Daughter of Psyche, pledge of that last night
          When, pierced with pain and bitter-sweet delight,
        She knew her Love and saw her Lord depart,
        Then breathed her wonder and her woe forlorn
        Into a single cry, and thou wast born?
        Thou flower of rapture and thou fruit of grief;
        Invisible enchantress of the heart;
          Mistress of charms that bring relief
          To sorrow, and to joy impart
        A heavenly tone that keeps it undefiled,—
            Thou art the child
          Of Amor, and by right divine
            A throne of love is thine,
     Thou flower-folded, golden-girdled, star-crowned Queen,
     Whose bridal beauty mortal eyes have never seen!

                        II

       Thou art the Angel of the pool that sleeps,
       While peace and joy lie hidden in its deeps,
       Waiting thy touch to make the waters roll
       In healing murmurs round the weary soul.
           Ah, when wilt thou draw near,
       Thou messenger of mercy robed in song?
       My lonely heart has listened for thee long;
           And now I seem to hear
       Across the crowded market-place of life,
       Thy measured foot-fall, ringing light and clear
     Above the unmeaning noises and the unruly strife;
           In quiet cadence, sweet and slow,
           Serenely pacing to and fro,
       Thy far-off steps are magical and dear.
       Ah, turn this way, come close and speak to me!
     From this dull bed of languor set my spirit free,
     And bid me rise, and let me walk awhile with thee

                        III

           Where wilt thou lead me first?
            In what still region
              Of thy domain,
           Whose provinces are legion,
       Wilt thou restore me to myself again,
           And quench my heart's long thirst?
     I pray thee lay thy golden girdle down,
           And put away thy starry crown:
            For one dear restful hour
            Assume a state more mild.
     Clad only in thy blossom-broidered gown
     That breathes familiar scent of many a flower,
     Take the low path that leads thro' pastures green;
              And though thou art a Queen,
     Be Rosamund awhile, and in thy bower,
     By tranquil love and simple joy beguiled,
     Sing to my soul, as mother to her child.

                     IV

        O lead me by the hand,
        And let my heart have rest,
     And bring me back to childhood land,
     To find again the long-lost band
        Of playmates blithe and blest.

        Some quaint, old-fashioned air,
        That all the children knew,
     Shall run before us everywhere,
     Like a little maid with flying hair,
        To guide the merry crew.

        Along the garden ways
        We chase the light-foot tune,
     And in and out the flowery maze,
     With eager haste and fond delays,
     In pleasant paths of June.

        For us the fields are new,
        For us the woods are rife
     With fairy secrets, deep and true,
     And heaven is but a tent of blue
        Above the game of life.

        The world is far away:
        The fever and the fret,
     And all that makes the heart grow gray,
     Is out of sight and far away,
     Dear Music, while I hear thee play
     That olden, golden roundelay,
        "Remember and forget!"

                   Forget, forget!
           The tide of life is turning;
         The waves of light ebb slowly down the west:
       Along the edge of dark some stars are burning
     To guide thy spirit safely to an isle of rest.
           A little rocking on the tranquil deep
             Of song, to soothe thy yearning,
           A little slumber and a little sleep,
                And so, forget, forget!

                   Forget, forget,—
           The day was long in pleasure;
         Its echoes die away across the hill;
       Now let thy heart beat time to their slow measure
     That swells, and sinks, and faints, and falls, till all is still.
            Then, like a weary child that loves to keep
              Locked in its arms some treasure,
            Thy soul in calm content shall fall asleep,
                And so forget, forget.

                   Forget, forget,—
           And if thou hast been weeping,
         Let go the thoughts that bind thee to thy grief:
       Lie still, and watch the singing angels, reaping
     The golden harvest of thy sorrow, sheaf by sheaf;
            Or count thy joys like flocks of snow-white sheep
              That one by one come creeping
            Into the quiet fold, until thou sleep,
                And so forget, forget!

                   Forget, forget,—
           Thou art a child and knowest
         So little of thy life! But music tells
       One secret of the world thro' which thou goest
     To work with morning song, to rest with evening bells:
            Life is in tune with harmony so deep
              That when the notes are lowest
            Thou still canst lay thee down in peace and sleep,
                For God will not forget.

     Out of the garden of playtime, out of the bower of rest,
     Fain would I follow at daytime, music that calls to a quest.
         Hark, how the galloping measure
         Quickens the pulses of pleasure;
           Gaily saluting the morn
     With the long clear note of the hunting-horn
         Echoing up from the valley,
           Over the mountain side,—
         Rally, you hunters, rally,
           Rally, and ride!

     Drink of the magical potion music has mixed with her wine,
     Full of the madness of motion, joyful, exultant, divine!
         Leave all your troubles behind you,
         Ride where they never can find you,
           Into the gladness of morn,
     With the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
           Swiftly o'er hillock and hollow,
             Sweeping along with the wind,—
           Follow, you hunters, follow,
             Follow and find!

     What will you reach with your riding?  What is the charm of the chase?
     Just the delight and the striding swing of the jubilant pace.
           Danger is sweet when you front her,—
           In at the death, every hunter!
           Now on the breeze the mort is borne
     In the long, clear note of the hunting-horn,
           Winding merrily, over and over,—
             Come, come, come!
           Home again, Ranger! home again, Rover!
             Turn again, home!

     Now let the sleep-tune blend with the play-tune,
     Weaving the mystical spell of the dance;
     Lighten the deep tune, soften the gay tune,
     Mingle a tempo that turns in a trance.
     Half of it sighing, half of it smiling,
     Smoothly it swings, with a triplicate beat;
     Calling, replying, yearning, beguiling,
     Wooing the heart and bewitching the feet.
          Every drop of blood
          Rises with the flood,
      Rocking on the waves of the strain;
          Youth and beauty glide
          Turning with the tide—
        Music making one out of twain,
     Bearing them away, and away, and away,
          Like a tone and its terce—
     Till the chord dissolves, and the dancers stay,
               And reverse.

     Violins leading, take up the measure,
     Turn with the tune again,—clarinets clear
     Answer their pleading,—harps full of pleasure
     Sprinkle their silver like light on the mere.
              Semiquaver notes,
              Merry little motes,
              Tangled in the haze
            Of the lamp's golden rays,
              Quiver everywhere
                In the air,
                Like a spray,—
     Till the fuller stream of the might of the tune,
     Gliding like a dream in the light of the moon,
     Bears them all away, and away, and away,
         Floating in the trance of the dance.

     Then begins a measure stately,
        Languid, slow, serene;
     All the dancers move sedately,
     Stepping leisurely and straitly,
        With a courtly mien;
     Crossing hands and changing places,
        Bowing low between,
     While the minuet inlaces
     Waving arms and woven paces,—
        Glittering damaskeen.
     Where is she whose form is folden
        In its royal sheen?
     From our longing eyes withholden
     By her mystic girdle golden,
        Beauty sought but never seen,
     Music walks the maze, a queen.

       Music, they do thee wrong who say thine art
           Is only to enchant the sense.
       For every timid motion of the heart,
           And every passion too intense
       To bear the chain of the imperfect word,
           And every tremulous longing, stirred
       By spirit winds that come we know not whence
              And go we know not where,
              And every inarticulate prayer
       Beating about the depths of pain or bliss,
              Like some bewildered bird
       That seeks its nest but knows not where it is,
       And every dream that haunts, with dim delight,
       The drowsy hour between the day and night,
       The wakeful hour between the night and day,—
              Imprisoned, waits for thee,
              Impatient, yearns for thee,
       The queen who comes to set the captive free
       Thou lendest wings to grief to fly away,
       And wings to joy to reach a heavenly height;
     And every dumb desire that Storms within the breast
     Thou leadest forth to sob or sing itself to rest.

       All these are thine, and therefore love is thine.
              For love is joy and grief,
       And trembling doubt, and certain-sure belief,
       And fear, and hope, and longing unexpressed,
       In pain most human, and in rapture brief
                   Almost divine.
       Love would possess, yet deepens when denied;
       And love would give, yet hungers to receive;
       Love like a prince his triumph would achieve;
     And like a miser in the dark his joys would hide.
                   Love is most bold:
       He leads his dreams like armed men in line;
       Yet when the siege is set, and he must speak,
           Calling the fortress to resign
       Its treasure, valiant love grows weak,
       And hardly dares his purpose to unfold.
       Less with his faltering lips than with his eyes
              He claims the longed-for prize:
     Love fain would tell it all, yet leaves the best untold.

     But thou shalt speak for love.  Yea, thou shalt teach
           The mystery of measured tone,
             The Pentecostal speech
      That every listener heareth as his own.
      For on thy head the cloven tongues of fire,—
      Diminished chords that quiver with desire,
      And major chords that glow with perfect peace,—
             Have fallen from above;
             And thou canst give release
      In music to the burdened heart of love.

       Sound with the 'cellos' pleading, passionate strain
       The yearning theme, and let the flute reply
       In placid melody, while violins complain,
                And sob, and sigh,
                With muted string;
       Then let the oboe half-reluctant sing
       Of bliss that trembles on the verge of pain,
         While 'cellos plead and plead again,
     With throbbing notes delayed, that would impart
     To every urgent tone the beating of the heart.
         So runs the andante, making plain
     The hopes and fears of love without a word.

       Then comes the adagio, with a yielding theme
     Through which the violas flow soft as in a dream,
          While horns and mild bassoons are heard
          In tender tune, that seems to float
            Like an enchanted boat
          Upon the downward-gliding stream,
          Toward the allegro's wide, bright sea
          Of dancing, glittering, blending tone,
         Where every instrument is sounding free,
     And harps like wedding-chimes are rung, and trumpets blown
            Around the barque of love
          That sweeps, with smiling skies above,
          A royal galley, many-oared,
       Into the happy harbour of the perfect chord.

     Light to the eye and Music to the ear,—
     These are the builders of the bridge that springs
     From earths's dim shore of half-remembered things
     To reach the spirit's home, the heavenly sphere
     Where nothing silent is and nothing dark.
        So when I see the rainbow's arc
     Spanning the showery sky, far-off I hear
        Music, and every colour sings:
     And while the symphony builds up its round
     Full sweep of architectural harmony
     Above the tide of Time, far, far away I see
     A bow of colour in the bow of sound.

                 Red as the dawn the trumpet rings,
             Imperial purple from the trombone flows,
             The mellow horn melts into evening rose.
                 Blue as the sky, the choir of strings
             Darkens in double-bass to ocean's hue,
             Rises in violins to noon-tide's blue,
       With threads of quivering light shot through and through.
             Green as the mantle that the summer flings
             Around the world, the pastoral reeds in time
             Embroider melodies of May and June.
                   Yellow as gold,
                 Yea, thrice-refined gold,
             And purer than the treasures of the mine,
             Floods of the human voice divine
             Along the arch in choral song are rolled.
                 So bends the bow complete:
                 And radiant rapture flows
             Across the bridge, so full, so strong, so sweet,
             That the uplifted spirit hardly knows
              Whether the Music-Light that glows
       Within the arch of tones and colours seven
     Is sunset-peace of earth, or sunrise-joy of Heaven.

        Music, I yield to thee;
        As swimmer to the sea
     I give my Spirit to the flood of song:
        Bear me upon thy breast
        In rapture and at rest,
     Bathe me in pure delight and make me strong;
        From strife and struggle bring release,
     And draw the waves of passion into tides of peace.

        Remember'd songs, most dear,
        In living songs I hear,
     While blending voices gently swing and sway
        In melodies of love,
        Whose mighty currents move,
     With singing near and singing far away;
        Sweet in the glow of morning light,
     And sweeter still across the starlit gulf of night.

        Music, in thee we float,
        And lose the lonely note
     Of self in thy celestial-ordered strain,
        Until at last we find
        The life to love resigned
     In harmony of joy restored again;
        And songs that cheered our mortal days
     Break on the coast of light in endless hymns of praise.

     December, 1901 - May, 1903.

     Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.
          One is the mountain-height,
     Uplifted in the loneliness of light
       Beyond the realm of shadows,—fine,
     And far, and clear,—where advent of the night
     Means only glorious nearness of the stars,
     And dawn, unhindered, breaks above the bars
     That long the lower world in twilight keep.
     Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep,
     For all thy cares and fears have dropped away;
     The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day,
     Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars,
       In vain expense of passion, pass
     Before thy sight like visions in a glass,
     Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep
       Across the sea and leave no trace
     Of trouble on that immemorial face,—
     So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight
     The wounds men give, the things for which they fight.

     Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,—
       A lichen clinging to the rock:
     There sails a fleet upon the deep,—
              A wandering flock
     Of snow-winged gulls: and yonder, in the plain,
       A marble palace shines,—a grain
       Of mica glittering in the rain.
       Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled
       By voiceless winds: and far between
     The rolling clouds new shores and peaks are seen,
       In shimmering robes of green and gold,
             And faint aerial hue
     That silent fades into the silent blue.
          Thou, from thy mountain-hold,
     All day, in tranquil wisdom, looking down
     On distant scenes of human toil and strife,
     All night, with eyes aware of loftier life,
     Uplooking to the sky, where stars are sown,
     Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white
     Unto the harvest of the sons of light,
     And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime
     The few strong souls that dare to climb
     The slippery crags and find thee on the height.

     But in the depth thou hast another home,
         For hearts less daring, or more frail.
     Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
           And pilgrim-souls that roam
         With weary feet o'er hill and dale,
         Bearing the burden and the heat
             Of toilful days,
           Turn from the dusty ways
     To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
         Here is no vision wide outspread
     Before the lonely and exalted seat
     Of all-embracing knowledge.  Here, instead,
     A little garden, and a sheltered nook,
           With outlooks brief and sweet
     Across the meadows, and along the brook,—
         A little stream that little knows
     Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,—
     A little field that bears a little wheat
     To make a portion of earth's daily bread.
         The vast cloud-armies overhead
         Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
         Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
     Whence the storm comes nor where it goes.

     Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;
                  Thy daily task is done,
                  And though a lowly one,
                  Thou gavest it of thy best,
                  And art content to rest
     In patience till its slow reward is won.
     Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear;
     Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;
     For life is love, and love is always near.
     Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
     Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
     Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
     In open converse, bringing forth its best:
     Here is Sweet music, melting every chain
                  Of lassitude and pain:
     And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
                  The tender nurse, who lifts
     The soul grown weary of the waking world,
     And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,
     Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,
     On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.

     August, 1901.

     Heart of France for a hundred years,
         Passionate, sensitive, proud, and strong,
     Quick to throb with her hopes and fears,
       Fierce to flame with her sense of wrong!
       You, who hailed with a morning song
     Dream-light gilding a throne of old:
     You, who turned when the dream grew cold,
     Singing still, to the light that shone
     Pure from Liberty's ancient throne,
         Over the human throng!
     You, who dared in the dark eclipse,—
       When the pygmy heir of a giant name
       Dimmed the face of the land with shame,—
     Speak the truth with indignant lips,
     Call him little whom men called great,
         Scoff at him, scorn him, deny him,
     Point to the blood on his robe of state,
         Fling back his bribes and defy him!

     You, who fronted the waves of fate
       As you faced the sea from your island home,
     Exiled, yet with a soul elate,
       Sending songs o'er the rolling foam,
     Bidding the heart of man to wait
         For the day when all should see
       Floods of wrath from the frowning skies
       Fall on an Empire founded in lies,
         And France again be free!
     You, who came in the Terrible Year
     Swiftly back to your broken land,
     Now to your heart a thousand times more dear,—
       Prayed for her, sung to her, fought for her,
       Patiently, fervently wrought for her,
             Till once again,
       After the storm of fear and pain,
     High in the heavens the star of France stood clear!

       You, who knew that a man must take
     Good and ill with a steadfast soul,
     Holding fast, while the billows roll
       Over his head, to the things that make
     Life worth living for great and small,—
         Honour and pity and truth,
         The heart and the hope of youth,
     And the good God over all!
         You, to whom work was rest,
       Dauntless Toiler of the Sea,
         Following ever the joyful quest
     Of beauty on the shores of old Romance,
     Bard of the poor of France,
       And warrior-priest of world-wide charity!

       You who loved little children best
     Of all the poets that ever sung,
         Great heart, golden heart,
     Old, and yet ever young,
         Minstrel of liberty,
     Lover of all free, winged things,
       Now at last you are free,—
       Your soul has its wings!
     Heart of France for a hundred years,
       Floating far in the light that never fails you,
     Over the turmoil of mortal hopes and fears
       Victor, forever victor, the whole world hails you!

     March, 1902.

       Thou who hast made thy dwelling fair
             With flowers beneath, above with starry lights,
       And set thine altars everywhere,—
               On mountain heights,
       In woodlands dim with many a dream,
             In valleys bright with springs,
     And on the curving capes of every stream:
     Thou who hast taken to thyself the wings
             Of morning, to abide
     Upon the secret places of the sea,
       And on far islands, where the tide
     Visits the beauty of untrodden shores,
     Waiting for worshippers to come to thee
             In thy great out-of-doors!
     To thee I turn, to thee I make my prayer,
             God of the open air.

       Seeking for thee, the heart of man
             Lonely and longing ran,
       In that first, solitary hour,
             When the mysterious power
     To know and love the wonder of the morn
     Was breathed within him, and his soul was born;
             And thou didst meet thy child,
             Not in some hidden shrine,
     But in the freedom of the garden wild,
             And take his hand in thine,—
     There all day long in Paradise he walked,
     And in the cool of evening with thee talked.

       Lost, long ago, that garden bright and pure,
       Lost, that calm day too perfect to endure,
     And lost the childlike love that worshipped and was sure!
       For men have dulled their eyes with sin,
       And dimmed the light of heaven with doubt,
       And built their temple walls to shut thee in,
       And framed their iron creeds to shut thee out.
         But not for thee the closing of the door,
               O Spirit unconfined!
                 Thy ways are free
               As is the wandering wind,
       And thou hast wooed thy children, to restore
               Their fellowship with thee,
       In peace of soul and simpleness of mind.

       Joyful the heart that, when the flood rolled by,
       Leaped up to see the rainbow in the sky;
       And glad the pilgrim, in the lonely night,
       For whom the hills of Haran, tier on tier,
       Built up a secret stairway to the height
       Where stars like angel eyes were shining clear.
       From mountain-peaks, in many a land and age,
         Disciples of the Persian seer
       Have hailed the rising sun and worshipped thee;
       And wayworn followers of the Indian sage
     Have found the peace of God beneath a spreading tree.

         But One, but One,—ah, child most dear,
       And perfect image of the Love Unseen,—
         Walked every day in pastures green,
       And all his life the quiet waters by,
       Reading their beauty with a tranquil eye.

     To him the desert was a place prepared
             For weary hearts to rest;
       The hillside was a temple blest;
       The grassy vale a banquet-room
     Where he could feed and comfort many a guest.
             With him the lily shared
     The vital joy that breathes itself in bloom;
     And every bird that sang beside the nest
     Told of the love that broods o'er every living thing.
         He watched the shepherd bring
     His flock at sundown to the welcome fold,
       The fisherman at daybreak fling
     His net across the waters gray and cold,
     And all day long the patient reaper swing
     His curving sickle through the harvest-gold.
     So through the world the foot-path way he trod,
     Drawing the air of heaven in every breath;
     And in the evening sacrifice of death
     Beneath the open sky he gave his soul to God.
     Him will I trust, and for my Master take;
     Him will I follow; and for his dear sake,
             God of the open air,
             To thee I make my prayer.

     From the prison of anxious thought that greed has builded,
     From the fetters that envy has wrought and pride has gilded,
     From the noise of the crowded ways and the fierce confusion,
     From the folly that wastes its days in a world of illusion,
     (Ah, but the life is lost that frets and languishes there!)
     I would escape and be free in the joy of the open air.

     By the breadth of the blue that shines in silence o'er me,
     By the length of the mountain-lines that stretch before me,
     By the height of the cloud that sails, with rest in motion,
     Over the plains and the vales to the measureless ocean,
     (Oh, how the sight of the things that are great enlarges the eyes!)
     Lead me out of the narrow life, to the peace of the hills
          and the skies.

     While the tremulous leafy haze on the woodland is spreading,
     And the bloom on the meadow betrays where May has been treading;
     While the birds on the branches above, and the brooks flowing under,
     Are singing together of love in a world full of wonder,
     (Lo, in the marvel of Springtime, dreams are changed into truth!)
     Quicken my heart, and restore the beautiful hopes of youth.

     By the faith that the flowers show when they bloom unbidden,
     By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden,
     By the trust of the tree that clings to its deep foundation,
     By the courage of wild birds' wings on the long migration,
     (Wonderful secret of peace that abides in Nature's breast!)
     Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest.

     For the comforting warmth of the sun that my body embraces,
     For the cool of the waters that run through the shadowy places,
     For the balm of the breezes that brush my face with their fingers,
     For the vesper-hymn of the thrush when the twilight lingers,
     For the long breath, the deep breath, the breath
         of a heart without care,—
     I will give thanks and adore thee, God of the open air!