Blue and Purple

In blue, cerise, and grey,
A dainty, bonnie thing—
No mortal—just a fay,
From elfin glades astray,
With joys the swallows bring
When they come back with spring.

She came with lovely mien—
The charms of fairy’s art—
No winsomer was seen,
Not Titania, her queen.
She flew into my heart
To rest, and ne’er depart.

My heart is beating high—
The fay is singing there.
Blest tenant, tell me why,
Of mortals, why am I
The happy one to dare
Make captive, fay so rare?

She answered in a song,—
So soft and sweet the tune—
“Pray, why? Have I done wrong
To hide in heart so strong?
Where I may place the boon
Of all the joys of June?”

Oh, winsome, witching sprite,
Who like a mortal came,
In robe of tender light,
To make my hours so bright;
Who brought me Love’s dear fame,
To warm me at its flame.

A SONG

My love is morning’s fragrance blown
From blossoms fair in golden June;
Her footstep’s rhythm is in tune
With melodies by Springtime known.
Her misty locks are like the May,
On pearly hedges lightly thrown;
A sweeter face was never shown
To man that he might face the day!
O beauty, tender, like the moon
Of summer nights, which gently lay
On lovers when their hearts were gay,
And deep desire was at its noon.

THE GARDENER

I see her in the blooming field,
Where winds sport in the grass,
And petals of the Summer yield
Sweet perfumes to my lass.

I see her gather flowers so bright,
They almost match her face,
Whose rapture is my soul’s delight—
There I shall find God’s grace.

Ah, grace of mercy to me flows
When I look in her eyes;
Her soul of love and beauty glows,
And my life sanctifies.

She is so simple in her joys,
So childlike in her ways;
When she the golden hour employs,
In off’ring nature praise.

She lifts the roots to plant again,
In some sequestered spot,
Where they may know a fairer reign,
And beautify her plot —

There, thrive from culture of her hand,
Aim to engage her smile,
Delight in blooming o’er the land
Where she will tread the while.

So God His wonders has revealed
Through her, what growth can be,
And in the process I am healed
Of blindness, and can see

That all the fields and woods are full,
Of glories rich and rare—
When she a little flower will pull,
And set it in her hair.

REVELATION

I see no beauty shining in the east
At dawn, nor when the glowing sun has risen,
And shot a million rays into night’s prison—
No lovely scene on which my eyes would feast.
And in the west at eve I see no light
That enters my whole being like a flash
Of bursting joy—swift sky rent ere the crash
Of kissing clouds acclaim their passion’s might.

My eyes have seen the marvel of the world,
All joys transfigured into mighty bliss—
The great creative moment, sight divine,
When earth, and sky, and sea, were torn and hurled
Apart, to yield her soul’s ecstatic kiss,
Which shed all beauty ’neath one glance of mine.

THE KEEPER OF THE KISSES

The keeper of the kisses sleeps—
No sigh of mine can wake her;
In slumber all my joy she keeps—
My eyes will not forsake her!

All night I wait and watch her rest,
And yearn for those deep blisses,
Which are withheld from those unblest,
By her who keeps the kisses.

Oh, keeper of the kisses, rise
And now, at morn, uprender
The key which locks your lips and eyes,
And give me kisses tender.

The birds are waiting, and the flowers—
All spring your kisses needing;
The burning stars, the fainting hours,
The earth for joy is pleading.

See, her soft couch is moss and blooms,
All sweet with perfumes blowing;
And lover like myself assumes,
The flowers for her are growing.

Now if she wake with rosy dawn,
When all the east be singing,
Will every nightingale be drawn
To her with bluebells ringing?

She sleeps, and knows not how we yearn,
For bliss she only grants us;
For her the sun and sky doth burn!
The lark is up, and chants thus:

“Oh, keeper of the kisses, wake!
Unlock your lips by smiling,
And let adoring mortals take
The joys of your beguiling.

“For what is love without your lips?
A life that is not merry.
The bee that every honey sips,
Prefers the dimpled cherry.”

MUSIC IN HADES

The blackbird’s note on Spring’s first morn,
Is not so sweet as my love’s voice,
Her music, like a song re-born,
For great Eurydice’s own choice—

Nay, Orpheus gave not to the shades,
To win his love, such minstrelsy,
As my dear love, whose song pervades
The hell from which she set me free.

THE DREAM

Beauty waking from a vivid dream,
All warm, and soft, and tender,
Her eyes with happiness agleam—
Outstretched her arms, so slender.
Her face a picture full of wonder—
Her lips of gushing love asunder.
My lovely mistress, then ensouled,
Wrapped in the gown of rosy sleep,
Thrust back the curtained haze, and rolled
Aside the mists of slumber deep.

Sweetly she murmured to her lover: “Boy,
I dreamed a dream all joy!
There, in a thicket, caught by thorns,
A bird, which morning’s glow adorns,
(It was not hurt, but tangled there,
And struggled to be free)
A yellow bright canary!
It whistled sweet to me—
I thought it was a fairy.
In golden robes so rare,
Until I stretched my hand,
And saw it spread its wings.
Then, not in fairyland,
I thought an elf (though each one sings)
Could thrill so blithe a song,
Or fly away so fast.
I gave it liberty,
To live a life of joys both bright and long,
In one warm summer of days unsurpassed.
This dream of freedom came to me.”

Joy tinted every feature of her face,
Warm blushes spread beneath the lace
Of her fine robe, and pure delight
Sang in the phrases of her speech;
She lay, and told the story bright
In throbbing tones of happiness,
So wonderful was she, I would beseech
Such exquisite dear tenderness—
Soft as the morning sun’s serenest beams—
Would come from all her dreams,
And make my love so rosy,
So warm, so soft and cosy;
So clinging in her kisses,
Resplendent in those blisses
Of trust, and hope, and courage fine,
Which shone in her like gleams of deep red wine!
My soul was never thrilled,
As it was then by her;
My eyes with tears were filled,
For joys so rare!
Love surged like a sun-shaft up,
To drink deep bliss from heaven’s cup!
’Twas like the poet’s joy I feel,
As if her lovely soul were bare,
And mine with it was there
To touch and heal
Itself, and all those blessings gain
Which God sends down on her like sweet, refreshing rain.

Blest be her gracious head,
Smooth be her smiling brow!
May Spring and Summer wed
For Hebe now,
And shower—
Aye! every hour—
The fairest blossoms of the trees
On every fragrant gentle breeze,
To make soft paths for her dear feet,
When she would in her sweet dreams greet
Her fond, adoring mate,
At dreamland’s gate.

THE BOON

What is the dearest wish my soul can make?
What great desire can all this world bestow?
What is the very height of boon I know?
What gift immeasurable I can take?
Is there some precious thing for its own sake
My mind doth crave to make it strong and glow?
Is there some priceless treasure I might show,
And make men from their rosy dreams awake?

No treasure this deep world can give I need.
My dearest wish no mighty king can give;
My great desire—no bauble that will cloy!
I seek no gains on which ambitions feed!
Far more I seek; always to move and live
And have my being in my Hebe’s joy.

JACK O’LANTERN

Firefly! wait, but a moment, in your flight;
Stay, gleaming thing, and tell me of that night,
When you were taken by a fairy hand,
And cast into the grate to light the brand,
In that fair room of bliss and rosy dream.
For love of God! I pray you, moving beam
Of light, stay, now my memory is woke—
You will not leave me now you do invoke
My thought to that dear night, long gone, when she,
With elfin joy, went out and captured thee.

You circle round my head, a band of flame—
A light that fades as quickly as it came.
O fickle fly, deny me not, come burn
For me, and let me from this torture turn;
In recollection’s refuge seek relief
From loneliness, the torn soul’s awful grief.
Come, bright or dark, do you but circle near,
Where you alone in night my words may hear.

What of my love? My wondrous love, who caught
You winging that sweet night, as swift as thought,
And threw you on the logs to start the fire,
Whose gleams revealed to me my heart’s desire?
Matchless! all in her loveliness and grace—
Soft as her humour, happy as her face.

Where is she now? Oh, where is my lost love,
My fairy mistress, gentle as a dove?
Does she in cockle leaves hide long night through,
Fearful of the clouds, shrinking from the dew?
I never see her now! The fire no more
In flick’ring rays lights up my sad heart’s core.
There is no warmth in life now she is gone.
The sun disdains the man it shines upon.
A wretched thing, bereft of all his joy,
Goes wand’ring through the night, where fays employ
The hours in dirges drear, and weirdly mourn
For her, their queen, long lost to fairy bourn.

Come, Jack O’Lantern, lead me to my mate—
She who alone can my distress abate,
She who will wipe all storms of grief away,
She whose dear radiance makes my perfect day!
Alas! you heed me not, your lamp is out,
You hide away in darkness, black as doubt,
You light, to mock the faithful, false as hell,
You, in and out, you phosphorescent sell—
I will have naught to do with you. Go, shine,
And make a fool of souls less tough than mine.

A weary round is day, and night is torn
By all the bitter conflicts day has worn;
The hours are full of shattered hopes, and pass
With ling’ring tortures, writhing in the mass
Of gloomy moods. I am no man of day,
Nor am I one the limpid night’s soft ray
Will fall upon to bless. No hour will claim
Me for time’s old companion. Yes, I shame
The ordinance of day, bright hours or dark,
One out of joint with all. The happy lark
Sings now no more for me. The flow’ring dell
No longer blooms as she with cup and bell
Once did. For there is gone from out my life,
My matchless queen, my joy, my fairy wife.

You gleam no more, and yet on wing you roam,
A firefly desolate, bereft of home
And hearth, where logs might burn and shine at night,
Upon the sweetest elf that did delight,
Beyond excelling, mortal soul and mind.
May you, poor, searching, Jack O’Lantern, find
The mistress of your fairy world in state.
Then come, and take me to the shining grate,
And I will bow allegiance, and renew
Love, fealty, and homage, there with you.

OH, TRANQUIL NIGHT

Oh, tranquil night, what spirit keeps thee still?
Do whispering breezes taunt thy loneliness?
Or art thou, too, numb, suffering keen distress,
For want of one warm kiss to break the chill
Of patience, which pervades your watch sublime?
The stars are cold, mute company for thee,
And cheerless is the ever-moaning sea—
Long is the keep; a dreary watchman, Time.

Some soul is with you breathing out a balm,
A solace I know not tonight. What heed
Is taken of our tears which drench the sod?
Still there must be with thee a spirit calm,
Else would endurance break for aching need—
Such loneliness could not be braved by God!

DESPAIR

Too tough! The spirit will survive,
It keeps this mortal coil alive;
Love too, that yearns to meet the day
When you will come and with me stay.

There is no death that love can fear—
Love never yet upon a bier
Lay in the sleep of death, for life
Is stronger far than any strife.

Love is the light which burns and shines
When woe of spirit undermines
The thought, and our lives go awry,
And days are long in passing by.

Love is the spirit’s soul, and glows
Through all the pain a mortal knows,
And death cannot its might assail,
Nor bitterness its courage quail.

Dear love, my flesh cries out to thee,
My spirit’s eyes her face would see,
My mind is mad for need of her,
My love is naked to the air.

TO A PHOTOGRAPH

How sceptical you look tonight:
There is a sneer about your lips—
A moth is near them—see! it sips,
And now rejoicing takes to flight.
Oh moth, I envy you that kiss;
My lips are arid strangers now.
Oh, I would take to flight, I vow,
If I could revel in such bliss.
Why do you look at me and frown?
What have I done but love you well?
Does she love me? Come, picture, tell—
The moth returns, and flutters down
Upon that blessed wavy hair.
Oh, how I love each scented strand!
How oft my lips would make a band
To capture in a kiss, ensnare
A lock of that dear crown of yours!
Ah, well, be vexed with me, severe.
Those eyes have never shed a tear;
They follow me on restless tours,
While I the night pace to and fro,
Hour after hour, to pass away
The dreary time before the day.
Your eyes upon these journeys go,
Watching, sternly. Picture, tell me —
What sphinx are you? Speak once and show
Some sign of pleasure. Let me know
If you would from my company
Be gone, and choose another one
To be with you each day, each hour;
Resting only—then in my power—
When from the villages I run?
Then cosily you rest between
The folds of my best coat—from grime
And soot set free. At evening time
Alone I leave you here. How mean
Of you to be so petulant!
Not once of late have you beguiled
A moody hour of mine and smiled.
If I have sinned, it was not meant.
Come, now be patient with me, friend.
See, I will coax a smile—I’ll set
You this way—that way—no smile yet?
Just for a moment! Please unbend.
Then I shall turn you now oblique—
Ah! what a change! Your eyes are quite
Like hers—they hold the heavens so bright—
Those stars my lonely soul would seek.
I nearly called you Hebe, then—
You were so like, for just a span,
As o’er your brow vibrations ran.
So they oft do o’er Hebe’s, when
Some mischief, brewing in her mind,
Sends laughter ripples o’er her skin—
Her mirth will out when mischief’s in.
Where might you her resemblance find?
Her laughter is a wondrous sound—
Sorrow, sadness, find their level.
Where do joy and gladness revel?
Ah, where? Where Hebe can be found!
You know her not; yet you are she
Who made you negative. The match
Is sometimes perfect. Did you catch
Her glance when thoughts perhaps of me—
Alas! that could not be. She knew
Me not when you were fashioned, friend,
And never dreamed where you would wend
Mile after mile with me, to rue
The day when you were sent to hear
A million questions. Pity you?
I do! No woman, false or true,
Is in listening long your peer!
Heavens! What have you heard me tell?
What rapture have you witnessed—oft
Despair—at which you ever scoffed?
The gamut—all from heaven to hell—
All passion’s swift vagaries seen—
My longing, pleading, anxious nights,
And day’s distracted hours. What fights
With self, with selfishness between!
Have you seen all, heard all, known all?
Then you must be the wisest sphinx
That wisdom new and ancient links.
But you are silent as a wall
Without a mark. So should it be.
For she must never know what I
When all alone go through.
Now lie
Down flat—there! Let me once more see
Into your eyes, ere to that shore—
Where sleep may be—I go tonight
With thoughts of her, my joy’s delight,
To lull me gently evermore.

SONG

I seek your lips with my fond eyes,
My sight is weary, dear;
My heart with longing all day cries,
For you when you are near.
When you are near and others take
Your eyes and lips from me,
And in my soul deep surges make,
As tempests in the sea.

I seek your lips and press them not,
My own are parched with pain;
My aching eyes are dim and hot—
My soul hopes on in vain.
The day is gone, and you are lost,
The night for me is lone—
And through its hours I count the cost
Of days without my own.

HELL

Hell holds no terror I shall ever fear,
For earth when you are absent is my hell;
Nor thought of meeting can my torment quell,
For loneliness is black, and cold, and drear.
This hell is dark! My passion is a flame!
Its anguish is a never dying fire,
And longing—hope that never dare aspire,
But die, in loneliness from whence it came.
Heav’n though is kind and lets me sometimes in,
Then hell is all forgotten, and its woe
Fades like the dew dispersed by summer’s morn,
And I am purged of all my pain and sin.
Such moments shine like jewels—then I go
Back to the dreary hell where pain was born.

ALONE

The mocking fiends by day
Make frenzied play
Around my loneliness;
The haunting sprites delight
To sport at night,
And jeer at my soul’s wretchedness;
Imprisoned in the boundary of a mind
Holding but one thought; only one can find
The thought of you!
You, far away,
In silence wrapped.
With all Hell’s crew
About me gay,
And I in loneliness am trapped.

Not God nor Devil ease
The torture of a lonely soul,
For haunting thoughts will cling,
And naught relief can bring—
No recreation please.
Grim misery must take its toll
Of tears and pain—
And work is vain!

The vanquished mind in scorn
Sneers on its child;
His work, and damns it be forlorn,
And with it all creative work
Henceforward be reviled.
Work? Where? Not here! Within these walls?
Work! What? Come, try it now,
And answer every thought that calls
In every moment. Tell me how
One single minute, pray,
My mind can get away
From her, the absent one—
Come, tell me, and my work is done.

The air! Go out and roam the field.
Sit in the sun—or rain;
Or count the stars again;
Or tell the steps long footsore journeys have revealed.
Do something. Go! But what?
What, leave that thought behind?
Where go? Where that is not
The burden of my mind?

Forget. Why, all the fiends of midnight hours
Yell that drab word at me; it falls in showers
Of rattling drops,
And never stops,
Until my ears
Nigh burst,
And I accurst
With all Hell’s fears!

Still there are moments when
Relief comes to my ken,
Then I admire my torturer sublime.
The silence of her absence is like time
A million years beyond this day—
Like stillness of forgotten tombs,
Where Nineveh, once gay,
Stood mighty, where now the sandstorm booms
O’er a desert quite as lonely as my heart.
She leaves me, like a queen, to bear the smart
Of her superb indifference and calm—
Unconscious of the harm
Such loneliness can do!

The day when it is new
Dawns dark and drear.
Each hour a bier
On which I lay my thought,
And see it come to life again—
Reincarnated spirit, caught
Back, to murder it in agony, and then—
The weary strife goes on and on,
The minutes reek with blood,
And then the fiends of loneliness soon don
The inky cloak with scarlet hood,
And round me chant their racking dirges chill,
And bring their terrors on to slay my will.

First, slimy, drooling Jealousy appears—
A female draped in timid lover’s fears—
She minces, ambles, leers at me,
And whispers tales, maliciously.
The spume of Hell’s presumption she,
The horror of the lonely. See!
How she begins her work—
The craft! the skill!
It enters like a dirk—
The soul to kill.

She fails, and vanishes in mist.
My soul is adamant, and will resist.
Then Poison comes, in silvery sheen,
The figure holds a cup between
The palms of outstretched hands,
And in a pleasant tone commands me, “Drink!
And no more think.
Why suffer earth’s delirious pain?
The yearning heart that yearns in vain
Will know no peace until the light
Goes out in never-ending night.
I bring you here the only balm
For loneliness. Drink, and be calm!
Where all is still no aching mind
Can harrow you—peace you will find.”
Then Poison hies away;
To tempt me when despair
May crush me some dread day,
And I no longer care!

They fail to find me apt,
So on comes License garbed
In golden lace, and wrapped
About her waist a serpent barbed.
Hell’s finest figure walks
With dignity and grace;
Beseechingly she talks,
And modest is her face.
The fiends do well. They know
The jade
Must masquerade,
Seem innocence, aglow,
My loneliness to break and then beguile!
The trick is hardly worth a smile.
Still I am left alone
To wrestle with the spawn
That comes from Hell to fawn
On me. Can soul atone
For this one cruel act of thine,
My torturer, divine?
Can thoughts so merciless afflict
The mind and leave it sane?
Or bubbles burst, when they are pricked,
And seem the same again?
The weariness of longing and its woe,
The evil thoughts drear loneliness will sow,
The torrid tears,
Abhorrent fears,
The fretful waiting,
The frenzied hating;
All come to me, by night, by day,
When you are far away.
. . . . .
Tired mind is easy prey
For hideous imagination’s play.