"Le silence est si grand que mon coeur en frissonne,
     Seul, le bruit de mes pas sur le pave resonne."

                              Albert Samain.

          Before the Altar, bowed, he stands
          With empty hands;
          Upon it perfumed offerings burn
          Wreathing with smoke the sacrificial urn.
          Not one of all these has he given,
          No flame of his has leapt to Heaven
          Firesouled, vermilion-hearted,
          Forked, and darted,
          Consuming what a few spare pence
          Have cheaply bought, to fling from hence
          In idly-asked petition.

          His sole condition
          Love and poverty.
          And while the moon
          Swings slow across the sky,
          Athwart a waving pine tree,
          And soon
          Tips all the needles there
          With silver sparkles, bitterly
          He gazes, while his soul
          Grows hard with thinking of the poorness of his dole.

          "Shining and distant Goddess, hear my prayer
          Where you swim in the high air!
          With charity look down on me,
          Under this tree,
          Tending the gifts I have not brought,
          The rare and goodly things
          I have not sought.
          Instead, take from me all my life!

          "Upon the wings
          Of shimmering moonbeams
          I pack my poet's dreams
          For you.
          My wearying strife,
          My courage, my loss,
          Into the night I toss
          For you.
          Golden Divinity,
          Deign to look down on me
          Who so unworthily
          Offers to you:
          All life has known,
          Seeds withered unsown,
          Hopes turning quick to fears,
          Laughter which dies in tears.
          The shredded remnant of a man
          Is all the span
          And compass of my offering to you.

          "Empty and silent, I
          Kneel before your pure, calm majesty.
          On this stone, in this urn
          I pour my heart and watch it burn,
          Myself the sacrifice; but be
          Still unmoved:  Divinity."

          From the altar, bathed in moonlight,
          The smoke rose straight in the quiet night.

          Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
          To put upon the cover of this book?
          Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
          The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
          When the damp freshness of the morning earth
          Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?

          Who followed over moss and twisted roots,
          And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
          Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
          While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
          Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
          Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
          Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
          Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
          Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?

          We do not know what bird thou art.  Perhaps
          That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
          Who never sings but once, and then his song
          Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
          From sheer exuberance of melody.

          For this they took thee, little bird, for this
          They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
          And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
          For it contains a song surpassing thine,
          Richer, more sweet, more poignant.  And the poet
          Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
          Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
          A little while, and then he died; too frail
          To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.

          Glinting golden through the trees,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Through the moon-pierced warp of night
          Shoot pale shafts of yellow light,
          Swaying to the kissing breeze
          Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming,
           Apples of Hesperides!

          Far and lofty yet they glimmer,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Blinded by their radiant shimmer,
          Pushing forward just for these;
          Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,
          Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred,
          Always thinking soon to seize
          And possess the golden-glistening
           Apples of Hesperides!

          Orbed, and glittering, and pendent,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Not one missing, still transcendent,
          Clustering like a swarm of bees.
          Yielding to no man's desire,
          Glowing with a saffron fire,
          Splendid, unassailed, the golden
           Apples of Hesperides!

          April had covered the hills
           With flickering yellows and reds,
          The sparkle and coolness of snow
           Was blown from the mountain beds.

          Across a deep-sunken stream
           The pink of blossoming trees,
          And from windless appleblooms
           The humming of many bees.

          The air was of rose and gold
           Arabesqued with the song of birds
          Who, swinging unseen under leaves,
           Made music more eager than words.

          Of a sudden, aslant the road,
           A brightness to dazzle and stun,
          A glint of the bluest blue,
           A flash from a sapphire sun.

          Blue-birds so blue, 't was a dream,
           An impossible, unconceived hue,
          The high sky of summer dropped down
           Some rapturous ocean to woo.

          Such a colour, such infinite light!
           The heart of a fabulous gem,
          Many-faceted, brilliant and rare.
           Centre Stone of the earth's diadem!
               .    .    .    .    .
          Centre Stone of the Crown of the World,
           "Sincerity" graved on your youth!
          And your eyes hold the blue-bird flash,
           The sapphire shaft, which is truth.

          Life is a stream
          On which we strew
          Petal by petal the flower of our heart;
          The end lost in dream,
          They float past our view,
          We only watch their glad, early start.

          Freighted with hope,
          Crimsoned with joy,
          We scatter the leaves of our opening rose;
          Their widening scope,
          Their distant employ,
          We never shall know.  And the stream as it flows
          Sweeps them away,
          Each one is gone
          Ever beyond into infinite ways.
          We alone stay
          While years hurry on,
          The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

          As one who sails upon a wide, blue sea
          Far out of sight of land, his mind intent
          Upon the sailing of his little boat,
          On tightening ropes and shaping fair his course,
          Hears suddenly, across the restless sea,
          The rhythmic striking of some towered clock,
          And wakes from thoughtless idleness to time:
          Time, the slow pulse which beats eternity!
          So through the vacancy of busy life
          At intervals you cross my path and bring
          The deep solemnity of passing years.
          For you I have shed bitter tears, for you
          I have relinquished that for which my heart
          Cried out in selfish longing.  And to-night
          Having just left you, I can say:  "'T is well.
          Thank God that I have known a soul so true,
          So nobly just, so worthy to be loved!"

          Stupefy my heart to every day's monotony,
           Seal up my eyes, I would not look so far,
          Chasten my steps to peaceful regularity,
           Bow down my head lest I behold a star.

          Fill my days with work, a thousand calm necessities
           Leaving no moment to consecrate to hope,
          Girdle my thoughts within the dull circumferences
           Of facts which form the actual in one short hour's scope.

          Give me dreamless sleep, and loose night's power over me,
           Shut my ears to sounds only tumultuous then,
          Bid Fancy slumber, and steal away its potency,
           Or Nature wakes and strives to live again.

          Let each day pass, well ordered in its usefulness,
           Unlit by sunshine, unscarred by storm;
          Dower me with strength and curb all foolish eagerness —
           The law exacts obedience.  Instruct, I will conform.

          High up above the open, welcoming door
          It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
          Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
          And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
          Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
          The winter snows had bent its branches down,
          The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
          Summer had run like fire through its veins,
          While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
          And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
          Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
          Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
          But every now and then broad sunlit days
          Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
          Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
          It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
          Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
          But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
          An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
          Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
          Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
          By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
          And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
          Among the flashing waves are two white birds
          Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
          At the wild sport.  Now diving quickly in,
          Questing some glistening fish.  Now flying up,
          Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
          While the wet drops like little glints of light,
          Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
          Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
          Or skimming some white crest about to break,
          The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
          And play with ocean in a summer mood.
          Hanging above the high, wide open door,
          It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
          The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
          Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
          And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.

          When you, my Dear, are away, away,
          How wearily goes the creeping day.
          A year drags after morning, and night
          Starts another year of candle light.
          O Pausing Sun and Lingering Moon!
          Grant me, I beg of you, this boon.

          Whirl round the earth as never sun
          Has his diurnal journey run.
          And, Moon, slip past the ladders of air
          In a single flash, while your streaming hair
          Catches the stars and pulls them down
          To shine on some slumbering Chinese town.
          O Kindly Sun!  Understanding Moon!
          Bring evening to crowd the footsteps of noon.

          But when that long awaited day
          Hangs ripe in the heavens, your voyaging stay.
          Be morning, O Sun! with the lark in song,
          Be afternoon for ages long.
          And, Moon, let you and your lesser lights
          Watch over a century of nights.

          I own a solace shut within my heart,
           A garden full of many a quaint delight
           And warm with drowsy, poppied sunshine; bright,
          Flaming with lilies out of whose cups dart
              Shining things
              With powdered wings.

          Here terrace sinks to terrace, arbors close
           The ends of dreaming paths; a wanton wind
           Jostles the half-ripe pears, and then, unkind,
          Tumbles a-slumber in a pillar rose,
              With content
              Grown indolent.

          By night my garden is o'erhung with gems
           Fixed in an onyx setting.  Fireflies
           Flicker their lanterns in my dazzled eyes.
          In serried rows I guess the straight, stiff stems
              Of hollyhocks
              Against the rocks.

          So far and still it is that, listening,
           I hear the flowers talking in the dawn;
           And where a sunken basin cuts the lawn,
          Cinctured with iris, pale and glistening,
              The sudden swish
              Of a waking fish.

          Who shall declare the joy of the running!
           Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
          Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
           Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
          Everything mortal has moments immortal,
           Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.

          So with the stretch of the white road before me,
           Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
          Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
           Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
          Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
           Joy!  With the vigorous earth I am one.

          It winds along the face of a cliff
           This path which I long to explore,
          And over it dashes a waterfall,
           And the air is full of the roar
          And the thunderous voice of waters which sweep
          In a silver torrent over some steep.

          It clears the path with a mighty bound
           And tumbles below and away,
          And the trees and the bushes which grow in the rocks
           Are wet with its jewelled spray;
          The air is misty and heavy with sound,
          And small, wet wildflowers star the ground.

          Oh!  The dampness is very good to smell,
           And the path is soft to tread,
          And beyond the fall it winds up and on,
           While little streamlets thread
          Their own meandering way down the hill
          Each singing its own little song, until

          I forget that 't is only a pictured path,
           And I hear the water and wind,
          And look through the mist, and strain my eyes
           To see what there is behind;
          For it must lead to a happy land,
          This little path by a waterfall spanned.

          Oh!  To be a flower
           Nodding in the sun,
          Bending, then upspringing
           As the breezes run;
          Holding up
          A scent-brimmed cup,
           Full of summer's fragrance to the summer sun.

          Oh!  To be a butterfly
           Still, upon a flower,
          Winking with its painted wings,
           Happy in the hour.
          Blossoms hold
          Mines of gold
           Deep within the farthest heart of each chaliced flower.

          Oh!  To be a cloud
           Blowing through the blue,
          Shadowing the mountains,
           Rushing loudly through
          Valleys deep
          Where torrents keep
           Always their plunging thunder and their misty arch of blue.

          Oh!  To be a wave
           Splintering on the sand,
          Drawing back, but leaving
           Lingeringly the land.
          Rainbow light
          Flashes bright
           Telling tales of coral caves half hid in yellow sand.

          Soon they die, the flowers;
           Insects live a day;
          Clouds dissolve in showers;
           Only waves at play
          Last forever.
          Shall endeavor
           Make a sea of purpose mightier than we dream to-day?

          The Fool Errant sat by the highway of life
           And his gaze wandered up and his gaze wandered down,
          A vigorous youth, but with no wish to walk,
           Yet his longing was great for the distant town.

          He whistled a little frivolous tune
           Which he felt to be pulsing with ecstasy,
          For he thought that success always followed desire,
           Such a very superlative fool was he.

          A maiden came by on an ambling mule,
           Her gown was rose-red and her kerchief blue,
          On her lap she carried a basket of eggs.
           Thought the fool, "There is certainly room for two."

          So he jauntily swaggered towards the maid
           And put out his hand to the bridle-rein.
          "My pretty girl," quoth the fool, "take me up,
           For to ride with you to the town I am fain."

          But the maiden struck at his upraised arm
           And pelted him hotly with eggs, a score.
          The mule, lashed into a fury, ran;
           The fool went back to his stone and swore.

          Then out of the cloud of settling dust
           The burly form of an abbot appeared,
          Reading his office he rode to the town.
           And the fool got up, for his heart was cheered.

          He stood in the midst of the long, white road
           And swept off his cap till it touched the ground.
          "Ah, Reverent Sir, well met," said the fool,
           "A worthier transport never was found.

          "I pray you allow me to mount with you,
           Your palfrey seems both sturdy and young."
          The abbot looked up from the holy book
           And cried out in anger, "Hold your tongue!

          "How dare you obstruct the King's highroad,
           You saucy varlet, get out of my way."
          Then he gave the fool a cut with his whip
           And leaving him smarting, he rode away.

          The fool was angry, the fool was sore,
           And he cursed the folly of monks and maids.
          "If I could but meet with a man," sighed the fool,
           "For a woman fears, and a friar upbraids."

          Then he saw a flashing of distant steel
           And the clanking of harness greeted his ears,
          And up the road journeyed knights-at-arms,
           With waving plumes and glittering spears.

          The fool took notice and slowly arose,
           Not quite so sure was his foolish heart.
          If priests and women would none of him
           Was it likely a knight would take his part?

          They sang as they rode, these lusty boys,
           When one chanced to turn toward the highway's side,
          "There's a sorry figure of fun," jested he,
           "Well, Sirrah! move back, there is scarce room to ride."

          "Good Sirs, Kind Sirs," begged the crestfallen fool,
           "I pray of your courtesy speech with you,
          I'm for yonder town, and have no horse to ride,
           Have you never a charger will carry two?"

          Then the company halted and laughed out loud.
           "Was such a request ever made to a knight?"
          "And where are your legs," asked one, "if you start,
           You may be inside the town gates to-night."

          "'T is a lazy fellow, let him alone,
           They've no room in the town for such idlers as he."
          But one bent from his saddle and said, "My man,
           Art thou not ashamed to beg charity!

          "Thou art well set up, and thy legs are strong,
           But it much misgives me lest thou'rt a fool;
          For beggars get only a beggar's crust,
           Wise men are reared in a different school."

          Then they clattered away in the dust and the wind,
           And the fool slunk back to his lonely stone;
          He began to see that the man who asks
           Must likewise give and not ask alone.

          Purple tree-shadows crept over the road,
           The level sun flung an orange light,
          And the fool laid his head on the hard, gray stone
           And wept as he realized advancing night.

          A great, round moon rose over a hill
           And the steady wind blew yet more cool;
          And crouched on a stone a wayfarer sobbed,
           For at last he knew he was only a fool.

          This little bowl is like a mossy pool
          In a Spring wood, where dogtooth violets grow
          Nodding in chequered sunshine of the trees;
          A quiet place, still, with the sound of birds,
          Where, though unseen, is heard the endless song
          And murmur of the never resting sea.
          'T was winter, Roger, when you made this cup,
          But coming Spring guided your eager hand
          And round the edge you fashioned young green leaves,
          A proper chalice made to hold the shy
          And little flowers of the woods.  And here
          They will forget their sad uprooting, lost
          In pleasure that this circle of bright leaves
          Should be their setting; once more they will dream
          They hear winds wandering through lofty trees
          And see the sun smiling between the leaves.

          The stars hang thick in the apple tree,
          The south wind smells of the pungent sea,
          Gold tulip cups are heavy with dew.
          The night's for you, Sweetheart, for you!
          Starfire rains from the vaulted blue.

          Listen!  The dancing of unseen leaves.
          A drowsy swallow stirs in the eaves.
          Only a maiden is sorrowing.
          'T is night and spring, Sweetheart, and spring!
          Starfire lights your heart's blossoming.

          In the intimate dark there's never an ear,
          Though the tulips stand on tiptoe to hear,
          So give; ripe fruit must shrivel or fall.
          As you are mine, Sweetheart, give all!
          Starfire sparkles, your coronal.

          What is poetry?  Is it a mosaic
           Of coloured stones which curiously are wrought
           Into a pattern?  Rather glass that's taught
          By patient labor any hue to take
          And glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make
           Beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught,
           Transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught
          With storied meaning for religion's sake.

          Softly the water ripples
           Against the canoe's curving side,
          Softly the birch trees rustle
           Flinging over us branches wide.

          Softly the moon glints and glistens
           As the water takes and leaves,
          Like golden ears of corn
           Which fall from loose-bound sheaves,

          Or like the snow-white petals
           Which drop from an overblown rose,
          When Summer ripens to Autumn
           And the freighted year must close.

          From the shore come the scents of a garden,
           And between a gap in the trees
          A proud white statue glimmers
           In cold, disdainful ease.

          The child of a southern people,
           The thought of an alien race,
          What does she in this pale, northern garden,
           How reconcile it with her grace?

          But the moon in her wayward beauty
           Is ever and always the same,
          As lovely as when upon Latmos
           She watched till Endymion came.

          Through the water the moon writes her legends
           In light, on the smooth, wet sand;
          They endure for a moment, and vanish,
           And no one may understand.

          All round us the secret of Nature
           Is telling itself to our sight,
          We may guess at her meaning but never
           Can know the full mystery of night.

          But her power of enchantment is on us,
           We bow to the spell which she weaves,
          Made up of the murmur of waves
           And the manifold whisper of leaves.