Part 3

Under mossy oak and pine Whispering falls the fountained stream; In its pool the lilies shine Silvery, each a moonlight gleam.

Roses bloom and roses die In the warm rose-scented dark, Where the firefly, like an eye, Winks and glows, a golden spark.

Amber-belted through the night Swings the alabaster moon, Like a big magnolia white On the fragrant heart of June.

With a broken syrinx there, With bignonia overgrown, Is it Pan in hoof and hair, Or his image carved from stone?

See! her casement's jessamines part, And, with starry blossoms blent, Like the moon she leans--O heart, 'Tis another firmament.

SINGS

The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon-heavy odours where The heliotropes breathe drowsy musk Into the jasmine-dreamy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk And spills its attar there.

The orange at thy casement swings Star-censers oozing rich perfumes; The clematis, long-petalled, clings In clusters of dark purple blooms; With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings, Magnolias light the glooms.

Awake, awake from sleep! Thy balmy hair, Down-fallen, deep on deep, Like blossoms there,-- That dew and fragrance weep,-- Will fill the night with prayer. Awake, awake from sleep!

And dreaming here it seems to me A dryad's bosom grows confessed, Bright in the moss of yonder tree, That rustles with the murmurous West-- Or is it but a bloom I see, Round as thy virgin breast?

Through fathomless deeps above are rolled A million feverish worlds, that burst, Like gems, from Heaven's caskets old Of darkness--fires that throb and thirst; An aloe, showering buds of gold, The night seems, star-immersed.

Unseal, unseal thine eyes! O'er which her rod Sleep sways;--and like the skies, That dream and nod, Their starry majesties Will fill the night with God. Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

WILL O' THE WISPS

Beyond the barley meads and hay, What was the light that beckoned there? That made her sweet lips smile and say-- 'Oh, busk me in a gown of May, And knot red poppies in my hair.'

Over the meadow and the wood What was the voice that filled her ears? That sent into pale cheeks the blood, Until each seemed a wild-brier bud Mown down by mowing harvesters?...

Beyond the orchard, down the hill, The water flows, the water whirls; And there they found her past all ill, A plaintive face but smiling still, The cresses caught among her curls.

At twilight in the willow glen What sound is that the silence hears, When all the dusk is hushed again And homeward from the fields strong men And women go, the harvesters?

One seeks the place where she is laid, Where violets bloom from year to year-- 'O sunny head! O bird-like maid! The orchard blossoms fall and fade And I am lonely, lonely here.'

Two stars burn bright above the vale; They seem to him the eyes of Ruth: The low moon rises very pale As if she, too, had heard the tale, All heartbreak, of a maid and youth.

THE TOLLMAN'S DAUGHTER

She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above in twisted lengths were rolled The sunset's tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west's cloud-pillared fires. And in the hush no sound did mar, You almost heard o'er hill and dell, Deep, bubbling over, star on star, The night's blue cisterns slowly well. A crane, like some dark crescent, crossed The sunset, winging towards the west; While up the east her silver breast Of light the moon brought, white as frost.

So have I painted her, you see, The tollman's daughter.--What an arm And throat was hers! and what a form!-- Art dreams of such divinity. What braids of night to hold and kiss! There is no pigment anywhere A man might use to picture this-- The splendour of her raven hair. A face as beautiful and bright, As rosy fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes And eyebrowed black with pencilled night.

For her, I know, where'er she trod Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass To flash her beauty from the grass; That wild-flowers bloomed along the sod, And whispered perfume when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hear her song, Or, all enamoured, tame, not wild, Before her feet flew fluttering long. The brook went mad with melody, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst-- And I--I fell in love; ah me!

THE BOY COLUMBUS

And he had mused on lands each bird,-- That winged from realms of Falerina, O'er seas of the Enchanted Sword,-- In romance sang him, till he heard Vague foam on Islands of Alcina.

For rich Levant and old Castile Let other seamen freight their galleys; With Polo he and Mandeville Through stranger seas a dreamy keel Sailed into wonder-peopled valleys.

Far continents of flow'r and fruit, Of everlasting spring; where fountains 'Mid flow'rs, with human faces, shoot; Where races dwell, both man and brute, In cities under golden mountains.

Where cataracts their thunders hurl From heights the tempest has at mercy; Vast peaks that touch the moon, and whirl Their torrents down of gold and pearl; And forests strange as those of Circe.

Let rapiered Love lute, in the shade Of royal gardens, to the Palace And Court, that haunt the balustrade Of terraces and still parade Their vanity and guile and malice.

Him something calls diviner yet Than Love, more mighty than a lover; Heroic Truth that will not let Deed lag; a purpose, westward set, In eyes far-seeing to discover.

SONG OF THE ELF

I

When the poppies, with their shields, Sentinel Forest and the harvest fields, In the bell Of a blossom, fair to see, There I stall the bumble-bee, My good stud; There I stable him and hold, Harness him with hairy gold; There I ease his burly back Of the honey and its sack Gathered from each bud.

II

Where the glow-worm lights its lamp, There I lie; Where, above the grasses damp, Moths go by; Now within the fussy brook, Where the waters wind and crook Round the rocks, I go sailing down the gloom Straddling on a wisp of broom; Or, beneath the owlet moon, Trip it to the cricket's tune Tossing back my locks.

III

Ere the crowfoot on the lawn Lifts its head, Or the glow-worm's light be gone, Dim and dead, In a cobweb hammock deep, 'Twixt two ferns I swing and sleep, Hid away; Where the drowsy musk-rose blows And a dreamy runnel flows, In the land of Faery, Where no mortal thing can see, All the elfin day.

THE OLD INN

Red-winding from the sleepy town, One takes the lone, forgotten lane Straight through the hills. A brush-bird brown Bubbles in thorn-flowers, sweet with rain, Where breezes bend the gleaming grain, And cautious drip of higher leaves The lower dips that drip again.-- Above the tangled trees it heaves Its gables and its haunted eaves.

One creeper, gnarled and blossomless, O'erforests all its eastern wall; The sighing cedars rake and press Dark boughs along the panes they sprawl; While, where the sun beats, drone and drawl The mud-wasps; and one bushy bee, Gold-dusty, hurls along the hall To buzz into a crack.--To me The shadows seem too scared to flee.

Of ragged chimneys martins make Huge pipes of music; twittering, here They build and roost.--My footfalls wake Strange stealing echoes, till I fear I'll see my pale self drawing near, My phantom face as in a glass; Or one, men murdered, buried--where?-- Dim in gray stealthy glimmer, pass With lips that seem to moan 'Alas.'

THE MILL-WATER

The water-flag and wild cane grow 'Round banks whereon the sunbeams sow Fantastic gold when, on its shores, The wind sighs through the sycamores.

In one green angle, just in reach, Between a willow-tree and beech, Moss-grown and leaky lies a boat The thick-grown lilies keep afloat.

And through its waters, half awake, Slow swims the spotted water-snake; And near its edge, like some gray streak, Stands gaunt the still fly-up-the-creek.

Between the lily-pads and blooms The water-spirits set their looms, That weave the lace-like light that dims The glimmering leaves of under limbs.

Each lily is the hiding-place Of some dim wood-imp's elvish face, That watches you with gold-green eyes Where bubbles of its breathing rise.

I fancy, when the waxing moon Leans through the trees and dreams of June, And when the black bat slants its wing, And lonelier the green-frogs sing;

I fancy, when the whippoorwill In some old tree sings wild and shrill, With glow-worm eyes that dot the dark,-- Each holding high a firefly spark

To torch its way,--the wood-imps come: And some float rocking here; and some Unmoor the lily leaves and oar Around the old boat by the shore.

They climb through oozy weeds and moss; They swarm its rotting sides and toss Their firefly torches o'er its edge Or hang them in the tangled sedge.

The boat is loosed. The moon is pale. Around the dam they slowly sail. Upon the bow, to pilot it, A jack-o'-lantern gleam doth sit.

Yes, I have seen it in my dreams!-- Naught is forgotten! naught, it seems!-- The strangled face, the tangled hair Of the drown'd woman trailing there.

THE DREAM

This was my dream: It seemed the afternoon Of some deep tropic day; and yet the moon Stood round and bright with golden alchemy High in a heaven bluer than the sea. Long lawny lengths of perishable cloud Hung in a west o'er rolling forests bowed; Clouds raining colours, gold and violet, That, opening, seemed from mystic worlds to let Hints down of Parian beauty and lost charms Of dim immortals, young, with floating forms. And all about me fruited orchards grew, Pear, quince and peach, and plums of dusty blue; Rose-apricots and apples streaked with fire, Kissed into ripeness by the sun's desire And big with juice. And on far, fading hills, Down which it seemed a hundred torrent rills Flashed rushing silver, vines and vines and vines Of purple vintage swollen with cool wines; Pale pleasant wines and fragrant as late June, Their delicate tang drawn from the wine-white moon. And from the clouds o'er this sweet world there dripped An odorous music, strangely feverish-lipped, That swung and swooned and panted in mad sighs; Investing at each throb the air with eyes, And forms of sensuous spirits, limpid white, Clad on with raiment as of starry night; Fair, faint embodiments of melody, From out whose hearts of crystal one could see The music stream like light through delicate hands Hollowing a lamp. And as on sounding sands The ocean murmur haunts the rosy shells, Within whose convolutions beauty dwells, My soul became a vibrant harp of love, Re-echoing all the harmony above.

SPRING TWILIGHT

The sun set late; and left along the west A belt of furious ruby, o'er which snows Of clouds unrolled; each cloud a mighty breast Blooming with almond-rose.

The sun set late; and wafts of wind beat down, And cuffed the blossoms from the blossoming quince; Scattered the pollen from the lily's crown, And made the clover wince.

By dusky forests, through whose fretful boughs In flying fragments shot the evening's flame, Adown the tangled lane the quiet cows With dreamy tinklings came.

The sun set late; but hardly had he gone When o'er the moon's gold-litten crescent there, Clean Phosphor, polished as a precious stone, Burned in fair deeps of air.

As from faint stars the glory waned and waned, The crickets made the oldtime garden shrill; And past the luminous pasture-lands complained The first far whippoorwill.

A SLEET-STORM IN MAY

On southern winds shot through with amber light, Breathing soft balm and clothed in cloudy white, The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills, Waking the crocus and the daffodils. O'er the cold Earth she breathed a tender sigh-- The maples sang and flung their banners high, Their crimson-tasselled pennons, and the elm Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm. Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves, Under the forest's myriad naked eaves, Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue, Robed in the starlight of the twinkling dew. With timid tread adown the barren wood Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood White-mantled Winter wagging his white head, Stormy his brow and stormily he said: 'The God of Terror, and the King of Storm, Must I remind thee how my iron arm Raised my red standards 'mid these conquered bowers, Turning their green to crimson?--Thou, with flowers, Thou wouldst supplant me! nay! usurp my throne!-- Audacious one!'--And at her breast he tossed A bitter javelin of ice and frost; And left her lying on th' unfeeling mould. The fragile blossoms, gathered in the fold Of her warm bosom, fell in desolate rows About her beauty, and, like fragrant snows, Covered her lovely hands and beautiful feet, Or on her lips lay like last kisses sweet That died there. Lilacs, musky of the May, And bluer violets and snowdrops lay Entombed in crystal, icy dim and fair, Like teardrops scattered in her heavenly hair.

Alas! sad heart, break not beneath the pain! Time changeth all; the Beautiful wakes again.-- We should not question such; a higher power Knows best what bud is ripest or what flower, And silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

UNREQUITED

Passion? not hers, within whose virgin eyes All Eden lay.--And I remember how I drank the Heaven of her gaze with sighs-- She never sighed, nor gave me kiss or vow.

So have I seen a clear October pool, Cold, liquid topaz, set within the sear Gold of the woodland, tremorless and cool, Reflecting all the heartbreak of the year.

Sweetheart? not she whose voice was music sweet; Whose face was sweeter than melodious prayer. Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair?

So have I seen a rose set round with thorn, Sung to and sung to by a bird of spring, And when, breast-pierced, the bird lay all forlorn, The rose bloomed on, fair and unnoticing.

THE HEART O' SPRING

Whiten, oh whiten, O clouds of lawn! Lily-like clouds that whiten above, Now like a dove, and now like a swan, But never, oh never--pass on! pass on! Never so white as the throat of my love.

Blue-black night on the mountain peaks Is not so black as the locks o' my love! Stars that shine through the evening streaks Over the torrent that flashes and breaks, Are not so bright as the eyes o' my love!

Moon in a cloud, a cloud of snow, Mist in the vale where the rivulet sounds, Dropping from ledge to ledge below, Turning to gold in the sunset's glow, Are not so soft as her footstep sounds.

Sound o' May winds in the blossoming trees, Is not so sweet as her laugh that rings; Song o' wild birds on the morning breeze, Birds and brooks and murmur o' bees, Are harsh to her voice when she laughs or sings.

The rose of my heart is she, my dawn! My star o' the east, my moon above! My soul takes ship for the Avalon Of her heart of hearts, and shall sail on Till it anchors safe in its haven of love.

'A BROKEN RAINBOW ON THE SKIES OF MAY'

A broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost:-- So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost Of one great love, of iridescent ray, Spanning the roses dim of memory, Against the tumult of life's rushing crowds-- A broken rainbow on the skies of May.

A flashing humming-bird among the flowers, Deep-coloured blooms; its slender tongue and bill Sucking the syrups and the calyxed myrrhs, Till, being full of sweets, away it whirrs:-- Such was his love that won her heart's rich bowers To give to him their all, their honied showers, The bloom from which he drank his body's fill-- A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.

A moon, moth-white, that through long mists of fleece Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black, And, lost to vision, rims the black with froth:-- A love that swept its moon, like some great moth, Across the heaven of her soul's young peace; And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease Of time, through which its burning light comes back-- A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists of fleece.

A bolt of living thunder downward hurled, Momental blazing from the piled-up storm, That instants out the mountains and the ocean, The towering crag, then blots the sight's commotion:-- Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world, The deeps of life, 'round which fate's clouds are curled, And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm-- A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.

ORGIE

On nights like this, when bayou and lagoon Dream in the moonlight's mystic radiance, I seem to walk like one deep in a trance With old-world myths born of the mist and moon.

Lascivious eyes and mouths of sensual rose Smile into mine; and breasts of luring light, And tresses streaming golden to the night, Persuade me onward where the forest glows.

And then it seems along the haunted hills There falls a flutter as of beautiful feet, As if tempestuous troops of Maenads meet To drain deep bowls and shout and have their wills.

And then I feel her limbs will be revealed Like some great snow-white moth among the trees; Her vampire beauty, waiting there to seize And dance me downward where my doom is sealed.

REVERIE

What ogive gates from gold of Ophir wrought, What walls of Parian, whiter than a rose, What towers of crystal, for the eyes of thought, Hast builded on far Islands of Repose? Thy cloudy columns, vast, Corinthian, Or huge, Ionic, colonnade the heights Of dreamland, looming o'er the soul's deep seas; Built melodies of marble, that no man Has ever reached, except in fancy's flights, Templing the presence of perpetual ease.

Oft, where o'er plastic frieze and plinths of spar,-- In glimmering solitudes of pillared stone,-- The twilight blossoms with one violet star, With thee, O Reverie, I have stood alone, And there beheld, from out the Mythic Age, The rosy breasts of Cytherea--fair, Full-cestused, and suggestive of what loves Immortal--rise; and heard the lyric rage Of sun-burnt Poesy, whose throat breathes bare O'er leopard skins, fluting among his groves.

Oft, where thy castled peaks and templed vales Cloud--like convulsive sunsets--shores that dream, Myrrh-fragrant, over siren seas whose sails Gleam white as lilies on a lilied stream, My soul has dreamed. Or by thy sapphire sea, In thy arcaded gardens, in the shade Of breathing sculpture, oft has walked with thought, And bent, in shadowy attitude, its knee Before the shrine of Beauty that must fade And leave no memory of the mind that wrought.

Who hath beheld thy caverns where, in heaps, The wines of Lethe and Love's witchery, In sealed Amphorae a sibyl keeps, World-old, for ever guarded secretly?-- No wine of Xeres or of Syracuse! No fine Falernian and no vile Sabine!-- The stolen fire of a demigod, Whose bubbled purple goddess feet did bruise In crusted vats of vintage, where the green Flames with wild poppies, on the Samian sod.

Oh, for the deep enchantment of one draught! The reckless ecstasy of classic earth!-- With godlike eyes to laugh as gods have laughed In eyes of mortal brown, a mighty mirth. Of deity delirious with desire! To breathe the dropping roses of the shrines, The splashing wine-libation and the blood, And all the young priest's dreaming! To inspire My eager soul with beauty, 'til it shines An utt'rance of life's loftier brotherhood!

So would I slumber in the old-world shades, And Poesy should touch me, as some bold Wild bee a pulpy lily of the glades, Barbaric-covered with the kernelled gold; And feel the glory of the Golden Age Less godly than my purpose, strong to dare Death with the pure immortal lips of love: Less lovely than my soul's ideal rage To mate itself with Music and declare Itself part meaning of the stars above.

LETHE

I

There is a scent of roses and spilt wine Between the moonlight and the laurel coppice; The marble idol glimmers on its shrine, White as a star, among a heaven of poppies. Here all my life lies like a spilth of wine. There is a mouth of music like a lute, A nightingale that singeth to one flower; Between the falling flower and the fruit, Where love hath died, the music of an hour.

II

To sit alone with memory and a rose; To dwell with shadows of whilom romances; To make one hour of a year of woes And walk on starlight, in ethereal trances, With love's lost face fair as a moon-white rose. To shape from music and the scent of buds Love's spirit and its presence of sweet fire, Between the heart's wild burning and the blood's, Is part of life and of the soul's desire.

III

There is a song to silence and the stars, Between the forest and the temple's arches; And down the stream of night, like nenuphars, The tossing fires of the revellers' torches.-- Here all my life waits lonely as the stars.-- Shall not one hour of all those hours suffice For resignation God hath given as dower? Between the summons and the sacrifice One hour of love, th' eternity of an hour?

IV

The shrine is shattered and the bird is gone; Dark is the house of music and of bridal; The stars are stricken and the storm comes on; Lost in a wreck of roses lies the idol, Sad as the memory of a joy that's gone.-- To dream of perished gladness and a kiss, Waking the last chord of love's broken lyre, Between remembering and forgetting, this Is part of life and of the soul's desire.

DIONYSIA