Chapter 32

Wind of the West, Wind of the few, far clouds, Wind of the gold and crimson sunset lands - Blow fresh and pure across the peaks and plains, And broaden the blue spaces of the heavens, And sway the grasses and the mountain pines, But let my dear one rest.

Wind of the East, Wind of the sunrise seas, Wind of the clinging mists and gray, harsh rains - Blow moist and chill across the wastes of brine, And shut the sun out, and the moon and stars, And lash the boughs against the dripping eaves, Yet keep thou from my love.

But thou, sweet wind! Wind of the fragrant South, Wind from the bowers of jasmine and of rose! - Over magnolia glooms and lilied lakes And flowering forests come with dewy wings, And stir the petals at her feet, and kiss The low mound where she lies.

Charles Henry Luders [1858-1891]

THE KING'S BALLAD

Good my King, in your garden close, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Why so sad when the maiden rose Love at your feet is spilling? Golden the air and honey-sweet, Sapphire the sky, it is not meet Sorrowful faces should flowers greet, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

All alone walks the King to-day. (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Far from his throne he steals away Loneness and quiet willing. Roses and tulips and lilies fair Smile for his pleasure everywhere, Yet of their joyance he takes no share, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Ladies wait in the palace, Sire, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Red and white for the king's desire, Love-warm and sweet and thrilling; Breasts of moonshine and hair of night, Glances amorous, soft and bright, Nothing is lacking for your delight, (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Kneels the King in a grassy place, (Hark to the thrush's trilling) Little flowers under his face With his warm tears are filling. Says the King, "Here my heart lies dead Where my fair love is buried, Would I were lying here instead!" (Hark to the thrush's trilling).

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

HELIOTROPE

Amid the chapel's chequered gloom She laughed with Dora and with Flora, And chattered in the lecture-room, - That saucy little sophomora! Yet while, as in her other schools, She was a privileged transgressor, She never broke the simple rules Of one particular professor.

But when he spoke of varied lore, Paroxytones and modes potential, She listened with a face that wore A look half fond, half reverential. To her, that earnest voice was sweet, And, though her love had no confessor, Her girlish heart lay at the feet Of that particular professor.

And he had learned, among his books That held the lore of ages olden, To watch those ever-changing looks, The wistful eyes, the tresses golden, That stirred his pulse with passion's pain And thrilled his soul with soft desire, And bade fond youth return again, Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smile, her winsome ways, Were more to him than all his knowledge, And she preferred his words of praise To all the honors of the college. Yet "What am foolish I to him?" She whispered to her heart's confessor. "She thinks me old and gray and grim," In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once when Christmas bells were rung Above ten thousand solemn churches, And swelling anthems grandly sung Pealed through the dim cathedral arches, - Ere home returning, filled with hope, Softly she stole by gate and gable, And a sweet spray of heliotrope Left on his littered study-table.

Nor came she more from day to day Like sunshine through the shadows rifting: Above her grave, far, far away, The ever-silent snows were drifting; And those who mourned her winsome face Found in its stead a swift successor And loved another in her place - All, save the silent old professor.

But, in the tender twilight gray, Shut from the sight of carping critic, His lonely thoughts would often stray From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic, Bidding the ghost of vanished hope Mock with its past the sad possessor Of the dead spray of heliotrope That once she gave the old professor.

Harry Thurston Peck [1856-1914]

"LYDIA IS GONE THIS MANY A YEAR"

Lydia is gone this many a year, Yet when the lilacs stir, In the old gardens far or near, This house is full of her.

They climb the twisted chamber stair; Her picture haunts the room; On the carved shelf beneath it there, They heap the purple bloom.

A ghost so long has Lydia been, Her cloak upon the wall, Broidered, and gilt, and faded green, Seems not her cloak at all.

The book, the box on mantle laid, The shells in a pale row, Are those of some dim little maid, A thousand years ago.

And yet the house is full of her; She goes and comes again; And longings thrill, and memories stir, Like lilacs in the rain.

Out in their yards the neighbors walk, Among the blossoms tall; Of Anne, of Phyllis do they talk, Of Lydia not at all.

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

AFTER

Oh, the littles that remain! Scent of mint out in the lane; Flare of window, sound of bees; - These, but these.

Three times sitting down to bread; One time climbing up to bed; Table-setting o'er and o'er; Drying herbs for winter's store; This thing; that thing; - nothing more.

But just now out in the lane, Oh, the scent of mint was plain!

Lizette Woodworth Reese [1856-1935]

MEMORIES

Of my ould loves, of their ould ways, I sit an' think, these bitther days.

(I've kissed - 'gainst rason an' 'gainst rhyme - More mouths than one in my mad time!)

Of their soft ways an' words I dream, But far off now, in faith, they seem.

Wid betther lives, wid betther men, They've all long taken up again!

For me an' mine they're past an' done - Aye, all but one - yes, all but one!

Since I kissed her 'neath Tullagh Hill That one gerrl stays close wid me still.

Och! up to mine her face still lifts, An' round us still the white May drifts;

An' her soft arm, in some ould way, Is here beside me, night an' day;

But, faith, 'twas her they buried deep, Wid all that love she couldn't keep,

Aye, deep an' cold, in Killinkere, This many a year - this many a year!

Arthur Stringer [1874-

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 through 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 naught of her remains but stone. Sing low - where is Diane? Diane does not remember.

Helen Hay Whitney [18 -

"MUSIC I HEARD"

Music I heard with you was more than music, And bread I broke with you was more than bread. Now that I am without you, all is desolate, All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver, And I have seen your fingers hold this glass. These things do not remember you, beloved: And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them, And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes. And in my heart they will remember always: They knew you once, O beautiful and wise!

Conrad Aiken [1889-

HER DWELLING-PLACE

Amid the fairest things that grow My lady hath her dwelling-place; Where runnels flow, and frail buds blow As shy and pallid as her face.

The wild, bright creatures of the wood About her fearless flit and spring; To light her dusky solitude Comes April's earliest offering.

The calm Night from her urn of rest Pours downward an unbroken stream; All day upon her mother's breast My lady lieth in a dream.

Love could not chill her low, soft bed With any sad memorial stone; He put a red rose at her head - A flame as fragrant as his own.

Ada Foster Murray [1857-1936]

THE WIFE FROM FAIRYLAND

Her talk was all of woodland things, Of little lives that pass Away in one green afternoon, Deep in the haunted grass;

For she had come from fairyland, The morning of a day When the world that still was April Was turning into May.

Green leaves and silence and two eyes - 'Twas so she seemed to me, A silver shadow of the woods, Whisper and mystery.

I looked into her woodland eyes, And all my heart was hers, And then I led her by the hand Home up my marble stairs;

And all my granite and my gold Was hers for her green eyes, And all my sinful heart was hers From sunset to sunrise;

I gave her all delight and ease That God had given to me, I listened to fulfil her dreams, Rapt with expectancy.

But all I gave, and all I did, Brought but a weary smile Of gratitude upon her face; As though a little while,

She loitered in magnificence Of marble and of gold, And waited to be home again When the dull tale was told.

Sometimes, in the chill galleries, Unseen, she deemed, unheard, I found her dancing like a leaf And singing like a bird.

So lone a thing I never saw In lonely earth or sky, So merry and so sad a thing, One sad, one laughing, eye.

There came a day when on her heart A wildwood blossom lay, And the world that still was April Was turning into May.

In the green eyes I saw a smile That turned my heart to stone: My wife that came from fairyland No longer was alone.

For there had come a little hand To show the green way home, Home through the leaves, home through the dew, Home through the greenwood - home.

Richard Le Gallienne [1866-

IN THE FALL O' YEAR

I went back an old-time lane In the fall o' year, There was wind and bitter rain And the leaves were sere.

Once the birds were lilting high In a far-off May - I remember, you and I Were as glad as they.

But the branches now are bare And the lad you knew, Long ago was buried there - Long ago, with you!

Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-1932]

THE INVISIBLE BRIDE

The low-voiced girls that go In gardens of the Lord, Like flowers of the field they grow In sisterly accord.

Their whispering feet are white Along the leafy ways; They go in whirls of light Too beautiful for praise.

And in their band forsooth Is one to set me free - The one that touched my youth - The one God gave to me.

She kindles the desire Whereby the gods survive - The white ideal fire That keeps my soul alive.

Now at the wondrous hour, She leaves her star supreme, And comes in the night's still power, To touch me with a dream.

Sibyl of mystery On roads beyond our ken, Softly she comes to me, And goes to God again.

Edwin Markham [1852-

RAIN ON A GRAVE

Clouds spout upon her Their waters amain In ruthless disdain, - Her who but lately Had shivered with pain As at touch of dishonor If there had lit on her So coldly, so straightly Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter Her delicate head Would quicken and quicken Each tentative tread If drops chanced to pelt her That summertime spills In dust-paven rills When thunder-clouds thicken And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there And she were housed here! Or better, together Were folded away there Exposed to one weather We both, - who would stray there When sunny the day there, Or evening was clear At the prime of the year.

Soon will be growing Green blades from her mound, And daisies be showing Like stars on the ground, Till she form part of them - Ay - the sweet heart of them, Loved beyond measure With a child's pleasure All her life's round.

Thomas Hardy [1840-1928]

PATTERNS

I walk down the garden paths, And all the daffodils Are blowing, and the bright blue squills. I walk down the patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. With my powdered hair and jewelled fan, I too am a rare Pattern. As I wander down The garden paths.

My dress is richly figured, And the train Makes a pink and silver stain On the gravel, and the thrift Of the borders. Just a plate of current fashion, Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes. Not a softness anywhere about me, Only whale-bone and brocade. And I sink on a seat in the shade Of a lime-tree. For my passion Wars against the stiff brocade. The daffodils and squills Flutter in the breeze As they please. And I weep; For the lime-tree is in blossom And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.

And the plashing of waterdrops In the marble fountain Comes down the garden-paths. The dripping never stops. Underneath my stiffened gown Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin, A basin in the midst of hedges grown So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding. But she guesses he is near, And the sliding of the water Seems the stroking of a dear Hand upon her. What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown! I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground. All the pink and silver crumpled upon the ground.

I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths, And he would stumble after, Bewildered by my laughter. I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles on his shoes. I would choose To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths, A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover, Till he caught me in the shade, And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me, Aching, melting, unafraid. With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops, And the plopping of the waterdrops, All about us in the open afternoon - I am very like to swoon With the weight of this brocade, For the sun sifts through the shade.

Underneath the fallen blossom In my bosom, Is a letter I have hid. It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke. "Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell Died in action Thursday se'nnight." As I read it in the white, morning sunlight, The letters squirmed like snakes. "Any answer, Madam?" said my footman. "No," I told him. "See that the messenger takes some refreshment. No, no answer." And I walked into the garden, Up and down the patterned paths, In my stiff, correct brocade. The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun, Each one. I stood upright too, Held rigid to the pattern By the stiffness of my gown. Up and down I walked, Up and down.

In a month he would have been my husband. In a month, here, underneath this lime, We would have broke the pattern; He for me, and I for him, He as Colonel, I as Lady, On this shady seat. He had a whim That sunlight carried blessing. And I answered, "It shall be as you have said." Now he is dead.

In Summer and in Winter I shall walk Up and down The patterned garden-paths In my stiff, brocaded gown. The squills and daffodils Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow. I shall go Up and down, In my gown. Gorgeously arrayed, Boned and stayed. And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace By each button, hook, and lace. For the man who should loose me is dead, Fighting with the Duke in Flanders, In a pattern called a war. Christ! What are patterns for?

Amy Lowell [1874-1925]

DUST

When the white flame in us is gone, And we that lost the world's delight Stiffen in darkness, left alone To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death, And through the lips corruption thrust Has stilled the labor of my breath - When we are dust, when we are dust! -

Not dead, not undesirous yet, Still sentient, still unsatisfied, We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit, Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun, And light of foot, and unconfined, Hurry from road to road, and run About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air, Will speed and gleam, down later days, And like a secret pilgrim fare By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie, Till, beyond thinking, out of view, One mote of all the dust that's I Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind, Warm in a sunset's afterglow, The lovers in the flowers will find A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring, So high a beauty in the air, And such a light, and such a quiring, And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew, Or out of earth, or in the height, Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue, Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . . But in that instant they shall learn The shattering ecstasy of our fire, And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow, Until the darkness close above; And they will know - poor fools, they'll know! - One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke [1887-1915]

BALLAD

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun, But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

All clad in golden armor, To fight the Saladin, He left me in my garden, To weep, to sing, and spin.

When fell the dewy twilight I heard the wicket grate, There came a ghost who shivered Beside my garden gate.

All clad in golden armor, But dabbled with red dew; He did not lift his vizor, And yet his face I knew.

And when he left my garden The roses all were red And dyed in a fresh crimson; Only my heart was dead.

The roses in my garden Were white in the noonday sun; But they were dyed with crimson Before the day was done.

Maurice Baring [1874-

"THE LITTLE ROSE IS DUST, MY DEAR"

The little rose is dust, my dear; The elfin wind is gone That sang a song of silver words And cooled our hearts with dawn.

And what is left to hope, my dear, Or what is left to say? The rose, the little wind and you Have gone so far away.

Grace Hazard Conkling [18

DIRGE

Never the nightingale, Oh, my dear, Never again the lark Thou wilt hear; Though dusk and the morning still Tap at thy window-sill, Though ever love call and call Thou wilt not hear at all, My dear, my dear.

Adelaide Crapsey [1878-1914]

THE LITTLE RED RIBBON

The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! The summertime comes, and the summertime goes - And never a blossom in all of the land As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand!

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! And never a glimmer of sun in the skies As bright as the light of her glorious eyes!

Dreams only are true: but they fade and are gone - For her face is not here when I waken at dawn; The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose Mine only; hers only the dream and repose.

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, Moaning over the one only song that it knows, - The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose!

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

THE ROSARY

The hours I spent with thee, dear heart, Are as a string of pearls to me; I count them over, every one apart, My rosary.

Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer, To still a heart in absence wrung; I tell each bead unto the end and there A cross is hung.

Oh memories that bless - and burn! Oh barren gain - and bitter loss! I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, To kiss the cross.

Robert Cameron Rogers [1862-1912]

LOVE'S FULFILMENT

"MY TRUE-LOVE HATH MY HEART" From the "Arcadia"

My true-love hath my heart, and I have his, By just exchange one for the other given: I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss; There never was a better bargain driven; His heart in me keeps him and me in one, My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides: He loves my heart, for once it was his own, I cherish his, because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight; My heart was wounded from his wounded heart; For as from me, on him his hurt did light, So still me thought in me his heart did smart: Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss, My true love hath my heart, and I have his.

Philip Sidney [1554-1586]

SONG

O sweet delight, O more than human bliss, With her to live that ever loving is! To hear her speak whose words are so well placed That she by them, as they in her are graced: Those looks to view that feast the viewer's eye, How blest is he that may so live and die!

Such love as this the Golden Times did know, When all did reap, yet none took care to sow; Such love as this an endless summer makes, And all distaste from frail affection takes. So loved, so blest, in my beloved am I: Which till their eyes ache, let iron men envy!

Thomas Campion [ ? -1619]

THE GOOD-MORROW

I wonder, by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved? were we not weaned till then? But sucked on country pleasures, childishly? Or snored we in the Seven Sleepers' den? 'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee.

And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown, Let us possess one world; each hath one, and is one.

My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest; Where can we find two fitter hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west? Whatever dies, was not mixed equally; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love just alike in all, none of these loves can die.

John Donne [1573-1631]

"THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST"

There's gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, An' siller in every blossom; There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, And health in the wild wood's bosom. Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, When warbling birds sing o'er us; Sweet nature for us has no alloy, And the world is all before us.

The courtier joys in hustle and power, The soldier in war-steeds bounding, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, The proud in their pomp surrounding: But we hae yon heaven sae bonnie and blue, And laverocks skimming o'er us; The breezes of health, and the valleys of dew - Oh, the world is all before us!

James Hogg [1770-1835]

THE BEGGAR MAID

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say: Bare footed came the beggar maid Before the king Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stepped down, To meet and greet her on her way; "It is no wonder," said the lords, "She is more beautiful than day."

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

REFUGE

Twilight, a timid fawn, went glimmering by, And Night, the dark-blue hunter, followed fast, Ceaseless pursuit and flight were in the sky, But the long chase had ceased for us at last.

We watched together while the driven fawn Hid in the golden thicket of the day. We, from whose hearts pursuit and flight were gone, Knew on the hunter's breast her refuge lay.

A. E. (George William Russell) [1867-1935]

AT SUNSET

Clasp her and hold her and love her, Here in the arching green Of boughs that bend above her With belts of blue between.

Clasp her and hold her and love her, Swift! Ere the splendor dies; The blue grows black above her, The earth in shadow lies.

Flowers of dream enfold her. Soft! Let me bend above, Clasp her and love her and hold her, Clasp her and hold and love.

Louis V. Ledoux [1880-

"ONE MORNING, OH! SO EARLY"

One morning, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, All the birds were singing blithely, as if never they would cease; 'Twas a thrush sang in my garden, "Hear the story, hear the story!" And the lark sang, "Give us glory!" And the dove said, "Give us peace!"

Then I hearkened, oh! so early, my beloved, my beloved, To that murmur from the woodland of the dove, my dear, the dove; When the nightingale came after, "Give us fame to sweeten duty!" When the wren sang, "Give us beauty!" She made answer, "Give us love!"