Part 2

And suddenly one dimly sees, Come through the trees, A woman, like a wild moss-rose: A man, who goes Softly: and by the dial They kiss a while: Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan, And they, like ghosts, are gone.

_THE LONELY LAND_

A river binds the lonely land, A river like a silver band, To crags and shores of yellow sand.

It is a place where kildees cry, And endless marches eastward lie, Whereon looks down a ghostly sky.

A house stands gray and all alone Upon a hill, as dim of tone, And lonely, as a lonely stone.

There are no signs of life about: No barnyard bustle, cry and shout Of children who run laughing out.

No crow of cocks, no low of cows, No sheep-bell tinkling under boughs Of beech, or song in garth or house.

Only the curlew's mournful call, Circling the sky at evenfall, And loon lamenting over all.

A garden, where the sunflower dies And lily on the pathway lies, Looks blindly at the blinder skies.

And round the place a lone wind blows, As when the Autumn grieving goes, Tattered and dripping, to its close.

And on decaying shrubs and vines The moon's thin crescent, dwindling shines, Caught in the claws of sombre pines.

And then a pale girl, like a flower, Enters the garden: for an hour She waits beside a wild-rose bower.

There is no other one around; No sound, except the cricket's sound And far-off baying of a hound.

There is no fire or candle-light To flash its message through the night Of welcome from some casement bright.

Only the moon, that thinly throws A shadow on the girl and rose, As to its setting slow it goes.

And when 'tis gone, from shore and stream There steals a mist, that turns to dream That place where all things merely seem.

And through the mist there goes a cry, Not of the earth nor of the sky, But of the years that have passed by.

And with the cry there comes the rain, Whispering of all that was in vain At every door and window-pane.

And she, who waits beside the rose, Hears, with her heart, a hoof that goes, Galloping afar to where none knows.

And then she bows her head and weeps.... And suddenly a shadow sweeps Around, and in its darkening deeps.

The house, the girl, the cliffs and stream Are gone.--And they, and all things seem But phantoms, merely, in a dream.

_THE WIND WITCH_

The wind that met her in the park, Came hurrying to my side-- It ran to me, it leapt to me, And nowhere would abide.

It whispered in my ear a word, So sweet a word, I swear, It smelt of honey and the kiss It'd stolen from her hair.

Then shouted me the flowery way Whereon she walked with dreams, And bade me wait and watch her pass Among the glooms and gleams.

It ran to meet her as she came And clasped her to its breast; It kissed her throat, her chin, her mouth, And laughed its merriest.

Then to my side it leapt again, And took me by surprise: The kiss it'd stolen from her lips It blew into my eyes.

Since then, it seems, I have grown blind To every face but hers: It haunts me sleeping or awake, And is become my curse.

The spell, that kiss has laid on me, Shall hold my eyes the same, Until I give it back again To lips from which it came.

_OLD GHOSTS_

Clove-spicy pinks and phlox that fill the sense With drowsy indolence; And in the evening skies Interior splendor, pregnant with surprise, As if in some new wise The full moon soon would rise.

Hung with the crimson aigrets of its seeds The purple monkshood bleeds; The dewy crickets chirr, And everywhere are lights of lavender; And scents of musk and myrrh To guide the foot of her.

She passes like a misty glimmer on To where the rose blooms wan,-- A twilight moth in flight,-- As in the west its streak of chrysolite The dusk erases quite, And ushers in the night.

And now another shadow passes slow, With firefly light a-glow: The scent of a cigar, And two who kiss beneath the evening-star, Where, in a moonbeam bar, A whippoorwill cries afar.

Again the tale is told, that has been told So often here of old: Ghosts of dead lovers they? Or memories only of some perished day?-- Old ghosts, no time shall lay, That haunt the place alway.

_THE NAME ON THE TREE_

I saw a name carved on a tree--"Julia"; A simpler name there could not be--Julia: But seeing it I seemed to see A Devon garden,--pleasantly About a parsonage,--the bee Made drowsy-sweet; where rosemary And pink and phlox and peony Bowed down to one Whom Herrick made to bloom in Poetry.

A moment there I saw her stand,--Julia; A gillyflower in her hand,--Julia: And then, kind-faced and big and bland, As raised by some magician's wand, Herrick himself passed by, sun-tanned, And smiling; and the quiet land Seemed to take on and understand A dream long dreamed, And for the lives of two some gladness planned.

And then I seemed to hear a sigh,--"Julia!" And someone softly walking nigh,--Julia: The leaves shook; and a butterfly Trailed past; and through the sleepy sky A bird flew, crying strange its cry-- Then suddenly before my eye Two lovers strolled--They knew not why I looked amazed,-- But I had seen old ghosts of long dead loves go by.

_THE HAUNTED GARDEN_

There a tattered marigold And dead asters manifold, Showed him where the garden old Of time bloomed: Briar and thistle overgrew Corners where the rose once blew, Where the phlox of every hue Lay entombed.

Here a coreopsis flower Pushed its disc above a bower, Where once poured a starry shower, Bronze and gold: And a twisted hollyhock, And the remnant of a stock, Struggled up, 'mid burr and dock, Through the mold.

Flower-pots, with mossy cloak, Strewed a place beneath an oak, Where the garden-bench lay broke By the tree: And he thought of _her_, who here Sat with him but yesteryear; Her, whose presence now seemed near Stealthily.

And the garden seemed to look For her coming. Petals shook On the spot where, with her book, Oft she sat.-- Suddenly there blew a wind: And across the garden blind, Like a black thought in a mind, Stole a cat.

Lean as hunger; like the shade Of a dream; a ghost unlaid; Through the weeds its way it made, Gaunt and old: Once 't was _hers_. He looked to see If _she_ followed to the tree.-- Then recalled how long since she Had been mold.

_THE CLOSED DOOR_

Shut it out of the heart--this grief, O Love, with the years grown old and hoary! And let in joy that life is brief, And give God thanks for the end of the story. The bond of the flesh is transitory, And beauty goes with the lapse of years-- The brow's white rose and the hair's dark glory-- God be thanked for the severing shears!

Over the past, Heart, waste no tears! Over the past, and all its madness, Its wine and wormwood, hopes and fears, That never were worth a moment's sadness. Here she lies who was part o' its gladness, Wife and mistress, and shared its woe, The good of life as well as its badness,-- Look on her face and see if you know.

Is this the face?--yea, ask it slow!-- The hair, the form, that we used to cherish?-- Where is the glory of long-ago? The beauty we said would never perish.-- Like a dream we dream, or a thought we nourish, Nothing of earth immortal is: This is the end however we flourish-- All that is fair must come to this.

_THE LONG ROOM_

He found the long room as it was of old, Glimmering with sunset's gold; That made the tapestries seem full of eyes Strange with a wild surmise: Glaring upon a Psyche where she shone Carven of stainless stone, Holding a crystal heart where many a sun Seemed starrily bound in one: And near her, grim in rigid metal, stood An old knight in a wood, Groping his way: the bony wreck, that was His steed, at weary pause. And over these a canvas--one mad mesh Of Chrysoprase tints of flesh And breasts--Bohemian cups, whose glory gleamed For one who, brutish, seemed A hideous Troll, unto whose lustful arms She yielded glad her charms.

Then he remembered all _her_ shame; and knew The thing that he must do: These were but records of _his_ life: the whole Portrayed to him his soul.-- So, drawing forth the slim Bithynian phial, He drained it with a smile. And 'twixt the Knight and Psyche fell and died; The arras, evil-eyed, Glared grimly at him where all night he lay, And where a stealthy ray Pointed her to _him_--her, that nymph above, Who gave the Troll her love.

_IN PEARL AND GOLD_

When pearl and gold, o'er deeps of musk, The moon curves, silvering the dusk,-- As in a garden, dreaming, A lily slips its dewy husk A firefly in its gleaming,-- I of my garden am a guest; My garden, that, in beauty dressed Of simple shrubs and oldtime flowers, Chats with me of the perished hours, When _she_ companioned me in life, Living remote from care and strife.

It says to me: "How sad and slow The hours of daylight come and go, Until the Night walks here again With moon and starlight in her train, And she and I with perfumed words Of winds and waters, dreaming birds, And flowers and crickets and the moon, For hour on hour, in soul commune.--" And you, and you, Sit here and listen in the dew For her, the love, you used to know, Who often walked here, long ago, Long ago; The young, sweet love you used to know Long ago Whom oft I watched with violet eye, Or eye of dew, as she passed by: As she passed by.

And I reply, with half a sigh:-- "You knew her too as well as I, That young sweet love of long-ago! That young sweet love, who walked here slow.-- Oh, speak no more of the days gone by, Dear days gone by, Lest I lay me down on your heart and die!"

_MOON FAIRIES_

The moon, a circle of gold, O'er the crowded housetops rolled, And peeped in an attic, where, 'Mid sordid things and bare, A sick child lay and gazed At a road to the far-away, A road he followed, mazed, That grew from a moonbeam-ray,

A road of light that led From the foot of his garret-bed Out of that room of hate, Where Poverty slept by his mate, Sickness--out of the street, Into a wonderland, Where a voice called, far and sweet, "Come, follow our Fairy band!"

A purple shadow, sprinkled With golden star-dust, twinkled Suddenly into the room Out of the winter gloom: And it wore a face to him Of a dream he'd dreamed: a form Of Joy, whose face was dim, Yet bright with a magic charm.

And the shadow seemed to trail, Sounds that were green and frail: Dew-dripples; notes that fell Like drops in a ferny dell; A whispered lisp and stir, Like winds among the leaves, Blent with a cricket-chirr, And coo of a dove that grieves.

And the Elfin bore on its back A little faery pack Of forest scents: of loam And mossy sounds of foam; And of its contents breathed As might a clod of ground Feeling a bud unsheathed There in its womb profound.

And the shadow smiled and gazed At the child; then softly raised Its arms and seemed to grow To a tree in the attic low: And from its glimmering hands Shook emerald seeds of dreams, From which grew fairy bands, Like firefly motes and gleams.

The child had seen them before In his dreams of Fairy lore: The Elves, each with a light To guide his feet a-right, Out of this world to a world Where Magic built him towers, And Fable old, unfurled, flags like wonderful flowers.

And the child, who knew this, smiled, And rose, a different child: No more he knew of pain, Or fear of heart and brain.-- At Poverty there that slept He never even glanced, But into the moon-road stept, And out of the garret danced.

Out of the earthly gloom, Out of the sordid room, Out, on a moonbeam ray!-- Now at last to play There with comrades found! Children of the moon, There on faery ground, Where none would find him soon!

_HAEC OLIM MEMINISSE_

Febrile perfumes as of faded roses In the old house speak of love to-day, Love long past; and where the soft day closes, Down the west gleams, golden-red, a ray.

Pointing where departed splendor perished, And the path that night shall walk, and hang, On blue boughs of heaven, gold, long cherished-- Fruit Hesperian,--that the ancients sang.

And to him, who sits there dreaming, musing, At the window in the twilight wan, Like old scent of roses interfusing, Comes a vision of a day that's gone.

And he sees Youth, walking brave but dimly 'Mid the roses, in the afterglow; And beside him, like a star seen slimly, Love, who used to meet him long-ago.

And again he seems to hear the flowers Whispering faintly of what no one knows-- Of the dreams they dreamed there for long hours, Youth and Love, between their hearts a rose.

Youth is dead; and Love, oh, where departed! Like the last streak of the dying day, Somewhere yonder, in a world uncharted, Calling him, with memories, away.

_THE MAGIC PURSE_

What is the gold of mortal-kind To that men find Deep in the poet's mind!-- That magic purse Of Dreams from which God builds His universe! That makes life rich With many a vision; Taking the soul from out its prison Of facts with the precision A wildflower dons When Spring comes knocking at the door Of Earth across the windy lawns; Calling to Joy to rise and dance before Her happy feet: Or with the beat And bright exactness of a star, Hanging its punctual point afar, When Night comes tripping over Heaven's floor, Leaving a gate ajar. That leads the Heart from all its aching Far above where day is breaking; Out of the doubts, the agonies, The strife and sin, to join with these-- Hope and Beauty and Joy that build Their golden walls Of sunset where, with spirits filled, A Presence calls, And points a land Where Love walks, silent; hand in hand With the Spirit of God, and leads Man right Out of the darkness into the light.

_THE CHILD AT THE GATE_

The sunset was a sleepy gold, And stars were in the skies When down a weedy lane he strolled In vague and thoughtless wise.

And then he saw it, near a wood, An old house, gabled brown, Like some old woman, in a hood, Looking toward the town.

A child stood at its broken gate, Singing a childish song, And weeping softly as if Fate Had done her child's heart wrong.

He spoke to her:--"Now tell me, dear, Why do you sing and weep?"-- But she--she did not seem to hear, But stared as if asleep.

Then suddenly she turned and fled As if with soul of fear. He followed; but the house looked dead, And empty many a year.

The light was wan: the dying day Grew ghostly suddenly: And from the house he turned away, Wrapped in its mystery.

* * * *

They told him no one dwelt there now: It was a haunted place.-- And then it came to him, somehow, The memory of a face.

That child's--like hers, whose name was Joy-- For whom his heart was fain: The face of her whom, when a boy, He played with in that lane.

_THE LOST DREAM_

The black night showed its hungry teeth, And gnawed with sleet at roof and pane; Beneath the door I heard it breathe-- A beast that growled in vain.

The hunter wind stalked up and down, And crashed his ice-spears through each tree; Before his rage, in tattered gown, I saw the maid moon flee.

There stole a footstep to my door; A voice cried in my room and--there! A shadow cowled and gaunt and hoar, Death, leaned above my chair.

He beckoned me; he bade me rise, And follow through the madman night; Into my heart's core pierced his eyes, And lifted me with might.

I rose; I made no more delay; And followed where his eyes compelled; And through the darkness, far away, They lit me and enspelled.

Until we reached an ancient wood, That flung its twisted arms around, As if in anguish that it stood On dark, unhallowed ground.

And then I saw it--cold and blind-- The dream, that had my heart to share, That fell, before its feet could find Its home, and perished there.

_WITCHCRAFT_

This world is made a witchcraft place With gazing on a woman's face.

Now 'tis her smile, whose sorcery Turns all my thoughts to melody.

Now 'tis her frown, that comes and goes, That makes my day a page of prose.

And now her laugh, or but a word, That in my heart frees wild a bird.

Some day, perhaps, a kiss of hers, Will lift from my dumb life the curse

Of longing, inarticulate, That keeps me sad and celibate.

_TRANSPOSED SEASONS_

The gentian and the bluebell so Can change my calendar, I know not how the year may go, Or what the seasons are: The months, in some mysterious wise, Take their expression from her eyes.

The gentian speaks to memory Of autumns long since gone, When _her_ blue eyes smiled up at me, And heaven was flushed with dawn: 'T was autumn then and leaves were sere, But in my heart 't was spring o' the year.

The bluebell says a message too Of springs long passed away, When in my eyes her eyes of blue Gazed and 't was close of day: Spring spread around her fragrant chart, But it was autumn in my heart.

_THE OLD DREAMER_

Come, let's climb into our attic, In our house that's old and gray! Life, you're old and I'm rheumatic, And--it's close of day.

Lay aside your rags and tatters, Shirt and shoes so soiled with clay! They're no use now. Nothing matters-- It is close of day.

Let's to bed. It's cold. No fire. And no lamp to make a ray.-- Where's our servant, young Desire?-- Gone at close of day.

Oft she served us with fine glances, Helped us out at work and play: She is gone now; better chances; And it's close of day.

Where is Hope, who flaunted scarlet? Hope, who led us oft astray? Has she proved herself a harlot At the close of day?

What's become of Dream and Vision? Friends we thought were here to stay? Has life clapped the two in prison At the close of day?

They are gone; and how we miss them! They who made our garret gay. How we used to hug and kiss them!-- But--'tis close of day.

Where's friend Love now?--Who supposes?-- Has he flung himself away? Left us for a wreath of roses At the close of day?

And where's Song? the soul elected-- Has he quit us too for aye?-- Was it poverty he suspected Near the close of day?

How our attic rang their laughter! How it echoed laugh and lay! None may take their place hereafter?-- It is close of day.

We have done the best we could do. Let us kneel awhile and pray. Now, no matter what we would do, It is close of day.

Let's to bed then! It's December. Long enough since it was May!-- Let's forget it, and remember Now 'tis close of day.

_A LAST WORD_

Oh, for some cup of consummating might, Filled with life's kind conclusion, lost in night! A wine of darkness, that with death shall cure This sickness called existence!--Oh to find Surcease of sorrow! quiet for the mind, An end of thought in something dark and sure! Mandrake and hellebore, or poison pure!-- Some drug of death, wherein there are no dreams!-- No more, no more, with patience, to endure The wrongs of life, the hate of men, it seems; Or wealth's authority, tyranny of time, And lamentations and the boasts of man! To hear no more the wild complaints of toil, And struggling merit, that, unknown, must starve: To see no more life's disregard for Art! Oh God! to know no longer anything! Nor good, nor evil, or what either means! Nor hear the changing tides of customs roll On the dark shores of Time! No more to hear The stream of Life that furies on the shoals Of hard necessity! No more to see The unavailing battle waged of Need Against adversity!--Merely to lie, at last, Pulseless and still, at peace beneath the sod! To think and dream no more! no more to hope! At rest at last! at last at peace and rest, Clasped by some kind tree's gnarled arm of root Bearing me upward in its large embrace To gentler things and fairer--clouds and winds, And stars and sun and moon! To undergo The change the great trees know when Spring comes in With shoutings and rejoicings of the rain, To swiftly rise an atom in a host, The myriad army of the leaves; and stand A handsbreadth nearer Heaven and what is God! To pulse in sap that beats unfevered in The life we call inanimate--the heart Of some great tree. And so, unconsciously, As sleeps a child, clasped in its mother's arm, Be taken back, in amplitudes of grace, To Nature's heart, and so be lost in her.

_THE SHADOW_

A shadow glided down the way Where sunset groped among the trees, And all the woodland bower, asway With trouble of the evening breeze.

A shape, it moved with head held down; I knew it not, yet seemed to know Its form, its carriage of a clown, Its raiment of the long-ago.

It never turned or spoke a word, But fixed its gaze on something far, As if within its heart it heard The summons of the evening star.

I turned to it and tried to speak; To ask it of the thing it saw, Or heard, beyond Earth's outmost peak-- The dream, the splendor, and the awe.

What beauty or what terror there Still bade its purpose to ascend Above the sunset's sombre glare, The twilight and the long day's end.

It looked at me but said no word: Then suddenly I saw the truth:-- _This_ was the call that once I heard And failed to follow in my youth.

Now well I saw that this was I-- My own dead self who walked with me, Who died in that dark hour gone by With all the dreams that used to be.

_ON THE ROAD_

Let us bid the world good-by, Now while sun and cloud's above us, While we've nothing to deny, Nothing but our selves to love us: Let us fancy, I and you, All the dreams we dreamed came true.

We have gone but half the road, Rugged road of root and bowlder; Made the best of Life's dark load, Cares, that helped us to grow older: We, my dear, have done our best-- Let us stop awhile and rest.

Let us, by this halfway stile, Put away the world's desire, And sit down, a little while, With our hearts, and light a fire: Sing the songs that once we sung In the days when we were young.

Haply they will bring again, From the Lands of Song and Story, To our sides the elfin train Of the dreams we dreamed of glory, That are one now with the crew Of the deeds we did not do.