Shapes and Shadows

What is there left for us to say,
Now it has come to say good-by?
And all our dreams of yesterday
Have vanished in the sunset sky—
What is there left for us to say,
Now different ways before us lie?

A word of hope, a word of cheer,
A word of love, that still shall last,
When we are far to bring us near
Through memories of the happy past;
A word of hope, a word of cheer,
To keep our sad hearts true and fast.

What is there left for us to do,
Now it has come to say farewell?
And care, that bade us once adieu,
Returns again with us to dwell—
What is there left for us to do,
Now different ways our fates compel?

Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And look the love that shall remain—
When severed so by many a mile—
The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;
Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,
And trust in God to meet again.

Carissima Mea.

I look upon my lady's face,
And, in the world about me, see
No face like hers in any place:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

It is not made, as others sing
Of their dear loves, like ivory,
But like a wild rose in the spring:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her brow is low and very fair,
And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,
Lies deep the darkness of her hair:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,
And gaze out glad and fearlessly,
Their wonder haunts me night and day:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,
Twin curves of pencilled ebony,
Within their spans contain my fate:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,
So small and sweet, it well may be
That it for me is yet reserved:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Between her hair and rounded chin,
Calm with her soul's calm purity,
There lies no shadow of a sin:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Of perfect form, she is not tall,
Just higher than the heart of me,
Where'er I place her, all in all:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

She is not shaped, as some have sung
Of their dear loves, like some slim tree,
But like the moon when it is young:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Her hands, that smell of violet,
So white and fashioned gracefully,
Have woven round my heart a net:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Yea, I have loved her many a day;
And though for me she may not be,
Still at her feet my love I lay:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Albeit she be not for me,
God send her grace and grant that she
Know nought of sorrow all her days:
Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Margery.

I

When Spring is here and Margery
Goes walking in the woods with me,
She is so white, she is so shy,
The little leaves clap hands and cry—
Perdie!
So white is she, so sky is she,
Ah me!
The maiden May hath just passed by!

II

When Summer's here and Margery
Goes walking in the fields with me,
She is so pure, she is so fair,
The wildflowers eye her and declare—
Perdie!
So pure is she, so fair is she,
Just see,
Where our sweet cousin takes the air!

III

Why is it that my Margery
Hears nothing that these say to me?
She is so good, she is so true,
My heart it maketh such ado;
Perdie!
So good is she, so true is she,
You see,
She can not hear the other two.

Constance.

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,
The crested red-bird sings again—
O bird, whose song says, Have no care.
Should I not care when Constance there,—
My Constance, with the bashful gaze,
Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,—
If I declare my love, just says
Some careless thing as if in mock?
Like—Past the orchard, in the lane,
How sweet the red-bird sings again!

There, while the red-bird sings his best,
His listening mate sits on the nest—
O bird, whose patience says, All's well,
How can it be with me, now tell?
When Constance, with averted eyes,—
Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,—
If I speak marriage, just replies
With some such quaint irrelevancy,
As, While the red-bird sings his best,
His loving mate sits on the nest.

What shall I say? what can I do?
Would such replies mean aught to you,
O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?
Have I not reason to be sad
When Constance, with demurest glance,
Her face a-poppy with distress,
If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,
And answers so in waywardness?—
What shall I say? what can I do?
My meaning should be plain to you!

Gertrude.

When first I gazed on Gertrude's face,
Beheld her loveliness and grace;
Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,
Her ways, more winsome than the kiss
Spring gives the flowers; her smile, that is
Brighter than all the summer air
Made sweet with birds:—I did declare,—
And still declare!—there is no one,
No girl beneath the moon or sun,
So beautiful to look upon!
And to my thoughts, that on her dwell,
Nothing seems more desirable—
Not Ophir gold nor Orient pearls—
Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.

Lydia.

When Autumn's here and days are short,
Let Lydia laugh and, hey!
Straightway 't is May-day in my heart,
And blossoms strew the way.

When Summer's here and days are long,
Let Lydia sigh and, ho!
December's fields I walk among,
And shiver in the snow.

No matter what the Seasons are,
My Lydia is so dear,
My soul admits no Calendar
Of earth when she is near.

A Southern Girl.

Serious but smiling, stately and serene,
And dreamier than a flower;
A girl in whom all sympathies convene
As perfumes in a bower;
Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean,
And their resistless power.

Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth,
Where thought like starlight curls;
Lips of immortal rose, where love and youth
Nestle like two sweet pearls;
Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of Ruth,
Deeper than any girl's.

When first I saw you, 't was as if within
My soul took shape some song—
Played by a master of the violin—
A music pure and strong,
That rapt my soul above all earthly sin
To heights that know no wrong.

A Daughter of the States.

She has the eyes of some barbarian Queen
Leading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,
Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,
And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.

And I have thought that Liberty, alone
Among the mountain stars, might look like her,
Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,
Kindling her torch on Freedom's altar-stone.

For in her self, regal with riches of
Beauty and youth, again those Queens seem born—
Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,
And Ermengarde, returning love for love.

An Autumn Night.

Some things are good on Autumn nights,
When with the storm the forest fights,
And in the room the heaped hearth lights
Old-fashioned press and rafter:
Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,
A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,
And at your side a face petite,
With lips of laughter.

Upon the roof the rolling rain,
And tapping at the window-pane,
The wind that seems a witch's cane
That summons spells together:
A hand within your own awhile;
A mouth reflecting back your smile;
And eyes, two stars, whose beams exile
All thoughts of weather.

And, while the wind lulls, still to sit
And watch her fire-lit needles flit
A-knitting, and to feel her knit
Your very heartstrings in it:
Then, when the old clock ticks 'tis late,
To rise, and at the door to wait,
Two words, or at the garden gate,
A kissing minute.

Lines.

If God should say to me, Behold!—
Yea, who shall doubt?—
They who love others more than me,
Shall I not turn, as oft of old,
My face from them and cast them out?
So let it be with thee, behold!—
I should not care, for in your face
Is all God's grace.

If God should say to me, Behold!—
Is it not well?—
They who have other gods than me,
Shall I not bid them, as of old,
Depart into the outer Hell?
So let it be with thee, behold!—
I should not care, for in your eyes
Is Paradise.

The Blind God.

I know not if she be unkind,
If she have faults I do not care;
Search through the world—where will you find
A face like hers, a form, a mind?
I love her to despair.

If she be cruel, cruelty
Is a great virtue, I will swear;
If she be proud—then pride must be
Akin to Heaven's divinest three—
I love her to despair.

Why speak to me of that and this?
All you may say weighs not a hair!
In her,—whose lips I may not kiss,—
To me naught but perfection is!—
I love her to despair.

A Valentine.

My life is grown a witchcraft place
Through gazing on thy form and face.

Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorcery
That makes my soul a melody.

Now 't is thy Frown, that comes and goes,
That makes my heart a page of prose.

Some day, perhaps, a word of thine
Will change me to thy Valentine.

A Catch.

When roads are mired with ice and snow,
And the air of morn is crisp with rime;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And bells ring in the Christmas time:—
It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,
To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!
Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring—
A man's strong love and a wedding-ring—
It's—Saddle, my Heart, and ride!

When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,
And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And the Christmas service is sung and said:—
It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,
Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,
For the gifts that the church now gives to you—
A woman's hand and a heart that's true.
It's—Come, O my Heart, and wait!

When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,
And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;
When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,
And Christmas revels begin again:—
It's—Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!
And her happy breast to your own held fast;
A song to sing and a tale to tell,
A good-night kiss, and all is well.
It's—Home, O my Heart, and love!

The New Year.

Lift up thy torch, O Year, and let us see
What Destiny
Hath made thee heir to at nativity!

Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might,
Whom some name Right;
And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.

Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goes
In Friendship's clothes;
And Happiness, the mask of many woes.

Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see,
Love bends the knee;
And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.

Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains;
And Cares and Pains,
That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.

Corruption, known as Honesty; and Fame
That's but a name;
And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.

And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth;
And, like a youth,
Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.

Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease;
And, high 'mid these,
War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.

Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight!
Deep lies the night
Around us, and God grants us little light!

Then and Now.

When my old heart was young, my dear,
The Earth and Heaven were so near
That in my dreams I oft could hear
The steps of unseen races;
In woodlands, where bright waters ran,
On hills, God's rainbows used to span,
I followed voices not of man,
And smiled in spirit faces.

Now my old heart is old, my sweet,
No longer Earth and Heaven meet;
All Life is grown to one long street
Where fact with fancy clashes;
The voices now that speak to me
Are prose instead of poetry:
And in the faces now I see
Is less of flame than ashes.

Epilogue.

Beyond the moon, within a land of mist,
Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires,
Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,
And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires;
There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Sad are the stars that day and night exist
Above the Garden of all Dead Desires;
And sad the roses that within it twist
Deep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires;
But sadder far are they who there hold tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist,
Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,
Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed,
On the wan willows music hangs her lyres,
Æolian dials by which phantoms tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed,
Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires,
By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist;
And meet with shapes that art's despair attires;
And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

Thither we go, dreamer and realist,
Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires,
Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed,
All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires,
All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst—
Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.

About This Book

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