There's a wild little gnome in the wood
Who sings as he digs a grave
Of Hope that soars and Hope that flies
And Hope that singes her wings, and lies
In peace where the willows wave.
And he croons in the pauses of toil,
A shivering song of Fears,
The lean black shades of Hope so fair
Who weave her nets with her golden hair
And harry her down the years.
And he knows she will perish at last,
He has carved her name on the stone
While the trees draw near and forget to sleep,
And the little leaves bend their heads and weep,
For Hope that must die alone.
TREES OF THE WILDERNESS
The great bleak trees stand up against the sky
Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer
To the unpitying heavens, that they might die,
Rather than drag their weary lives out there.
Thro' starless nights the untold hours wear on,
All awful phantom shapes affright the wood—
And morning light but brings th' unwinking sun,
To torture with its glare their solitude.
In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing,
No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands,
Nor is there trace of any living thing,
Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands.
And when they fall, still round the unknown spot
Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground
They end the life which is—and yet is not,—
A riddle where no meaning shall be found.
THE LOVE OF THE ROSE
Trilled forth the Nightingale
In sweetest sleep of day—
Unto his love, the rose,
Ah golden heart, unclose!
For love, my fairest rose, will last for aye.
So, thro' the waning night
She learned to wear her crown;
Yielded her heart's sweet strife
And found that love was life
Set to the time the dear bird lilted down.
But when the morning came
The red sun burned above;
Hid are the night birds all,
Flower petals fade and fall;
The rose is dead—and what became of love!
IN THE GREEN YEW
The wind is howling in angry pain,
Ah me, and I cannot rest;
On such a night home is best,
Why does she stand in the same old place
With the smile of smiles on her cold white face
And call me thro' the rain?
Ah—the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile—
And I creep quite still—
On over the hill,
To where she stands 'mid the scented yew
And where I now am standing too,
And she sees me all the while.
A little green snake curls thro' her hair—
The scent of the yew is strong and sweet—
Her eyes have drawn me to her feet,
And I lie along on the drenching ground
And worship—and watch the snake curl round,
His tongue shoots thro' the air.
Now—slowly she takes her eyes from me,
And I dream and wait,
Till in shades of hate
My love of her smile has faded quite
And I spring to kill her, there in the night—
But only the yew I see.
THE DEAD NIGHT
The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps
Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still
When every silver lake and purple hill
Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps
Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps
And draws the veiling grey of morning mist
Upon the lips that Night's last clouds have kist—
The Night that watched so well the world who sleeps.
The Night is dead—Alas—and pallid Day
is but the corpse laid out in cold array,
The white sad emblem of the heart we knew.
Through half-closed lids the eyes shine palely blue;
The gleaming grave clothes cover all the rest.
So cruel still lies now the air's sweet breast
And trees and hills fold down calm hands and eyes,
That none may guess their secret mysteries.
SONG
Softly sighs the gracious wind—
Dash of rose, in deeps of sky,
Love is fair and love is kind,—
Singing free—I passed him by.
Shredded clouds are whirled in air,
Winter stalks adown the gale
Tossing wide Love's golden hair—
Cease the singing—Love grows pale.
Howls the grey sky to the sea—
Loose the storm-dogs from their bed.
Turned I back—and woe is me—
I must die—for Love is dead.
SIGH NOT FOR LOVE
Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark!
Sweet Child—hold up the hollow of your hand
And catch the sparks that flutter from the stars!
See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars!
They are dead roses from your own dear land
Tossed high by kindly breezes: lean, and hark,
And you shall know how morning glads her lark!
The timid Dawn, herself a little child
Casts up shy eyes in loving worship—dear,
Is it not yet enough? the Spring is here
And would you weep for Winter's tempest wild
Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark!
AMBITION AND LOVE
Sweet, in the golden morning of my days,
With young tempestuous joy I reared my head
To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways
Where all the fires of fame burned glory red,
I recked not where the sounding arches led,
Save at the end I gain my august bays.
But as of old, when through the patient night,
Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn,
Great Israel strove to break the angel's might,
Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn,
Th' immortal wrestler touched the earthly born,
Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight.
So did false Fortune, when I strove and fought,
Smiling 'neath half-closed eyelids, when seemed won,
For a brief hour, the beckoning goal I sought—
Then with frustrating touch dimmed all my sun
Blotted the work and faith so brave begun;
But what I gained was none too dearly bought.
I have no wreath to lay before your feet;
There shines no future, and the past is dead;
But you have heard me, and I love you—Sweet.
The low sun crowns with gold your gracious head,
The heavy lilies nod upon their bed—
I look at you, and find my life complete.
TO B. D.
Broad browed beneath a cloud of dusky hair
Her eyes are midnight seas that never sleep
But see beyond the dull world's heavy air
The mystery of ages buried deep.
The faint sweet shadows trembling round her mouth
Lighten with youth and love the Sphinx's face.
And as she moves, a soft wind from the South
Floating, flower-laden seems—so sweet her grace.
Aloof she stands, from idle mirth and tears
And keeps the white sails of her spirit furled,
Altho' a girl, pure from the stain of years,
An ancient Egypt, smiling at the world.
LITTLE SAD FACE
Little sad face, come close, so close to mine,
See through these eyes the sweetness of the day,
Feel how the sunbeams dance in Summer's wine,
Hold fast my hands and let our pulse combine
And with my steps dance down the happy way;
For youth is love and love is light and gay,
Little sad face.
Little sad heart, come close, so close to mine,
And know the utmost limits of the will
Of all the worlds, till soft thy heart divine
A joy which can encompass grief like thine;
Hide in my breast, and let faint pulses thrill,
For youth is love, and love is great and still,
Little sad heart.
Little sad soul, which ne'er can come to mine,
So great in loneliness of grey despair,
There is not one whose spirit may entwine
With thee—the world looks on without a sign;
Go—hide thy face within thy tossing hair,
Thyself veil close with smiles, for none will care,
Little sad soul.
EARTH'S TEARS— AND MAN'S
These slanting lines of hoary rain
Are as my grizzled hair;
The face of earth is old with pain
As mine—with dull despair.
And yet, one sun will gild the air,
Earth's tears were not in vain:
No smile can ease mine eyes of care
Or make me young again!
I HAVE SEEN WHAT THE SERAPHS HAVE SEEN
I have seen what the seraphs have seen
As they gaze thro' the limitless air—
Thro' the wind and the clouds to the lean
Pale face of the moon, and the bare
Bright flame of the sun, unaware,
I have seen what the seraphs have seen!
Thro' the limitless spaces of air
The brave mists that waver and wane
Are patient and pallid and fair.
I have fathomed the pride and the pain
Of the snows and compassionate rain
Thro' the limitless spaces of air.
I have known them, the brave mists that wane
And the glory and peace of the skies.
Where all strife and impatience are vain
And ahush are all passionate sighs,
For I gazed in the deeps of Love's eyes,
And I know what no seraphs shall gain!
A LASS FROM THE WOODS
A lass from the woods
With a leaf in her hair!
And the rain of the night
And the wind of the morn,
They both quivered right;
For my spirit forlorn
In a garment of white
And a laugh newly born
Sprang in maddest of moods
Like a blossom in air
To the kiss of the sun
And the curl of the breeze,
Caught the cobwebs begun
In the hush of the trees
All my beatings were one
With the swirl of the seas.
Dead the creature that broods
In a tangle of care;
There's a lass from the woods
With a leaf in her hair.
WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING
Was there another Spring than this?
I half remember through the haze
Of glimmering nights and golden days,
A broken pinioned birdling's note,
An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat,
A wandering through rain-beaten ways!
Lean closer, love—I have thy kiss!
Was there another Spring than this?
TO DIANE
The ruddy poppies bend and bow
Diane! do you remember?
The sun you knew shines proudly now
The lake still lists the breezes' vow;
Your towers are fairer for their stains,
Each stone you smiled upon remains.
Sing low, where is Diane?
Diane do you remember?
I come to find you through the years—
Diane! do you remember?
For none may rule my love's soft fears.
The ladies now are not your peers,
I seek you thro' your tarnished halls,
Pale sorrow on my spirit falls
High, low—where is Diane?
Diane do you remember?
I crush the poppies where I tread—
Diane! do you remember?
Your flower of life—so bright, so red—
She does not hear—Diane is dead.
I pace the sunny bowers alone
Where nought of her remains but stone.
Sing low—where is Diane?
Diane does not remember.
BIRD LOVE— ROSE LOVE
If you were but a rose—dear love—
And I your bird, with dip of wing
To tell a promise of the Spring
And with a golden swift caress
My happy careless love confess,
No pain such gentle vows could bring,
No tears should stay my flight above,
If you were but a rose—dear love.
Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day
Why shall not we whose hearts are light
Put by the coming of the night,
Catch glints of rapture from the sky,
The scents that swing where lilies lie,
And ring them to a garland white
To ease the pain of life away?
Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day!
THE JOY OF LIFE
Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold,
The leopard skin about her shoulders flung
Showed gleams of her as marble—fair and cold;
I breathed not—listening to the song she sung.
Hither and thither thro' the solemn world,
Glory of purple, passionate blazing red
Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled—
Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head.
"Heedless—men pass me in their search for life,
Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires,
Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife
And know not that 'tis I—their heart desires.
They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast,
The haze and perfume of a Summer's day,
The silver stealing o'er the twilight West
Are joys more rich than all the world's display."
MIST
Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing,
Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main,
Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling
Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.
THE LAST CLOUD
A red rose cloud upon the evening sky,
A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight,
Too proud for prisons of triumphant night.
Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years,
Its little hour too short for dreams or tears,
The faithful sun its first and latest light—
Who would not so be glad to fight and die!
A red rose cloud upon the evening sky.
SONG
Love is a broken lily,
A pale and crownless rose
With golden heart made chilly
By traitor touch of snows.
So sleep my heart—lie sleeping
Nor open weary eyes,
For waking is but weeping
And Sleep is Paradise.
Love is a cadence trailing
Where broken music falls,
A hapless shadow sailing
Across deserted walls.
So still my heart lie sleeping
Till love's hot sun be set,
For waking is but weeping.
Asleep—sad eyes forget.
IN THE GRAVE
Dear Love—do you wake in that land where my waking is done?
Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?
And is Summer aflame?
Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,
And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,
Wakeful—sighing my name?
Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,
And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;
Then I sigh and awake.
For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,
And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,
For a woman's sweet sake.
Perhaps you are singing—and winding the garlands of May;
Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,
Or give you pause to your song.
Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.
Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear—for death
Is so terribly long.
THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE
The jewels of the sun are not more rare
Than these that lie upon my lurid halls.
The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air
Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.
The spell which night may cast upon her thralls
Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land
Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.
My wealth great kings have prayed for—in their pride,
Bowing before me. Nay—I hate the place.
I am no queen at heart—my laughter died
That I might wear my crown with regal grace
The very flowers which smile on my sad face
I am afraid of. See! they are the worst
Of all my fears; so fair—yet black accurst.
The languid passion-poppy sways and dips
To show the black heart bursting into flame.
The crimson evil of a satyr's lips
A sneering nodding finger-post of shame;
A thousand other flowers without a name
Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind
Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.
The grass is not the grass that overhead
Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;
But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead
Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.
Ah—horrid soil! for everything that grows
In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn
The fairness of the land where I was born.
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