Part 3

There’s a white rose leaf-cloistered in heavy noon-hush, And no eyes but the stars tempt its pale face to blush, In that wilderness garden where, shut from day’s beam, Fall its fragrant white leaves, light as steps of a dream. But it is not for you, and it is not for me, Nay, it is not for any who here may be; For it sleeps and then wakes In dew-scented snow-flakes, As a star for the dusk hair we never may see.

In a green golden valley there grows an elf-girl, And her lip is red-ripe; and her soul, one rich pearl, Yields once to one diver a treasure unpriced As the wine of the Gods or the wine-blood of Christ. But she is not for you, and she is not for me, Nay she is not for any who here may be; For her breast like a moon Through the rosed air of June Grows round for his hand whom we never may see.

HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER.

A DREAM SHAPE.

With moon-white hearts that held a gleam I gathered wild flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood Was odour of the wildwood bud.

From dew, the starlight arrowed through, I wrought a woman’s eyes of blue; The lids, that on her eyeballs lay, Were rose-pale petals of the May.

I took the music of the breeze, And water whispering in the trees, And shaped the soul that breathed below A woman’s blossom breasts of snow.

Out of a rose-bud’s veins I drew The fragrant crimsom beating through The languid lips of her, whose kiss Was as a poppy’s drowsiness.

Out of the moonlight and the air I wrought the glory of her hair, That o’er her eyes’ blue heaven lay Like some gold cloud o’er dawn of day.

A shadow’s shadow in the glass Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass; And, thinking of it now, meseems We only live within our dreams.

For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I-- The unreal things that pass and die.

MADISON CAWEIN.

UNREQUITED.

Passion? not hers who fixed me with pure eyes-- One hand among the deep curls of her brow, I drank the girlhood 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 loaned language to melodious prayer; Sweetheart I called her.--When did she repeat Sweet to one hope or heart to one despair!

So have I seen a glad flower’s fragrant head Sung to and sung to by a longing bird, And at the last, albeit the bird lay dead, No blossom wilted, for it had not heard.

MADISON CAWEIN.

IN THE WOOD.

Through laughing leaves the sunlight comes, Turning the green to gold; The bee about the heather hums, And the morning air is cold Here on the breezy woodland side, Where we two ride.

Through laughing leaves on golden hair, The sunlight glances down, And makes a halo round her there, And crowns her with a crown Queen of the sunrise and the sun, As we ride on.

The wanton wind has kissed her face,-- His lips have left a rose,-- He found her cheek so sweet a place For kisses, I suppose,-- He thought he’d leave a sign, that so Others might know.

The path grows narrower as we ride The green boughs close above, And overhead, and either side, The wild birds sing of Love:-- But ah, she is not listening To what they sing!

Till I take up the wild bird’s song And word by word unfold Its meaning as we ride along,-- And when my tale is told, I turn my eyes to hers again,-- And then,--and then,--

(The bridle path more narrow grows, The leaves shut out the sun;--) Where the wind’s lips left their one rose My own leave more than one:-- While the leaves murmur up above, And laugh for love.

This was the place;--you see the sky Now ’twixt the branches bare; About the path the dead leaves lie, And songless is the air;-- All’s changed since then, for that you know Was long ago.

Let us ride on! The wind is cold.-- Let us ride on--ride fast!-- ’Tis winter, and we know of old That love could never last Without the summer and the sun!-- Let us ride on!

HERBERT E. CLARKE.

BIRDS AND LOVERS.

I.

O brown lark, loving cloud-land best And sun-smit seas of sky, Thee does a musical unrest Drive to rise upward from thy nest Far fathoms high.

II.

O fluid-fluting blackbird, keep The midnight of thy wing Close to my home where leaves grow deep, Since where two lovers lie asleep Thou lovest to sing.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

DAWN.

Dawn, with flusht foot upon the mountain tops, Stands beckoning to the Sun-god’s golden car, While on her high clear brow the morning star Grows fainter, as the silver-misty copse And rosy river-bend and village white Feel the strong shafts of light.

The tide of dreams has reached its utter ebb; The joy of Dawn is in my Lady’s eyes, Where at her window with a half-surprise She sees the meadows meshed with fairy web, And hears the happy skylark, far above, Singing, _I live! I love!_

MORTIMER COLLINS.

LOVE’S POWER.

The fire is smouldering while the daylight wanes; Rain taps impatient on the window-panes; The waves roll high, and the cold wind complains. The wind complains.

Reluctant start the embers to a blaze; Among the ashy drifts the red coal plays; In fairy rings the circling smoke delays. The smoke delays.

Ah, lonely life! it is the wind’s sad cry; Ah, only life! calls Echo, floating by; Ah, love is life! it is my heart’s reply. My heart’s reply.

Burn low, ye fires that on the hearthstone play! Beat out your life, O waves in dashing spray! My heart chants not your monotone to-day. Oh, not to-day!

I hear no dirge, I see no ashes gray-- Love! love! love! love! its rapture fills the day! The winter brings to me the bloom of May. The bloom of May.

LYDIA AVERY COONLEY.

LAST NIGHT MY LADY TALKED WITH ME.

Last night my lady talked with me, As on a green hill I and she Sat close, where erst alone I stood Beneath the dusk-leaved ilex-wood.

The earth was gathered to her rest, Sweet silence lay upon her breast, Well-nigh asleep, save that she heard The wandering waters’ silver word.

The sun had kissed the earth’s dark lips That grow so ruddy ere he dips, Wine-coloured to his golden rim, As purple evening pours for him.

Low stooped his head, as he would drink, Till out of sight we saw him sink, And with his splendour in our eyes, Full-orbed we watched the great moon rise.

Rose-tinged in the dim sky shone she Like Venus from the opal sea, So grew her glory in our sight, Till in her face we saw love’s light,

Love’s light in hers, like flame on flame,-- Yea, very Love in presence came, Between the fires of moon and sun, He stood, like dawn ere night begun.

Clear-aureoled his golden head, His eyes our burning hearts well read, And in the sanctuary of my soul I won of love the golden goal.

WALTER CRANE.

LOVE’S ARROWS.

I saw young Love make trial of his bow, In May’s green garden where he shot his dart, Nor recked if any nigh beheld his art, But other eyes did mark him as I know; For my sweet lady sate anear his throw, And I with her, and joinèd heart to heart, So that we might not feel the bitter smart Love leaveth there when time doth force us go.

We heard Love’s arrows falling in the grass, Or watched them quiver in the targe below; Yet few to us came nigh, nor might they pass Beyond our feet, which trembled when they came, Whose hearts were not the quarry for his aim, That in Love’s chase fell stricken long ago.

WALTER CRANE.

A LOVE SONG.

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

Time with his jealous icy blast Will wither all your charms, like sweet flowers past And dead in winter’s tomb; Till soft, red lips are kissless, and the joy They now can give, tho’ now, alas, too coy, Has perish’d with their bloom.

Yet when your eyes, veil’d in a cloud of tears, Shall mourn the rigour of the fleeting years, And see each grace depart, When in the past, as in a stream, you gaze, And seek the lovely form of other days, Look rather in my heart;

There will your beauty flourish years untold, There will my loyalty watch you as of old, And keep you still the same; Just as a golden lamp some holy maid Might shelter with her hand, while thro’ the shade She bears the trembling flame.

Oh, when Death smiling comes, as come he must, And shatters our twin torches in the dust, A stronger love shall bloom; Then shall my last sweet resting-place be thine, And your soft hand clasp’d tenderly in mine, In our last bed, the tomb.

Or, rather, darling, let us fly away, Just as upon some glorious autumn day Two loving swans might rise, And, still caressing, leave their wonted nest, And seek for brighter lands, and climes more blest, And fuller, deeper skies!

HARRY CURWEN.

THE PARTING HOUR.

Not yet, dear love, not yet: the sun is high; You said last night, “At sunset I will go.” Come to the garden, where, when blossoms die, No word is spoken; it is better so: Ah! bitter word, “Farewell.”

Hark how the birds sing sunny songs of spring! Soon they will build, and work will silence them; So we grow less light-hearted as years bring Life’s grave responsibilities--and then The bitter word “Farewell.”

The violets fret to fragrance ’neath your feet, Heaven’s gold sunlight dreams aslant your hair: No flower for me! your mouth is far more sweet. Oh, let my lips forget, while lingering there, Love’s bitter word “Farewell.”

* * * * *

Sunset already! have we sat so long? The parting hour, and so much left unsaid! The garden has grown silent--void of song, Our sorrow shakes us with a sudden dread! Ah! bitter word “Farewell.”

OLIVE CUSTANCE.

THE SUNDIAL.

’Tis an old dial, dark with many a stain; In summer crowned with drifting orchard-bloom, Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, And white in winter like a marble tomb;

And round about its gray, time-eaten brow Lean letters speak--a worn and shattered row; _I am a Shade: a Shadow too arte thou: I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?_

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head; And here the snail a silver course would run, Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,-- Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.

O’er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed, About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.

She leaned upon the slab a little while, Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; There came a second lady in the place, Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale-- An inner beauty shining from her face.

She, as if listless with a lonely love, Straying among the alleys with a book,-- Herrick or Herbert,--watched the circling dove, And spied the tiny letter in the nook.

Then, like to one who confirmation found Of some dread secret half accounted true,-- Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, And argued loving commerce ’twixt the two,

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone, The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; And ’twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; There came a soldier gallant in her stead, Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head;

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; So kindly fronted that you marvel how The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; And standing somewhat widely, like to one More used to “Boot and Saddle” than to cringe

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, Took out the note; held it as one who feared The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; Laughed softly in a flattered happy way, Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest, And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.

* * * * *

The shade crept forward through the dying glow; There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; But for a little time the brass will show A small gray spot--the record of a tear.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

SPRING SONG.

Herald of peace and joy, Lone on the bough; Minstrel without alloy. What flutest thou?

Violet, hiding low, Fragrant and shy, What message bearest thou Voiced in thy sigh?

Buds that unloose your hasp Long cased in mail, Wrest from grim Winter’s grasp, Freed from his pale;

Brooklets, swift hurrying, Purling your chime. What is the theme ye sing Endless as Time?

“We sing the sun,” they say, “We sing the spring; Love crowns our holyday, Love is our king.”

E’en so the thought of Thee Rapture doth bring, Yielding delight to me Dearer than spring;

Blither than robin’s strain, Fairer than flowers; Fresh as the vernal rain, Bright as the hours.

Thy smile my sun, I ween, Thine eyes my May: All thy sweet grace, my Queen, Fondly, I pray,

Grant me to keep and hold Fast in love’s shrine,-- Spring may no joys unfold Art thou not mine!

GEORGE H. ELLWANGER.

TO JESSIE’S DANCING FEET.

How, as a spider’s web is spun With subtle grace and art, Do thy light footsteps, every one, Cross and recross my heart! Now here, now there, and to and fro, Their winding mazes turn; Thy fairy feet so lightly go They seem the earth to spurn. Yet every step leaves there behind A something, when you dance, That serves to tangle up my mind And all my soul entrance.

How, as the web the spiders spin And wanton breezes blow, Thy soft and filmy laces in A swirl around thee flow! The cobweb ’neath thy chin that’s crossed Remains demurely put, While those are ever whirled and tossed That show thy saucy foot: That show the silver grayness of Thy stocking’s silken sheen, And mesh of snowy skirts above The silver that is seen.

How, as the spider from his web Dangles in light suspense, Do thy sweet measures’ flow and ebb Sway my enraptured sense! Thy flutt’ring lace, thy dainty airs, Thy every charming pose-- There are not more alluring snares To bind me with than those. Swing on! Sway on! With easy grace Thy witching steps repeat! The love I dare not--to thy face-- I offer at thy feet.

W. D. ELLWANGER.

A LOVE SONG.

Oh, to think, oh, to think as I see her stand there With the rose that I plucked in her glorious hair, In the robe that I love. So demure and so neat, I am lord of her lips and her eyes and her feet.

Oh, to think, oh, to think when the last hedge is leapt, When the blood is awakened that dreamingly slept, I shall make her heart throb In its cradle of lace, As the lord of her hair and her breast and her face.

Oh, to think, oh, to think when our wedding-bells ring, When our love’s at the summer but life’s at the spring, I shall guard her asleep As my hound guards her glove, Being lord of her life and her heart and her love!

NORMAN R. GALE.

A SONG.

I will not say my true love’s eyes Outshine the noblest star; But in their depth of lustre lies My peace, my truce, my war.

I will not say upon her neck Is white to shame the snow; For if her bosom hath a speck I would not have it go.

My love is as a woman sweet, And as a woman white; Who’s more than this is more than meet For me and my delight.

NORMAN R. GALE.

A NOCTURNE.

Keen winds of cloud and vaporous drift Disrobe yon star, as ghosts that lift A snowy curtain from its place, To scan a pillowed beauty’s face.

They see her slumbering splendours lie Bedded on blue unfathomed sky, And swoon for love and deep delight, And stillness falls on all the night.

RICHARD GARNETT.

VIOLETS.

Cold blows the wind against the hill, And cold upon the plain; I sit me by the bank, until The violets come again.

Here sat we when the grass was set With violets shining through, And leafing branches spread a net To hold a sky of blue.

The trumpet clamoured from the plain, The cannon rent the sky; I cried, O Love, come back again, Before the violets die!

But they are dead upon the hill, And he upon the plain; I sit me by the bank, until My violets come again.

RICHARD GARNETT.

A YEAR.

When the hot wasp hung in the grape last year, And tendrils withered and leaves grew sear, There was little to hope and nothing to fear, And the smouldering autumn sank apace, And my heart was hollow and cold and drear.

When the last gray moth that November brings Had folded its sallow and sombre wings, Like the tuneless voice of a child that sings, A music arose in that desolate place, A broken music of hopeless things.

But time went by with the month of snows, And the pulse and tide of that music rose; As a pain that fades is a pleasure that grows, So hope sprang up with a heart of grace, And love as a crocus-bud that blows.

And now I know when next autumn has dried The sweet hot juice to the grape-skin’s side, And the new wasps dart where the old ones died, My heart will have rest in one luminous face, And its longing and yearning be satisfied.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

I’VE KISSED THEE, SWEETHEART.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THÉOPHILE DE VIAU.

I’ve kissed thee, sweetheart, in a dream at least, And though the core of love is in me still, This joy, that in my sense did softly thrill, The ardour of my longing hath appeased, And by this tender strife my spirit, eased, Can laugh at that sweet theft against thy will, And, half consoled, I soothe myself until I find my heart from all its pain released. My senses, hushed, begin to fall on sleep; Slumber, for which two weary nights I weep, Takes thy dear place at last within mine eyes; And though so cold he is, as all men vow, For me he breaks his natural icy guise, And shows himself more warm and fond than thou.

EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE.

COMPLAINT.

Men, women, call thee so and so; I do not know. Thou hast no name For me, but in my heart a flame

Burns tireless, ’neath a silver vine; And round entwine Its purple girth All things of fragrance and of worth.

Thou shout! thou burst of light! thou throb Of pain! thou sob! Thou like a bar Of some sonata, heard from far

Through blue-hued veils! When in these wise, To my soul’s eyes Thy shape appears, My aching hands are full of tears.

JOHN GRAY.

HEART’S DEMESNE.

Listen, bright lady, thy deep Pansie eyes Made never answer when my eyes did pray, Than with those quaintest looks of blank surprise.

But my lovelonging hath devised a way To mock thy living image, from thy hair To thy rose toes; and keep thee by alway.

My garden’s face is, oh! so maidly fair, With limbs all tapering, and with hues all fresh; Thine are the beauties all that flourish there.

Amaranth, fadeless, tells me of thy flesh. Briar-rose knows thy cheek, the Pink thy pout, Bunched kisses dangle from the Woodbine mesh.

I love to loll, when Daisy stars peep out, And hear the music of my garden dell, Hollyhock’s laughter and the Sunflower’s shout,-- And many whisper things I dare not tell.

JOHN GRAY.

IN THE EVENING.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF COUNTESS LARA.

I sit alone and watch the cinders glare, Or hear the pine-logs crackling sharp and low. I wait him still; he went not long ago, Humming a tune, his cigarette aflare.

He was called out by some most grave affair; His friends, on cards intent, would have it so; Or some new singer’s style he fain would know, Who with false graces mars a grand old air.

And for such things as these he stays away, Till midnight passes, and, at one, the bell Booms from the neighbouring church its single flight;

Then gaily he returns, and half in play Kisses me lightly, asks if I am well, And never dreams that I have wept all night.

G. A. GREENE.

WHEN THE LEAVES FALL IN AUTUMN.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF LORENZO STECCHETTI.

When the leaves fall in autumn, and you go To seek the cross that marks my lonely grave, In that far corner where they laid me low The nodding wild-flowers o’er my bones shall wave.

Oh, pluck you then, to deck your golden hair, The flowers born of my heart which blossom there:

They are the songs I dreamed, but ne’er have sung, The words of love you heard not on my tongue.

G. A. GREENE.

“QUI SAIT AIMER, SAIT MOURIR.”

“I burn my soul away!” So spake the Rose and smiled; “within my cup All day the sunbeams fall in flame, all day They drink my sweetness up!”

“I sigh my soul away!” The Lily said; “all night the moonbeams pale Steal round and round me, whispering in their play An all too tender tale!”

“I give my soul away!” The Violet said; “the West wind wanders on, The North wind comes; I know not what they say, And yet my soul is gone!”

O Poet, burn away Thy fervent soul! fond Lover at the feet Of her thou lovest, sigh! dear Christian, pray, And let the world be sweet!

DORA GREENWELL.

SONG.

If love were like a thrush’s song, Ah me! ah me! I’d list his tale the whole day long, Ah me! I’d never know how time went by, I’d never guess that time will die; Rapt in that living ecstasy, Ah me! ah me! I’d list a glorious life along If love were but a thrush’s song.

But love is fierce and love is fain, Ah me! ah me! Love has one bitter sweet refrain, Ah me! Love knows of anguish every tone, Love knows of joy but hope alone, Love knows of hope that hope is flown, Ah me! ah me! Love! poor fierce Love, by storm winds driven, Love is earth’s vain desire for heaven, Ah me!

A. STEPNEY GULSTON.

O KNIGHT, IF THOU A LADY HAST.