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fireHad burnt to ashes of satiety!You, who had sunk my soul in all that's dire!
The glorious throat and shoulders and, twin crestsOf snow, the splendid beauty of the breasts,Filled soul and body with the old desire.—Daughter of darkness! how could this thing be?You, whom I loathed! for whom my heart's fierce fireHad burnt to ashes of satiety!You, who had sunk my soul in all that's dire!
How came your image there? and in that room!Where she, the all adored, my life's sweet bloom,Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride—Yea, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,Thinking her death would win me to your side.And so it did! but ... well, it made some stir—By your own hand, I think, they said you died.
How came your image there? and in that room!Where she, the all adored, my life's sweet bloom,Died poisoned! She, my scarcely one week's bride—Yea, poisoned by a gift you sent to her,Thinking her death would win me to your side.And so it did! but ... well, it made some stir—By your own hand, I think, they said you died.
Time passed. And then—was it the curse of crime,That night of nights, which forced my feet to climbTo that locked bridal-room?—'Twas midnight whenA longing, like to madness, mastered me,Compelled me to that chamber, which for tenSad years was sealed; a dark necessityTo gaze upon—I knew not what again.
Time passed. And then—was it the curse of crime,That night of nights, which forced my feet to climbTo that locked bridal-room?—'Twas midnight whenA longing, like to madness, mastered me,Compelled me to that chamber, which for tenSad years was sealed; a dark necessityTo gaze upon—I knew not what again.
Love's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvatureOf that strange mirror, something that might cureThe ache in me—some message, said perchanceOf her dead loveliness, which once it glassed,That might repeat again my lost romanceIn momentary pictures of the past,While in its depths her image swam in trance.
Love's ghost, perhaps. Or, in the curvatureOf that strange mirror, something that might cureThe ache in me—some message, said perchanceOf her dead loveliness, which once it glassed,That might repeat again my lost romanceIn momentary pictures of the past,While in its depths her image swam in trance.
I did not dream to see the soulless eyesOf you I hated; nor the lips where liesAnd kisses curled; your features,—that were tunedTo all demonic,—smiling up as mightSome deep damnation! while.... my God! I swooned!...Oozed slowly out, between the breast's dead white,The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.
I did not dream to see the soulless eyesOf you I hated; nor the lips where liesAnd kisses curled; your features,—that were tunedTo all demonic,—smiling up as mightSome deep damnation! while.... my God! I swooned!...Oozed slowly out, between the breast's dead white,The ghastly red of that wide dagger-wound.
She kneels with haggard eyes and hairUnto the Christ upon the Cross:Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.What is this thing she begs of him,The gentle Christ upon the Cross?Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.Is it forgiveness for her sin,She asks of Christ upon the Cross?And mercy for the soul within?With anguished face, so sad and sweet,She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.Her tears run slowly down her face,O piteous Christ upon the Cross!And through her tears she sighs and says:—"The thing that I would crave of Thee,O Christ upon the cruel Cross,Is not a thing to comfort me."Thou, who hast taught us to forgive,O tender Christ upon the Cross,Help Thou my love forhimto live."Oh, let the love that was my fall,O loving Christ upon the Cross,Still to my life be all in all."With love for him who loves no more,O patient Christ upon the Cross,Make Thou my punishment full sore."She kneels with haggard eyes and hairUnto the Christ upon the Cross:Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
She kneels with haggard eyes and hairUnto the Christ upon the Cross:Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
What is this thing she begs of him,The gentle Christ upon the Cross?Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.
Is it forgiveness for her sin,She asks of Christ upon the Cross?And mercy for the soul within?
With anguished face, so sad and sweet,She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.
Her tears run slowly down her face,O piteous Christ upon the Cross!And through her tears she sighs and says:—
"The thing that I would crave of Thee,O Christ upon the cruel Cross,Is not a thing to comfort me.
"Thou, who hast taught us to forgive,O tender Christ upon the Cross,Help Thou my love forhimto live.
"Oh, let the love that was my fall,O loving Christ upon the Cross,Still to my life be all in all.
"With love for him who loves no more,O patient Christ upon the Cross,Make Thou my punishment full sore."
She kneels with haggard eyes and hairUnto the Christ upon the Cross:Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
My soul and I went walkingBeneath the moon of Spring;The lilies pale were talking,Were faintly murmuring.From dimly moonlit placesThey thrust long throats of white,And lovely lifted facesOf fragrant snow and light.Their language was an essence,Yet clearer than a bird's;And from it grew a presenceAs music grows from words.A spirit born of silenceAnd chastity and dewAmong Elysian islandsWere not more white to view.A spirit born of fireAnd holiness and snowWithin the Heavens' desire,Were not more pure to know.He smiled amid them liftingPale hands of prayer and peace—And through the moonlight, drifting,Came words to me like these:"We are His lilies, lilies,Whose praises aye we sing!We are the lilies, liliesOf Christ our Lord and King!"
My soul and I went walkingBeneath the moon of Spring;The lilies pale were talking,Were faintly murmuring.
From dimly moonlit placesThey thrust long throats of white,And lovely lifted facesOf fragrant snow and light.
Their language was an essence,Yet clearer than a bird's;And from it grew a presenceAs music grows from words.
A spirit born of silenceAnd chastity and dewAmong Elysian islandsWere not more white to view.
A spirit born of fireAnd holiness and snowWithin the Heavens' desire,Were not more pure to know.
He smiled amid them liftingPale hands of prayer and peace—And through the moonlight, drifting,Came words to me like these:
"We are His lilies, lilies,Whose praises aye we sing!We are the lilies, liliesOf Christ our Lord and King!"
Pale as a star that shines through rainHer face was seen at the window-pane,Her sad, frail face that watched in vain.The face of a girl whose brow was wan,To whom the kind sun spoke at dawn,And a star and the moon when the day was gone.And oft and often the sun had said—"O fair, white face, O sweet, fair head,Come talk with me of the love that's dead."And she would sit in the sun awhile,Down in the garth by the old stone-dial,Where never again would he make her smile.And often the first bright star o'erheadHad whispered, "Sweet, where the rose blooms red,Come look with me for the love that's dead."And she would wait with the star she knew,Where the fountain splashed and the roses blew,Where never again would he come to woo.And oft the moon, when she lay in bed,Had sighed, "Dear heart, in the orchardstead.Come, dream with me of the love that's dead."And she would stand in the moon, the dim,Where the fruit made heavy the apple limb,Where never again would she dream with him.So summer passed and the autumn came;And the wind-torn boughs were touched with flame;But her life and her sorrow remained the same.Or, if she changed, as it comes aboutA life may change through trouble and doubt,—As a candle flickers and then goes out,—'Twas only to grow more quiet and wan,Sadly waiting at dusk and at dawnFor the coming of love forever gone.And so, one night, when the star looked in,It kissed her face that was white and thin,And murmured, "Come! thou free of sin!"And when the moon, on another night,Beheld her lying still and white,It sighed, "'Tis well! now all is right."And when one morning the sun arose,And they bore her bier down the garden-close,It touched her, saying, "At last, repose."And they laid her down, so young and fair,Where the grass was withered, the bough was bare,All wrapped in the light of her golden hair....So autumn passed and the winter went;And spring, like a blue-eyed penitent,Came, telling her beads of blossom and scent.And, lo! to the grave of the beautifulThe strong sun cried, "Why art thou dull?Awake! awake! Forget thy skull!"And the evening star and the moon aboveCalled out, "O dust, now speak thereof!Proclaim thyself! Arise, O love!"And the skull and the dust in the darkness beard.Each icy germ in its cerements stirred,As Lazarus moved at the Lord's loud word.And a flower arose on the mound of green,White as the robe of the Nazarene;To testify of the life unseen.And I paused by the grave; then went my way:And it seemed that I heard the lily say—"Here was a miracle wrought to-day."
Pale as a star that shines through rainHer face was seen at the window-pane,Her sad, frail face that watched in vain.
The face of a girl whose brow was wan,To whom the kind sun spoke at dawn,And a star and the moon when the day was gone.
And oft and often the sun had said—"O fair, white face, O sweet, fair head,Come talk with me of the love that's dead."
And she would sit in the sun awhile,Down in the garth by the old stone-dial,Where never again would he make her smile.
And often the first bright star o'erheadHad whispered, "Sweet, where the rose blooms red,Come look with me for the love that's dead."
And she would wait with the star she knew,Where the fountain splashed and the roses blew,Where never again would he come to woo.
And oft the moon, when she lay in bed,Had sighed, "Dear heart, in the orchardstead.Come, dream with me of the love that's dead."
And she would stand in the moon, the dim,Where the fruit made heavy the apple limb,Where never again would she dream with him.
So summer passed and the autumn came;And the wind-torn boughs were touched with flame;But her life and her sorrow remained the same.
Or, if she changed, as it comes aboutA life may change through trouble and doubt,—As a candle flickers and then goes out,—
'Twas only to grow more quiet and wan,Sadly waiting at dusk and at dawnFor the coming of love forever gone.
And so, one night, when the star looked in,It kissed her face that was white and thin,And murmured, "Come! thou free of sin!"
And when the moon, on another night,Beheld her lying still and white,It sighed, "'Tis well! now all is right."
And when one morning the sun arose,And they bore her bier down the garden-close,It touched her, saying, "At last, repose."
And they laid her down, so young and fair,Where the grass was withered, the bough was bare,All wrapped in the light of her golden hair....
So autumn passed and the winter went;And spring, like a blue-eyed penitent,Came, telling her beads of blossom and scent.
And, lo! to the grave of the beautifulThe strong sun cried, "Why art thou dull?Awake! awake! Forget thy skull!"
And the evening star and the moon aboveCalled out, "O dust, now speak thereof!Proclaim thyself! Arise, O love!"
And the skull and the dust in the darkness beard.Each icy germ in its cerements stirred,As Lazarus moved at the Lord's loud word.
And a flower arose on the mound of green,White as the robe of the Nazarene;To testify of the life unseen.
And I paused by the grave; then went my way:And it seemed that I heard the lily say—"Here was a miracle wrought to-day."