Part 3

The wind has shaken the lilac trees, And scattered their purple bloom, The wind has harassed the honey bees, And robbed the flowers of their melodies, The wind has gathered a host of clouds, And smitten the earth with gloom.

The wind has blown out the golden lights That hang from laburnum boughs, Till nude and stripped of their past delights The branches sigh through the stormy nights, Like nuns who weep for their buried youth, And murmur their mournful vows.

The wind has covered the hills with mist, And hidden my favourite view, The wind has torn at my garden beds Where sad young roses have hung their heads, And ah! the pity, that one slim stem Is withered, and snapped right through.

The wind has driven the birds afar, The starling who reared her young Above the door in the empty cot Has flown away, and to-day there's not A single twitter from hungry throats, One minstrel, of all who sung.

The wind has stolen the warmth of June, So how shall I pass my time? I'll go indoors with my pen and book, Beside the fire seek a cosy nook, Then when I'm sure that he can't get in, I'll write of his sins in rhyme!

HOLLYHOCKS

I saw a row of hollyhocks, Demure and stately-tall, They peep'd above a hedge of box, Like maidens in brocaded frocks, Who nodded one and all.

Some dress'd in pink, and some in white, And some in purple blue, They seemed abrim with gay delight, To beckon shyly, and invite The passer-by to view.

A mottled thrush cast bold black eyes Upon this fair array, He swell'd his little throat with sighs, And tender notes of glad surprise He sang in wistful lay.

But ne'er a stately head was turned Towards his lonely tree, Altho' with ardent words he burned, Those dainty maids for whom he yearn'd Had only smiles for me.

THE TRUTH

Oh! why is the world as it is, we ask, With tears in our voice, and a sigh: For nothing remains but an unfinished task, While beauty is only hypocrisy's mask, The end of it all—but to die.

Believe me, the world is a place full of joy, And happiness stretches afar: Alas! that the workings of man should destroy The meaning of God, with the deeds they employ, Oh! why are _we_ all as we are?

A MOUNTAIN PATH

Alone upon the little path that led Along the mountain-side towards the sun I pondered o'er those passions that are dead, I counted all your kisses one by one; I spoke aloud the memory of each word My heart had heard.

The scent of pines was heavy in the noon, The air most happy with the song of streams, Above the forest hung an early moon, But I was gazing at my perished dreams, And in that moment, while my soul was brave, I dug their grave.

I folded each within a golden shroud, Torn from the shining garments of my youth, I did not weep, but very gently bowed My aching spirit to the yoke of truth, Then in the stillness of the fading day I knelt to pray.

A PEARL NECKLACE

Go, cold white pearls, with your luring eyes, The woman is waiting who longs to win But the rainbow light that within you lies, But the soft cool touch of your satin skin. You are undefiled, and the price of sin Has passed you by, what the heart denies Can your whiteness, fettered and bound within This necklet's space, ever realise? You were snatched away from the deep, sad sea, From the Mother's womb to the miser's pile; You are bartered now for a phantasy, For the hopeless hope in a woman's smile.

TO ROSES

Roses, I hate you! since you still can bloom Contentedly, where living love is not! Can fling wan fragrance thro' this empty room, Lift languid petals shimmering 'mid the gloom Where love is not.

Roses, I hate you! that you do not die Disconsolate, since love himself is dead. These ghosts of burnt-out kisses drifting by, Have they no power to hurt, to terrify, Since love is dead?

And all these spectral words that haunt the air With hollow sounds, grown awful, meaningless! Can you still blossom passionately fair Within this region, frigid with despair? Where all is dead?

ON THE SEA-SHORE

Can nothing last? No deep, intense emotion? Have all things passed, Can nothing last? "Yes," sighs the wind, "My passion for the Ocean Must always last."

Is nothing True? No words of protestation? Love cries anew "Is nothing True?" "Yes," sobs the sea, "My endless adoration For yonder rock is true!"

Will nothing stand Against the stress of weather? Storms sweep the land, Will nothing stand? "Yes," says the rock, "For God and I together, We two will stand."

MY VALLEY

Oh! my valley of shade and dreams! Golden lights 'mid the distant blue, Sun that pauses to kiss the dew, Dew that trembles beneath its beams—

Fain were I but a bird above, Floating, drifting on waves of air! Ah! the life of the birds is fair, For they wing to the spheres they love.

And if I could but fly and sing Thro' the sweetness of this dear day, I would bring all the hope of May, To thy heart, that is wan for Spring.

TO ——

What a lonely little corpse our love is lying, Very cold, and very still, and very drear! Yet he throbbed with passion there was no denying, And we thought his every word divinely dear! Have we both grown old, that neither sheds a tear? Have our hearts grown dry perchance with too much sighing? We are standing by the bed, At the foot and at the head, Very solemnly!——What, dearest, are you crying?

FINIS

And so we closed the book, wherein we wrote How many words of ecstasy and pain, How oft repeated passion's deep refrain, Like ebb and flow of tide, whose echo smote Upon the hearing of our listening sense. These pages will become the prey of years, And time, who stretches forth an envious hand, Shall make impossible to understand Our burning words, that shine with unshed tears, Ay, and we two may offer no defence!

The early mornings of awakening Spring That smote our inspiration and desire They still shall call, yet find no answering fire Within the eyes of two at least, who bring But wormwood, from the once so flowering path. And limpid winter twilights when we gazed Thro' frosted panes across the purpling snow, Or turned our eyes towards the cheerful glow Of logs, whose kindly voices cracked and blazed With invitation to the sheltered hearth—

They too shall come in season as before, Yet we be absent, and within the room Our vacant places cast a little gloom; Then shall there fall a shadow on the floor, As of one passing, who is yet unseen. Perchance a pilgrim wind will pause to look Within this volume where our tale unfolds, And sorry at the text he there beholds, Rustle with sighs the vellum of this book, But leave no trace of where his breath has been.

Perchance a rose that through the casement bent, Might cast her ardent eyes upon this lay, And being touched, hide one soft leaf away Between its pages, out of sentiment, Then toss her wanton fragrance to the South. Aye, many roses shall be born to grace The garden, and the day will still rejoice, Yet never at the echo of thy voice, Nor shall a rose lift up its longing face That we may cool our lips upon its mouth.

And side by side with petals and with sighs, With overweening tenderness and trust, Shall rest the deadly layer of choking dust: A weary skull, its sockets bare of eyes, With grinning pathos from the title page Will bear stark record of its master Death. Sightless, yet seeing all Eternity, With silent voice that rings more truthfully Than any words we quickened with our breath More full of wisdom than the speech of sage.

We two have loved, and have outlived the laws Of love, e'en as these bones survive their flesh With awful vigour gleaming strangely fresh Amid the ruin of their natal cause, A peg on which the gods may hang their wit! We two have cast each other in the flame Of searing passion, that we deemed was life. Alas! those fiery billows flowing rife Upon the sand, they have defaced love's name, And there remains no smallest trace of it.

And yet we live, and walk upon the earth, Beneath the pall of dusk the dome of dawn, And all created creatures being born Must do, and thus atone their hour of birth, A living sacrifice to what! Who knows? Poor futile things, we make our little moan, And clasp our puny hands in useless prayers To that which neither wots of us nor cares, And in our grief behold, we stand alone, Till our complaining lips in anguish close.

My eyes shall still behold the stars above, And you, how oft will count the hosts of night, But never, never can we feel delight In them together, swearing that our love Is more enduring than eternal things! Oh! blessed madness that possessed the heart, Oh! sweet unreason that could cloud the mind, Alas! that we have left you far behind, And growing wise must lose the dearer part, Of which not even the faintest perfume clings.

What would we not surrender overjoyed, To hear once more the music that is still; We sweep the strings, but lo! no answering thrill From shattered harps, that eager hands destroyed, From souls whom ravishment has smitten dumb. Oh! for one hour snatched from the throbbing past, Replete with its embodied ecstasy! How little would we count Eternity, How ready be, to know that hour, our last, No matter what the penalty to come.

Oh! bitterness, that we ourselves did write These pages with heart's blood, yet cannot feel To-day one little tremor o'er us steal Save of regret for so much past delight! The cup is spilt of which we two partook. For this last time, oh! once beloved, stay Close here beside me, while my drying pen Has still the strength to write our last Amen. 'Tis written ... there is nothing left to say, And so together ... thus, we close the book.

OLD VERSES

I made a little funeral pyre, And on it laid my youthful rhymes, Those thoughts of innocent desire, Dear foolish words of childhood times.

Poor things they were, misspelt and crude, Yet void of guile or vain pretence, They seemed like children thin and nude, And unashamed through innocence.

And so, the while I struck the light That should consume their humble bier I kissed them, and as funeral rite I mingled with the flame a tear.

ON THE ROAD TO TENNALEY TOWN

Maryland, U.S.A.

Over the hills to Tennaley Town, When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown, Under a limpid sky! Oh! it's good to be young to-day, Strong, and young, on this lonely way, Happy my thoughts and I!

Far below where the mists are blue Runs the river, and damp with dew Glimmers the golden corn, Crickets sing in the wayside grass, Beetles drone, as I pause and pass On thro' the Autumn morn.

"Winter's coming," the winds have said, Shall I weep for a time that's dead? Foolish to weep, not I! Over the hills near Tennaley Town, When the leaves are red, and the leaves are brown, I'm here, alive, walking swiftly down, Then what matters the by and bye!

A LITTLE DIRGE

What so dead as my love for you, What so terribly dead! Lay it low 'neath the grass and dew, Bury it deep in an earthy bed, Then put a tombstone over its head With the words "And this love was true."

THE POET

I weave my verses of smiles and tears, Gathered and shed for you, I bind them up in the hopes of years, Dear, will you read them through?

I write my ballads of joy and pain, Cast at your heedless feet, I set the words to a lost refrain, Sing it but once, my Sweet!

I breathe my life into rhyme and song, What shall I gain thereby? The verse is poor, and the tune is wrong, Kiss them and let them die.

A NIGHT IN ITALY

Time hangs suspended 'mid the perfumed dusk, With limpid wings, o'er which the first pale star Gleams like a tear, within the tender, far Desirous eyes of love-lorn Destiny. The earth is dumb, the scents of many flowers Flow out from petalled lips upon her breast, In one unending sigh of happy rest. The halting pageant of the passing hours Unfurls its misty pennants to the sea. The Nightingale has swooned for ecstasy, And hides away amid the vine-clad bowers Upon the terrace; Oh! impassioned dusk! Speechless with longing, throbbing with delight To fling thy beauty in the arms of night, Thy rare, dim beauty sweet with breath of musk, Thou shalt not know thy joy nor him requite With tender ardour, ere there comes to me Adown thy paths from out eternity, My soul's twin soul, mine embodied bliss, Torn from the countless ages by a kiss.

HANDS AND LIPS

Give me your hands to hold, For the night and the wind are cold, And the year's growing sad and old, So give me your hands to hold.

Give me your lips to press, For the light of the moon grows less, And the sky's full of dreariness, So give me your lips to press.

Dear hands, dear lips, all mine! Let the moon and her beams decline, Let the night and the storm combine, If your hands and your lips are mine.

WE TWO

What have we missed, we two— You and I—I and you— Of sorrow, and pain, and tears, Of doubt, and of passionate fears, Of madness, and badness, these years! And what have we missed, we two!

But what have we missed, we two— You and I—I and you— Of rapture, and vast delight, Of loving, and living, of right To surrender, that love may requite, How much have we missed, we two!

TO ——

The sun has set; Beloved see that star, Wan with desire, pale in the afterglow, Above the hill top hanging very low, As though she stooped from her high regions far To kiss this earth, because she loved it so!

While I, I feel the trembling touch of you, Feel the dim magic of your eyes on me, As though _two_ stars had fallen in the sea, And drowned themselves in his rejoicing blue, Lighting his soul through all eternity!

NORTH AND SOUTH

Come with me, sweetheart, into Italy, And press the burning goblet of the south To those cold northern lips, until thy mouth Relents beneath its draft of ecstasy.

Drink in the sun, made liquid in the breasts Of purple grapes crushed lifeless for thy wine, Until those over tranquil eyes of thine Glow like twin lakes, on which the noontide rests.

Drink in the airs, those languid, vapoury sighs Of Goddesses, whose souls live on in love, Those amorous zephyrs, soft with plaint of dove From flowery trees of Pagan Paradise:

Until thy brain grows hazy 'neath the fumes Of pale camellias, passionately white, Of scarlet roses dropping with delight Their wanton petals in a shower of bloom.

Drink in the music of some ardent song, Poured forth to die upon the wide, still lake, Until the darkness seems to throb and break In fiery stars whose pulses yearn and long.

And then drink in my love; the whole of me, In one deep breath, one vast impassioned kiss, That come what may, thou canst remember this: That thou hast lived and loved _in Italy_.

ON THE HILL TOP

What is the end of all sweet things, Of these dawns and twilights and golden springs? Of the rose that climbs, and the scent that clings? Of the breeze that sighs, and the thrush that sings? Dust and ashes and death?

No, my dearest! for you and I Here on the hill's summit under the sky Have found a magic, time cannot deny To make immortal what else must die, The magic of Love's warm breath.

THE MOON

The moon has risen from her cloudy bed, And soared serenely into cloudless blue, White as a lily in a haze of dew, Pale lady, to the Summer Darkness wed— She leaves her nuptial couch, by breezes spread, And seeks her virgin solitude anew; While all the being of the Dark thrills through With memories, the while her stately head She lifts above him to the purer height, Nor heeds the restless anguish of desire With which he seeks to turn to living fire The icy splendour of her luring light. She drifts, and smiles into his ardent eyes, With cold disdain, and smiling still denies.

SPECULATION

If at some future day we two should meet, Stand face to face before the staring crowd, And pull from Love's dead form the decent shroud That time has wound about from head to feet— I scarcely know what words would come to greet Your presence, if they would be soft or loud, Would your head be held high or humbly bowed, And would the moment bitter be or sweet To me, as you pushed back the long past years, Would I rejoice, perhaps, at this new pain? At least 'twould mean that I could live again, And had not washed away my soul with tears. I think there might be much that I could bless In that deliverance out of nothingness.

THE MEETING

To meet almost as strangers, who have been Such lovers in the past! no glad delight To thrill our senses, till the wrong seems right, For very joy—I wonder will your mien Be happy? it seems years since I have seen You smiling! I shall take you to the light, And trace new lines upon your brow, and right Above them may be some gray hairs, your clean Strong profile, will it look the very same? Are your hands wrinkled? Oh! my perfect hands! Be not less lovely now that passion stands Aloof, and dare not kiss you into flame— I could not bear it! Time can never blight Such marvels, so divinely slim and white.

TO SOME ONE!

Why kinder to the breeze than unto me? For oft you let him play within your hair, Blow its soft curls about, and find it fair, The while he whispers low and tenderly Into your ear; and yet how cold is he! And loves you not, but only frolics there; Sometimes I wish _I_ might be turned to air, And thus be rid of my humanity, That finds no favour in your haughty eyes. Were I a breeze you'd fling your windows wide, And give me welcome, as I swept aside The curtain, kissing all pride now denies, Your lips, your cheeks, your eyes, your throat, your breast, Until with kissing spent I sank to rest.

OUT AT SEA

The sea was witness of the words you said: She hushed her every tide that she might hear Your whispered love, and while you bent so near My bosom, laying down your weary head To rest thereon—the corals in their bed Stirred with emotion, shaken as with fear, And foam grew paler, passionately drear As some wan smile, upon a face that's dead.

I took your hand in mine, your living hand! And pressed it closer, closer in mine own. A nameless terror shocked me while I scanned Your ardent face; there rose a stifled moan To part my lips; I saw the future stand Before me, and behold! I was alone.

FAITH

Ah! Faith, I'd barter all I own to know But one brief moment of your magic charm, Whereby my spirit freed from earthly woe, Might spread its wings towards immortal calm. Is there no wisdom but it steals our peace? No knowledge but it leads us to unrest? My mind is weary, and would seek release From thoughts terrestrial; those indeed are blessed Upon whose hearts all simple holy things Fall without question, as a drop of dew Lights on a rose, and, though she gently swings, Falls not to earth! ah! rose, if I were you, I would thrice bless your dumbness, since thereby Your fragrant lips may never question why.

THE SCAR

Upon my life I bear one precious scar: Each night I kiss it, till anew it bleeds, And tell each drop of blood, as hallowed beads Are told by those dear few who faithful are. To me it seems to beautify, not mar, My inner self, for from that deep wound leads A path to gained respect, my secret needs Quenched by the bleeding of that fountain are.

The fiery contest when that wound was won, Still burns within my brain, and robs of life, And terror, every lesser hurt that's done To heart or spirit; let all harm run rife. I shall not fear again to look upon The gleaming edges of Fate's sharpest knife.

COMPARISON

Without what desolation! mist and rain, And weeping trees, and roses that decay While still in blossom, till the autumn day Lies low, and speechless, and benumbed with pain. An early twilight hides the gentle plain With mournful dusk, while meadows melt away Like echoes of those tunes we used to play, Ere time had turned them to a lost refrain.

But leave the window, turn towards the room, So soft with firelight on the time-worn beams A friendly spirit lurks within the gloom Of dim oak corners, while a host of gleams Await your fingers on our fancy's loom, To weave them into happy fireside dreams.

AN INTERLUDE

I

Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth, Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple pain Be offered in a sacrificial rain Of sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreath Of all their leaves, and place it just beneath Your high-combed curls, to rest upon the plain Of your white temples: though the Nymphs disdain To grace our modern banquet, they bequeath A sylvan fancy to my wayward dream. This glint of candles on the silver round Is yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream, These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground, And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting theme For you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.

II

The shaded lamps that make the room seem dim Scarcely revealing pictures on the wall; Yet one so placed to let a halo fall Upon your hair; you smile! yes, it's a whim A Poet's fancy with a moonlit rim Perhaps—and yet a harmless wish withal. Don't quarrel with it, just sit there, those tall White lilies make a background for your slim Young body. Let the blinds be up, and night Gaze through the windows with her purple eyes, Dropping some ardent star from out its height For very eagerness of glad surprise At so much beauty, till your song's delight Shall waft it back into the listening skies!

III

Where shall I find a corner in this room Almost in darkness? Ah! that deep recess Of languid cushions, eager to caress My weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloom Made holy by the incense of perfume, All unobserved and happy I'll confess My senses to those roses, passionless, And listening in their bowl of silver doom. Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly! With tender pauses in between the notes Filled up with little sighs, unconsciously— These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boats Our souls may sail on lakes of melody Adown whose ripples youth eternal floats.

IV