BOOK III

PROMENADES

NOCTURNE

The valleys that were known in sunlit hours Are vast and vague as seas; Wan as the blackthorn flowers That quiver in the first spring-scented breeze: Far as the frosted hollows of the moon. The sighing woods are still-- Wrapp'd in their age-long boon Of mystery and sleep. A naked hill, Loud and discordant, looms against the sky, And little lights like stars Break the monotony Of blue and silver, black and grey. Strange bars Of light resemble silver masks, and leer Across the forest lane. Tall nettles, rank from rain, Scent all the woods with some ancestral fear.

Trees rustle by the water. A voice sings Faintly, to ward off fright.

The water breathes pale rings Of sad, wan light; Faintly they grow, Then merge into the night: The last poor twisted echo takes to flight.

_To_ W. H. DAVIES.

THE LAMENT OF THE MOLE-CATCHER

An old, sad man who catches moles Went lonely down the lane-- All lily-green were the lanes and knolls, But sorrow numbed his brain. He paid no heed to flower or weed As he went his lonely way. No note he heard from any bird That sang, that sad spring day.

"I trap'd the moles for forty years Who could not see the sky, I reckoned not blind blood or tears, And the Lord has seen them die. For forty years I've sought to slay The small, the dumb, the blind, But now the Lord has made me pay, And I am like their kind. I cannot see or lane or hill, Or flower or bird or moon; Lest life shall lay me lower still, O Lord--come take it soon."

THE BEGINNING

Great spheres of fire, to which the sun is nought, Pass thund'ring round our world. A golden mist-- The margin to the universe--falls round The verges of our vision. Rocks ablaze Leap upward to the sun, or fall beneath The rush of our rapidity, that seems Catastrophy, and not the joyous birth Of yet another star. The air is full Of clashing colour, full of sights and sounds Too plain and loud for men to heed or hear, The cosmic cries of pain that follow birth: A multi-coloured world. The scorching heat Surpasses all the equatorial days: Steam rises from the surface of the sea. Gigantic rainbow mists resemble forms That bring to mind strange elemental sprites Exulting in the chaos of creation. They glide above the tumult-ridden sea Which now is shaken as are autumn leaves; Great hollows open and reveal its depths-- Devoid of any form of life or death. Till wave on wave it gathers strength again And shakes a mountain, splits it to the base (Still weak from struggle as a new-born babe). Then night comes on, and shows the flaming path Of all the rocks that vainly seek the sun. Broad as the arch of space, a myriad moons Sail slowly by the sea; the glowing world Shows up the pallor of their ivory. The din grows greater from the universe: There rises up the smell of fire and iron,-- Not dreary like the smell of burnt-out things, But like the smell of some gigantic forge-- Cheerful, of good intent, and full of life.

Now all the joyous cries of sea and earth, The universal harmonies of birth, Rise up to haunt the slumber of their God.

THE END

Round the great ruins crawl those things of slime Green ruins lichenous and scarred by moss-- An evil lichen that proclaims world doom, Like blood dried brown upon a dead man's face. And nothing moves save those monstrosities, Armoured and grey, and of a monster size.

But now, a thing passed through the cloying air With flap and clatter of its scaly wings-- As if the whole world echoed from some storm. One scarce could see it in the dim green light Till suddenly it swooped and made a dart And brushed away one of those things of slime, Just as a hawk might sweep upon its prey.

It seems as if the light grows dimmer yet-- No radiance from the dreadful green above, Only a lustrous light or iridescence As if from off a carrion-fly,--surrounds That vegetation which is never touched By any breeze. The air is thick, and brings The tainted subtle sweetness of decay. Where, yonder, lies the noisome river-course, There shows a faintly phosphorescent glow.

Long writhing bodies fall and twist and rise, And one can hear them playing in the mud. Upon the ruined walls there gleam and shine The track of those grey vast monstrosities-- As some gigantic snail had crawled along.

All round the shining bushes waver lines Suggesting shadows, slight and grey, but full Of that which makes one nigh to dead with fear.

Watch how those awful shadows culminate And dance in one long wish to hurt the world.

A world that now is past all agony!

FOUNTAINS

"The graven fountain-masks suffer and weep. Carved with a smile, the poor mouths clutch At a half-remembered song, Striving to forget the agony of ever laughing." SACHEVERELL SITWELL.

Some fountains sing of love In full and flute-like notes that charge the night With all the red-mouthed essence of the rose; Then turn to voices murmuring above, Among the trees, Of hidden sweet delight.

Another fountain flows With the faint music of a first spring breeze; Each falling drop is jewelled by the moon To some fine luminous ecstasy of light. It sings of noon, Of sunlit blossoms on a first spring day And all things sweet and pleasant to the sight.

Another fountain sings Of the cool pleasures of those moonlit hours When dappled sylvan things Trample through thickets and through secret bowers To prance and play, Or, squatting round in rings, To wreathe their horned heads with wan sweet flowers Till dawn comes grey and sweeps them to the wood.

Another fountain sobs Its song of passions that have passed away. Then with a sound like threatening rolling drums, it throbs And bursts into a flood Of fierce wild music; and its savage spray Becomes the blood Renewed, of crimes long past.

Another fountain sings its song of fear, Of rustics flying fast Before some foe-- A deadly, unknown foe that comes so near They feel his panting breath, And run for many a lengthy, panic mile.

Those graven fountain-masks are white with woe! Carved with a happy smile They strive to weep... End their eternal laughing--for awhile To lose themselves in sleep Or in the silver peacefulness of death.

SONG OF THE FAUNS

When the woods are white beneath the moon And grass is wet with crystal dew, When in the pool So clear and cool The moon reflects itself anew, We raise ourselves from daylight's swoon, We shake away The sleep of day, Out from our bosky homes we spring; Horns wreathed with flowers, Throughout the hours Of moonlight, worshipping we sing. Pale iv'ry goddess, whose wan light Looks down upon us worshipping-- Each dappled faun Who shuns the dawn, Is here, and rarest gifts we bring-- The feathers of the birds of night Wrought to a crown Of softest down We offer you, and crystal bright, The dew within a lily cup Reflecting stars In shining bars; All things most strange we offer up-- Rich gifts of fruit and honeyed flowers To place within your secret bowers. We shake down apples from the trees, And pears, and plums with velvet skin; Up to the sky We cast these high And pray you'll stoop to net them in. We dance: then fall upon our knees And pray and sing--all this to show The love that all loyal fauns must owe To you, white goddess of the night. But no more play, We must away, The eastern sky is growing bright.

"A SCULPTOR'S CRUELTY"

The faun runs through the forest of the noon, Then leaps into some lovely shrouded glade Splashed with hot light. He dances in the shade Of tower-like trees, whose branches sway and swoon Beneath their weight of green. No breath of air Ruffles the vivid blossom or the moss On which he pirouettes, all is so fair!

He leaps about; then, tired and at a loss For what to do, he roams the wood--espies A figure like himself--but stiff and grey! Lacking the hairy chest and dappled thighs That are his pride. "But surely this can play And scamper, dance and snuffle through the day As well as me?" So he comes near and eyes The lichened features of a faun of stone.

Oh! it is sad to be so young--alone!

PIERROT OLD

The harvest moon is at its height, The evening primrose greets its light With grace and joy: then opens up The mimic moon within its cup. Tall trees, as high as Babel tower, Throw down their shadows to the flower-- Shadows that shiver--seem to see An ending to infinity.

The Pagan Pan has now unbent And stoops to sniff the night-stock scent That brings a memory sad and old, When he was young, and free, and bold, To play his pipe in forests black, Or follow in some goatherd's track Who, fill'd with panic fear, then flees Through all the terror-threatening trees.

Huge silver moths, like ghosts of flowers, Hover about the warm dark bowers, And wait to breathe the lime-tree scent That perfum'd many a compliment Address'd to beauties young and gay, Their faces powdered by the ray Of that same moon that looks upon Their dreary lichen-cover'd tomb. The dryads throw their water wide And strive to stem the surging tide That dashes up the fountain base, Hoping to catch the moon's pale face-- A game now played without a score For three good centuries or more. And all the earth smells warm and sweet --A fitting place for fairy feet.

But now a figure white and frail Leaps out into the moonlight pale. From wakeful thoughts, old age and grief, He finds in this strange world relief. Yet all the shadow, scent and sound, Poor Pierrot's mind do sad confound. Watch how he dances to the moon While singing some faint fragrant tune!

But Pierrot now is tired and sad --Remembers all the evenings mad He spent with that fantastic band So gaily wand'ring o'er the land. They all are dead--and at an end, And he is left without a friend. For tho' the hours can pass away, Poor Pierrot still must grieve and stay.

Upon the dewy grass he lies: The perfumes stir strange memories. Once more he hears a laughing cry That brings great tear-drops to his eye. That step--that look--that voice--that smile. Ah! they've been buried a long while! And who's the man in pantaloons, And he who sings such festive tunes? Why, it's that laughing man of sin, That roguish rascal Harlequin!

Forgiving Pierrot hides his head Deep in the grass and mourns the dead; Forgetting all the pranks they play'd, And how he was himself betray'd.

The butterfly lives but one day, But Pierrot still seems doom'd to stay.

He falls asleep there, tragic-white, And wakes to find the bleak daylight.

NIGHT

All the dim terrors dwelling far below, Interr'd by many thousand years of life, Arise to revel in this evil dark: The wail forlorn of dogs that mourn for men-- A shuffling footfall on a creaking board, The handle of a door that shakes and turns-- A door that opens slightly, not enough: The rustling sigh of silk along a floor, The knowledge of being watched by one long dead, By something that is outside Nature's pale. The unheard sounds that haunt an ancient house: The feel of one who listens in the dark, Listens to that which happened long ago, Or what will happen after we are dust. The awful waiting for a near event, Or for a crash to rend the silence deep Enveloping a house that always waits-- A house that whispers to itself and weeps. The murmur of the yew, or woodland cries, A sombre note of music on the breeze; A shudder from the ivy that entwines The horror that is felt within its grip. The sound of prowling things that walk abroad, The nauseous flapping of Night's bat-like wings-- These are the signs the gods have given us To know the limit of our days and powers.

_To_ MARGARET GREVILLE

FROM CARCASSONNE

I

Now night, The sighing night, Descends to hide and heal The crimson wounds Ripped in the sky, Where the high helmet-towers (With clouds as streaming feathers) Have torn the Heavens In their incessant sunset battle.

Below, Upon the mound, Small golden flowers Release their daylight slowly At the Night's behest, Till they become pale discs That quiver When the evening wind Draws his thin fingers Down the dew-drenched grass --As an old harper, Who awakes From drunken sunlit slumber, Blindly plucks His silver-sounding strings, Making the sound That, further, darker down The trees make, When they draw back Their upturned leaves In fountain-foaming hurry.

II

The curling, hump-backed dolphins, Drunk with purple fumes Of wine-stained sunset, Plunge through the wider waters of the night-- Waters that well down every narrow street In darkening billows, Till they become quiet, full-- Canals that, mirror-like, Reflect each sound Of snarling song In all the town.

And as the dolphins dive There splashes back Upon their goat-eared riders, Dislodged in sudden fury, The foaming froth of summer-cooling winds --Issuing from where the northern trees Bellow their resined breath Across the seas To ripple through far fields Of twilight flowers-- Sweeping across To where these old high towers Of Carcassonne Still stand to break their flow.

Neptune, from his high pedestal, Can watch the waters of the night Rise, further, further, And the faun-riders sink below The conquering, cool tide.

PROGRESS

The city's heat is like a leaden pall-- Its lowered lamps glow in the midnight air Like mammoth orange-moths that flit and flare Through the dark tapestry of night. The tall Black houses crush the creeping beggars down, Who walk beneath and think of breezes cool, Of silver bodies bathing in a pool, Or trees that whisper in some far, small town Whose quiet nursed them, when they thought that gold Was merely metal, not a grave of mould In which men bury all that's fine and fair. When they could chase the jewelled butterfly Through the green bracken-scented lanes, or sigh For all the future held so rich and rare; When, though they knew it not, their baby cries Were lovely as the jewelled butterflies.

THE RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL

I lay awake in that dim room of fear Which seemed to hold the essence of the night, Clutched in the grip of its tall sentient walls: Dark walls and high, that stretch for ever up-- Up to the darkness, vague and menacing, As if no light could ever penetrate That mist of shadows, only cast a gloom More cavernous upon the atmosphere That seems to thicken into cloudy shapes, Substantiate--then disappear and die. And all the room is full of whisperings; Of moving things that hope I do not heed; And sudden gusts of wind blow cold upon My head, lifting the heavy mantle of the air, Revealing for an instant some vague thought Snatched from the haunting lumberland of dreams. Far in the distance, from the open night, Sounds an insistent hooting from the wood; The owl is calling to its kindred things. The bat emits its sinful piercing note-- So high one cannot hear it, only feel The rhythm beat within the shrinking ear. A faint breeze blows in from the countryside, Rustling the curtains with the forest's breath, Stirring the grass of many an unknown tomb, Some new--some immemorably old, Whose dwellers never heard an owl at night, Only the reptile sounds and beating wings Of some forefather of that bird of night-- Some flapping scaly monster with huge wings. Then, sudden, through the rustling of the room Silence shrills out its startling trumpet call Of terror, and the house is frozen still. Despair dropp'd down like rain upon my heart, Catching my breath and clutching at my throat. Fear magnified my senses, and my brain Could hear beyond the threshold of this world. Then through the threatening silence of the house, The silent waiting for the coming play-- There came that halting well-remembered tread, The dreadful limp, and dragging of the feet, That cruel sin-white face looked through the door! And in my scream--that rent the trembling air, Reaching the woods and tainting them with death, Filling the fountain with strange ripplings That make the moon's reflection but a mask Like to that face of shame--my soul passed out-- Out of my ashen lips, to find its end.

LONDON SQUARES

To-night this city seems delirious. The air Is fever'd, hot and heavy--yet each street, Each tortuous lane and slumb'ring stone-bound square Smells of the open woods, so wild and sweet. Through the dim spaces, where each town-bred tree Sweeps out, mysterious and tall and still, The country's passionate spirit--old and free-- Flings off the fetters of the calm and chill.

There in the garden, fauns leap out and sing-- Chant those strange sun-born songs from far away! With joyous ecstasy in this new spring, They cast the coats and top-hats of the day.

There by the railings, where the women pace With painted faces, passionless and dead, Out of the dark, Pan shows his leering face, Mocks their large hats and faces painted red. Then as they walk away, he mocks their lives, Racking each wearied soul with lost desires, And--cruelty more subtle--he contrives With aching memories of love's first fires To tune their hearts up to a different key.

So, when they sleep, the withered years unfold --Again, as children round a mother's knee They listen to their future as foretold --A future rich and innocent and gay.

Then wake up to the agony of day!

TEARS

Silence o'erwhelms the melody of Night, Then slowly drips on to the woods that sigh For their past vivid vernal ecstasy. The branches and the leaves let in the light In patterns, woven 'gainst the paler sky --Create mysterious Gothic tracery Between those high dark pillars, that affright Poor weary mortals who are wand'ring by.

Silence drips on the woods like sad faint rain Making each frail tired sigh a sob of pain; Each drop that falls, a hollow painted tear Such as are shed by Pierrots when they fear Black clouds may crush their silver lord to death. The world is waxen; and the wind's least breath Would make a hurricane of sound. The earth Smells of the hoarded sunlight that gave birth To the gold-glowing radiance of that leaf Which falls to bury from our sight its grief.

_To_ VIOLET GORDON-WOODHOUSE

CLAVICHORDS

Its pure and dulcet tone So clear and cool Rings out--tho' muffled by the centuries Passed by; Each note A distant sigh From some dead lovely throat.

A sad cascade of sound Floods the dim room with faded memories Of beauty that has gone Like the reflected rhythm in some dusk blue pool, Of dancing figures (long laid in the ground)-- Like moonlit skies Or some far song harmonious and sublime-- Breaking the leaden slumber of the night. A perfume, faint yet fair As of an old press'd blossom that's reborn Seeming to flower alone Within the arid wilderness of Time.

The music fills the air Soft as the outspread fluttering wings Of flower-bright butterflies That dive and float Through the sweet rose-flushed hours of summer dawn. The rippling sound of silver strings Break o'er our senses as small foaming waves Break over rocks, And into hidden caves Of silent waters--never to be found-- Waters as clear and glistening as gems.

And in this ancient pool of melodies, So soothing, deep, We search for strange lost images and diadems And old drowned pleasures, --Each one shining bright And rescued from the crystal depths of sleep.

As the far sun-kissed sails of some full-rigged boat, Blown by a salt cool breeze, --Laden with age-old treasures And rich merchandise-- Fade into evening on the foam-flecked seas-- So this last glowing note Hovers awhile--then dies.

PROMENADES

Long promenades against the sea Kaleidoscopic, chattering! Pavilions rising from the sea, On which a fawning, flattering, Hot crush of orientals move, And sell their cheap and tawdry wares, To other Jews, and aldermen, And rich, retired, provincial mayors. Oh! many colours in the sun; Copper and gold predominate! Parasols, held 'gainst the sun Throw down their shadows incohate On leering faces looking sly-- All shining with the heat of June. The shifting masses move and talk And whistle tunes all out of tune.

Long promenades against the sea, And oranges and mandolines! Pavilions rising from the sea And penny-in-the-slot machines!

CLOWN PONDI

When youth and strength had changed my blood to fire And every day passed long and glorious, Another link in the eternal chain Of life, I turned my love of luring and my sense For all the unfathomable ways of God, My burning sense for laughter and my joy In crowds, in tumult, and in blazing lights, To make my fellows see these qualities. Thus I became "Clown Pondi," and my fame Grew high in every theatre in the land.

I seem'd to draw fresh vigour from the crowds-- Loving the sea of faces, eyes with tears, And gaping mouths wide open--loosely hung; The acrid, opalescent haze of smoke, Hanging above the auditorium. And over it the crowded galleries That float far up, like painted prows of ships-- All overweighted and alive with men. I loved the limelight, hard and white and strong, The throbbing music and the theatre's scent, That artificial, paper, printed scent That sweeps across the footlights to the stalls.

Then was I pleased to strut about the stage, With face dead white, and strangely purple nose-- Flamboyant in the garb of foolery-- To run about too quickly--and fall down; To make queer noises--inarticulate Strange sounds and oaths, the signal for my share Of cackling laughter. Thus the years pass'd by And--all unheeding--swept away my youth, Till, one sad night, I heard a voice near-by: "Ah! Poor old man! It's shocking they should laugh; Mock his bent legs, and poor old toothless jaws!"

And then old-age rush'd down upon my head, Each sombre year roll'd past in solemn time; In true perspective--to the jingling tune That was my exit; and so near came death, Holding a mirror to my ridicule, That show'd each line beneath the smearing paint, Each wrinkle underneath the dab of rouge,

That in my sudden hopelessness I wept. But as I left the stage with dragging feet, With body bent with age, and crouching low, I heard the applauding people pause and say, "Who but Clown Pondi could amuse us so?"

LAUSIAC THEME

SERAPION-THE-SINDONITE Wore a cloth about his loins. This Christian Recondite Never carried coins.

Never did he ask for bread; Revelled in his own distress. High of spirit, low of head, With no other dress

Than a loin-cloth, Serapion Was free from greed and gluttony Progressed in the direction Of impassivity.

Serapion, though ascetic, Could not keep within his cell-- Spiritual athletic, Who wrestled with Hell--

This Sindonitic holy man Converted, overcome by pity, Thais, the famous courtesan, To Christianity.

Thais was not thin or frail But full of figure. Flesh and blood Rose up in riot--made her rail At a selfless God.

From Theban windows, far above, She plays and sings to a guitar With low voice: the light of love Beckons like a star.

Eagerly she welcomed in The unexpected Sindonite; But he spoke to her of sin-- Set her soul alight.

So they went together out To the crowded, garish street, Where he taught her how to flout Fumes of wine and meat.

To the Thebaid they go-- Where she stands each Christian test, Plaiting palm-leaves to and fro, Sure of heaven's rest.

In the desert they both died, Thais and the holy man. They were buried side by side, Ascetic and courtesan.

METAMORPHOSIS

The woods that ever love the moon, rest calm and white Beneath a mist-wrapp'd hill: An owl, horned wizard of the night, Flaps through the air so soft and still; Moaning, it wings its flight Far from the forest cool, To find the star-entangled surface of a pool, Where it may drink its fill Of stars; a blossom-laden breeze Scatters its treasures--each a fallen moon Among the waiting trees-- Bears back the faded shadow-scents of noon.

The whispering wood is full of dim, vague fears. The rustling branches sway And listen for some sound from far away-- A silver piping down the Pagan years Since Time's first joyous birth-- The listening trees all sigh, The moment of their hornèd king is nigh. Then, peal on peal, there sounds the fierce wild mirth Of Pan their master, lord and king, And round him in a moonlit ring His court, so wan and sly!

But then the trees closed round and hid from sight Their deeds--the voices seemed to die.

An owl, horned wizard of the night, Flaps through the air so soft and still. Moans, as it wings its flight Toward the mist-wrapp'd hill.

THE GIPSY QUEEN

A ragged Gipsy walked the road, Her eyes blazed fierce and strong, But she gazed at me as on she strode, She fiercely gazed, and long.

"Give me a penny, sir," she said, "To buy me drink and buy me bread, For I've nothing had to eat or drink, And at night I never sleep a wink. Cold is the snow and wet the rain, But my soul died when my love was slain!"

"Fair Gipsy, in some southern clime, I've seen your face before In some far other distant time, But whom are you weeping for?"

"'Twas Antony I loved," she said, "For him, in vain, I shed these tears, But my loved Antony is dead-- Is dead these long two thousand years;

Then I was mighty Egypt's pride, Fear'd both by friend and foe--

Yet they believe Cleopatra died Two thousand years ago!"

BLACK MASS

The atmosphere is charged with hidden things --Thoughts that are waiting--wanting to revive Primeval terrors from their present graves --Those half-thoughts hidden from the mind of man.

The fear of those bright, countless stars that shine Celestially serene on summer nights, --And those, too far for human eye to see-- That make men feel as small and ill at ease As do the thoughts of immortality; The fear of seas that stretch beyond our sight Unspoilt by any memory of a ship-- Strange, silent seas that lap the unknown shores Of some far-distant, undiscovered land; The curious fear of caves and horrid depths Where lurk those monsters that we hide away And bury in our self-complacency. The dread of all that waits unseen, yet heard; The fear of moonlight falling on a face; The sound of sobs at night, the fear of laughter; The misty terror lurking in a wood Which night has wrapped in her soft robe of sighs.

The horror that is felt where man is not, In lonely lands all dotted with squat trees That seem to move in the grey twilight breeze --Or sit and watch you like malicious cripples, Intent on every movement, every thought-- Where stones, like evil fungi, raise their bulk Cover'd with lichen older than the hills-- A warning for the ages yet to come; Stones that have seen the sun, and moon, and stars, Deflect their course for very weariness. These fears are gathered, press'd into a room Vibrating with the wish to damage man; To put a seal upon his mind and soul-- These fears are fused into a living flame.

The room is filled with men of evil thoughts, And some poor timid ones, on evil bent. They stand in anxious, ghastly expectation.

The guttering light is low, and follows them With subtle shadows tall beyond belief: Vast elemental shapes that make men feel Like dusty atoms blown by wayward winds About the world: shadows that sway and swing. And sigh and talk, as if themselves alive. Small shadows cringe about the room incredibly, Grotesque and dwarf-like in their attitudes; Malignant, mocking things that caper round-- Triumphant heralds of an evil reign.

Secret and swift they flit about the wall; Noiseless, they drag their feet about the floor, And murmur subtle infamies of love, Sweet-sounding threats, and bribes, and baleful thoughts.

Yet all are waiting, evilly alert... Yet all are waiting--watching for events.

Silence has ceased to be a negative, Becomes a thing of substance--fills the room And clings like ivy to the listening walls. The flickering light flares up--then gutters out. The shadows seem to shiver and expand To active, evil things that breathe and live.

But now they whirl and dance in ecstasy. The highest moment of their mass is near. We only feel the swaying of the shades, --Rhythm of wicked music that escapes Our consciousness, tho' we have known it long-- The music of the evil things of Night Scarcely remembered from some dim, vast world-- The things that haunted us when we were young And nearer to our past realities. Like scaly snakes, the hymn to evil writhes Through the sub-conscious basis of our mind. Eddies of icy breath, or hot as flame, Twist into all the corners of the room, Filling our veins with fire like red-hot iron, And wicked as the Prince of Evil Things.

Faintly his glowing presence is revealed to us Amid the chorus of his satellites. The consummation of our awful hopes.

PIERROT AT THE WAR

The leaden years have dragged themselves away; The blossoms of the world lie all dash'd down And flattened by the hurricane of death: The roses fallen, and their fragrant breath Has passed beyond our senses--and we drown Our tragic thoughts: confine them to the day.

Pierrot was happy here two years ago, Singing through all the summer-scented hours, Dancing throughout the warm moon-haunted night. Swan-like his floating sleeves, so long and white, Sailed the blue waters of the dusk. Wan flowers, Like moons, perfumed the crystal valley far below.

But now these moonlit sleeves lie on the ground, Trampled and torn from many a deadly fight. With fingers clenched, and face a mask of stone, He gazes at the sky--left all alone-- Grimacing under every rising light: His body waits the peace his soul has found.

_April_, 1917.

SPRING HOURS

The air is silken--soft and dark-- Calm as the waters of some blue, far sea; Sweet as a youthful dream, The trees stand cold and stark, Yet full of the new life which makes each tree To tremble with delight; sets free The summer rapture of the stream.

But now the clouds disperse and drift away, Splashing the woods with patches of pale light, Sail off like silver ships, and then display The dazzling myriad blossoms of the night.

Ah! It is worth full many a sun-gilt hour To see the heavens bursting into flower.