Part 2

I walk between the narrow way of yew. The glowing amaranth droops upon its stalk, The shivering birds are timorous and few, And waifs of Summer strew th' untended walk; With vague sweet forms I seem to pass and talk. The ladies of those days in Summer's prime Whose smiles prevailed not for the frown of Time.

Their little tripping feet reluctant turned Down the dark paths they had not known before; Behind them all the glow of living burned, But they must enter thro' the gloomy door, And leave behind the loves that plead no more, The dear frivolity of wiles and ways They neither need nor know in these grim days.

Here in their garden's close I spend no tear, No smile--too rare the heights for such display. But on the frosted hedges' lifted spear And with my head a little bowed, I lay A pale camelia, proud and cold as they Who wait beneath their ashen pall of snow-- Perhaps the fair dead dames will see and know.

THE GRAVE OF HOPE

There's a wild little gnome in the wood Who sings as he digs a grave Of Hope that soars and Hope that flies And Hope that singes her wings, and lies In peace where the willows wave.

And he croons in the pauses of toil, A shivering song of Fears, The lean black shades of Hope so fair Who weave her nets with her golden hair And harry her down the years.

And he knows she will perish at last, He has carved her name on the stone While the trees draw near and forget to sleep, And the little leaves bend their heads and weep, For Hope that must die alone.

TREES OF THE WILDERNESS

The great bleak trees stand up against the sky Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer To the unpitying heavens, that they might die, Rather than drag their weary lives out there.

Thro' starless nights the untold hours wear on, All awful phantom shapes affright the wood-- And morning light but brings th' unwinking sun, To torture with its glare their solitude.

In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing, No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands, Nor is there trace of any living thing, Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands.

And when they fall, still round the unknown spot Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground They end the life which is--and yet is not,-- A riddle where no meaning shall be found.

THE LOVE OF THE ROSE

Trilled forth the Nightingale In sweetest sleep of day-- Unto his love, the rose, Ah golden heart, unclose! For love, my fairest rose, will last for aye.

So, thro' the waning night She learned to wear her crown; Yielded her heart's sweet strife And found that love was life Set to the time the dear bird lilted down.

But when the morning came The red sun burned above; Hid are the night birds all, Flower petals fade and fall; The rose is dead--and what became of love!

IN THE GREEN YEW

The wind is howling in angry pain, Ah me, and I cannot rest; On such a night home is best, Why does she stand in the same old place With the smile of smiles on her cold white face And call me thro' the rain?

Ah--the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile-- And I creep quite still-- On over the hill, To where she stands 'mid the scented yew And where I now am standing too, And she sees me all the while.

A little green snake curls thro' her hair-- The scent of the yew is strong and sweet-- Her eyes have drawn me to her feet, And I lie along on the drenching ground And worship--and watch the snake curl round, His tongue shoots thro' the air.

Now--slowly she takes her eyes from me, And I dream and wait, Till in shades of hate My love of her smile has faded quite And I spring to kill her, there in the night-- But only the yew I see.

THE DEAD NIGHT

The strong brave Night is dead. Its endless deeps Of patient tenderness, the moon-bright still When every silver lake and purple hill Hold wise unfathomed converse with the steeps Of starry heaven, are past. All nature weeps And draws the veiling grey of morning mist Upon the lips that Night's last clouds have kist-- The Night that watched so well the world who sleeps. The Night is dead--Alas--and pallid Day is but the corpse laid out in cold array, The white sad emblem of the heart we knew. Through half-closed lids the eyes shine palely blue; The gleaming grave clothes cover all the rest. So cruel still lies now the air's sweet breast And trees and hills fold down calm hands and eyes, That none may guess their secret mysteries.

SONG

Softly sighs the gracious wind-- Dash of rose, in deeps of sky, Love is fair and love is kind,-- Singing free--I passed him by.

Shredded clouds are whirled in air, Winter stalks adown the gale Tossing wide Love's golden hair-- Cease the singing--Love grows pale.

Howls the grey sky to the sea-- Loose the storm-dogs from their bed. Turned I back--and woe is me-- I must die--for Love is dead.

SIGH NOT FOR LOVE

Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark! Sweet Child--hold up the hollow of your hand And catch the sparks that flutter from the stars! See how the late sky spreads in flushing bars! They are dead roses from your own dear land Tossed high by kindly breezes: lean, and hark, And you shall know how morning glads her lark! The timid Dawn, herself a little child Casts up shy eyes in loving worship--dear, Is it not yet enough? the Spring is here And would you weep for Winter's tempest wild Sigh not for love, the ways of love are dark!

AMBITION AND LOVE

Sweet, in the golden morning of my days, With young tempestuous joy I reared my head To gaze adown the splendid sunlit ways Where all the fires of fame burned glory red, I recked not where the sounding arches led, Save at the end I gain my august bays.

But as of old, when through the patient night, Fair losing or fair gaining, till the morn, Great Israel strove to break the angel's might, Till spent and failing, in his heavenly scorn, Th' immortal wrestler touched the earthly born, Striking him powerless, winning thus the fight.

So did false Fortune, when I strove and fought, Smiling 'neath half-closed eyelids, when seemed won, For a brief hour, the beckoning goal I sought-- Then with frustrating touch dimmed all my sun Blotted the work and faith so brave begun; But what I gained was none too dearly bought.

I have no wreath to lay before your feet; There shines no future, and the past is dead; But you have heard me, and I love you--Sweet. The low sun crowns with gold your gracious head, The heavy lilies nod upon their bed-- I look at you, and find my life complete.

TO B. D.

Broad browed beneath a cloud of dusky hair Her eyes are midnight seas that never sleep But see beyond the dull world's heavy air The mystery of ages buried deep.

The faint sweet shadows trembling round her mouth Lighten with youth and love the Sphinx's face. And as she moves, a soft wind from the South Floating, flower-laden seems--so sweet her grace.

Aloof she stands, from idle mirth and tears And keeps the white sails of her spirit furled, Altho' a girl, pure from the stain of years, An ancient Egypt, smiling at the world.

LITTLE SAD FACE

Little sad face, come close, so close to mine, See through these eyes the sweetness of the day, Feel how the sunbeams dance in Summer's wine, Hold fast my hands and let our pulse combine And with my steps dance down the happy way; For youth is love and love is light and gay, Little sad face.

Little sad heart, come close, so close to mine, And know the utmost limits of the will Of all the worlds, till soft thy heart divine A joy which can encompass grief like thine; Hide in my breast, and let faint pulses thrill, For youth is love, and love is great and still, Little sad heart.

Little sad soul, which ne'er can come to mine, So great in loneliness of grey despair, There is not one whose spirit may entwine With thee--the world looks on without a sign; Go--hide thy face within thy tossing hair, Thyself veil close with smiles, for none will care, Little sad soul.

EARTH'S TEARS-- AND MAN'S

These slanting lines of hoary rain Are as my grizzled hair; The face of earth is old with pain As mine--with dull despair.

And yet, one sun will gild the air, Earth's tears were not in vain: No smile can ease mine eyes of care Or make me young again!

I HAVE SEEN WHAT THE SERAPHS HAVE SEEN

I have seen what the seraphs have seen As they gaze thro' the limitless air-- Thro' the wind and the clouds to the lean Pale face of the moon, and the bare Bright flame of the sun, unaware, I have seen what the seraphs have seen!

Thro' the limitless spaces of air The brave mists that waver and wane Are patient and pallid and fair. I have fathomed the pride and the pain Of the snows and compassionate rain Thro' the limitless spaces of air.

I have known them, the brave mists that wane And the glory and peace of the skies. Where all strife and impatience are vain And ahush are all passionate sighs, For I gazed in the deeps of Love's eyes, And I know what no seraphs shall gain!

A LASS FROM THE WOODS

A lass from the woods With a leaf in her hair! And the rain of the night And the wind of the morn, They both quivered right; For my spirit forlorn In a garment of white And a laugh newly born Sprang in maddest of moods Like a blossom in air To the kiss of the sun And the curl of the breeze, Caught the cobwebs begun In the hush of the trees All my beatings were one With the swirl of the seas. Dead the creature that broods In a tangle of care; There's a lass from the woods With a leaf in her hair.

WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING

Was there another Spring than this? I half remember through the haze Of glimmering nights and golden days, A broken pinioned birdling's note, An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat, A wandering through rain-beaten ways! Lean closer, love--I have thy kiss! Was there another Spring than this?

TO DIANE

The ruddy poppies bend and bow Diane! do you remember? The sun you knew shines proudly now The lake still lists the breezes' vow; Your towers are fairer for their stains, Each stone you smiled upon remains. Sing low, where is Diane? Diane do you remember?

I come to find you through the years-- Diane! do you remember? For none may rule my love's soft fears. The ladies now are not your peers, I seek you thro' your tarnished halls, Pale sorrow on my spirit falls High, low--where is Diane? Diane do you remember?

I crush the poppies where I tread-- Diane! do you remember? Your flower of life--so bright, so red-- She does not hear--Diane is dead. I pace the sunny bowers alone Where nought of her remains but stone. Sing low--where is Diane? Diane does not remember.

BIRD LOVE-- ROSE LOVE

If you were but a rose--dear love-- And I your bird, with dip of wing To tell a promise of the Spring And with a golden swift caress My happy careless love confess, No pain such gentle vows could bring, No tears should stay my flight above, If you were but a rose--dear love.

Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day Why shall not we whose hearts are light Put by the coming of the night, Catch glints of rapture from the sky, The scents that swing where lilies lie, And ring them to a garland white To ease the pain of life away? Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day!

THE JOY OF LIFE

Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold, The leopard skin about her shoulders flung Showed gleams of her as marble--fair and cold; I breathed not--listening to the song she sung.

Hither and thither thro' the solemn world, Glory of purple, passionate blazing red Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled-- Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head.

"Heedless--men pass me in their search for life, Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires, Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife And know not that 'tis I--their heart desires.

They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast, The haze and perfume of a Summer's day, The silver stealing o'er the twilight West Are joys more rich than all the world's display."

MIST

Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing, Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main, Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.

THE LAST CLOUD

A red rose cloud upon the evening sky, A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight, Too proud for prisons of triumphant night. Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years, Its little hour too short for dreams or tears, The faithful sun its first and latest light-- Who would not so be glad to fight and die! A red rose cloud upon the evening sky.

SONG

Love is a broken lily, A pale and crownless rose With golden heart made chilly By traitor touch of snows. So sleep my heart--lie sleeping Nor open weary eyes, For waking is but weeping And Sleep is Paradise.

Love is a cadence trailing Where broken music falls, A hapless shadow sailing Across deserted walls. So still my heart lie sleeping Till love's hot sun be set, For waking is but weeping. Asleep--sad eyes forget.

IN THE GRAVE

Dear Love--do you wake in that land where my waking is done? Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun? And is Summer aflame? Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast, And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best, Wakeful--sighing my name?

Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head, And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed; Then I sigh and awake. For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn, And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born, For a woman's sweet sake.

Perhaps you are singing--and winding the garlands of May; Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day, Or give you pause to your song. Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath. Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear--for death Is so terribly long.

THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE

The jewels of the sun are not more rare Than these that lie upon my lurid halls. The perfume kiss upon the drowsy air Is sweet as Spring can hold within her walls. The spell which night may cast upon her thralls Is mine; the length of all this gloomy land Knows no more sun than falls from my white hand.

My wealth great kings have prayed for--in their pride, Bowing before me. Nay--I hate the place. I am no queen at heart--my laughter died That I might wear my crown with regal grace The very flowers which smile on my sad face I am afraid of. See! they are the worst Of all my fears; so fair--yet black accurst.

The languid passion-poppy sways and dips To show the black heart bursting into flame. The crimson evil of a satyr's lips A sneering nodding finger-post of shame; A thousand other flowers without a name Huddle all trembling in the dusk behind Like hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.

The grass is not the grass that overhead Cooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows; But thick pale blades, like fingers of the dead Thrust from forgotten graves upon their foes. Ah--horrid soil! for everything that grows In this confine but mocks in wicked scorn The fairness of the land where I was born.

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO London & Edinburgh

[Transcriber's Note:

Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error:

"Ehere is not one..." has been changed to "There is not one..."

Italic printed text has been formatted as _text_.]