Part 2

Chill, in thy drowsy aether warm, Softly thou gleamest, subtler form; Witch-bloom thou seem’st to be, For Lilith would have bound thee in her hair-- Smiling at dusk inscrutably, And Circe gathered such for gods to wear, In evenings when the moon, A sorceress who steals in white Along the cloudy parapets of night, In every glade her ghostly pearl hath strewn. Thou art as violet-wan As eyelids of a vestal dead and meek. If after-life can come to blossoms gone, Surely Persephone Shall crown her brow with thee, In realms where burns nor star nor sun To show the dead what amaranths to seek. And ah--this other! none Of all thy kin more purely is arrayed-- Pallid as Aphrodite’s cheek To some long passion-swoon betrayed, By ecstasy foretold; Yet as with blood thy bosom gleams; Red as Adonis’ wound it seems, By Syria mourned of old, Or scarlet lips that drink from bowls of jade, Slowly, an ivory poison, sweet and cold....

Oh! mystically strange That speechless things should so have power to hint, With subtle form and tint That seize the heart’s high memories unaware, The sorrow and the mystery of Change, And elements in Fate’s controlling plan Not altogether ministrant to man Nor mindful of his care-- Some joy to death akin, Or tragic kiss, or fruit malignly fair, Some garden built by Sin For Love to wander in, Some face whose beauty bids the heart despair! And yet, O blossoms pure! How marvelous the lure Of your fragility and innocence-- This grace and wistfulness of helpless things That ask no recompense! Ye give the spirit wings, For yours the beauty that is near to pain, And stir the heart again With visions of the Flowers that abide-- Ah! sweet As when love’s glances meet Across the music, heard at eventide!

Lloyden, June, 1909.

SONNETS ON THE SEA’S VOICE

I

Thou seem’st to call to that which will not hear, As man to Fate. Thine anthems uncontrolled, From winnowed sands and reefs reverberant rolled, Shake as with sorrow, and the hour is near Wherein thy voice shall seem a thing of fear, Like to a lion’s at the trembling fold; And men shall waken to the midnight cold, And feel that dawn is far, that night is drear.

Thou wert ere Life, a dim but quenchless spark, Found vesture in thy vastness. Thou shalt be When Life hath crossed the threshold of the Dark,-- When shackling ice hath zoned at last thy breast, And thy deep voice is hushed, O vanquished Sea! One with eternity that giveth rest.

II

No cloud is on the heavens, and on the sea No sail: the immortal, solemn ocean lies Unbroken sapphire to the walling skies-- Immutable, supreme in majesty. The billows, where the charging foam leaps free, Burden the winds with thunder. Soul, arise! For ghostly trumpet-blasts and battle-cries Across the tumult wake the Past for thee.

They call me to a dim, disastrous land, Where fallen marbles tell of mighty years, Heroic architraves, but where the gust Ripples forsaken waters. Lo! I stand With armies round about, and in mine ears The roar of harps reborn from legend’s dust.

III

How very still this odorous, dim space Amid the pines! the light is reverent, Pausing as one who stands with meek intent On thresholds of an everlasting place. A single iris waits in weary grace-- Her countenance before the dawning bent, As Faith might linger, husht and innocent, With all an altar’s glory on her face.

But silence now is hateful: I would be, By midnight dark and wild as Satan’s soul, Where the winds’ unreturning charioteers Lash, with the hurtling scourges of the sea, Their frantic steeds to some tempestuous goal-- The deep’s enormous music in their ears.

IV

O thou unalterable sea! how vast Thine utterance! What portent in thy tone, As here thy giant choirs, august, alone, Roll forth their diapason to the blast!-- Great waters hurled and broken and upcast In timeless splendour and immeasured moan, As tho’ Eternity to years unknown Bore witness of the sorrows of the Past.

Thou callest to a deep within my soul-- Untraversed and unsounded; at thy voice Abysses move with phantoms unbegot. What paeans haunt me and what pangs control!-- Thunders wherewith the seraphim rejoice, And mighty hunger for I know not what.

AUTUMN

Now droops the troubled year And now her tiny sunset stains the leaf. A holy fear, A rapt, elusive grief, Make imminent the swift, exalting tear.

The long wind’s weary sigh-- Knowest, O listener! for what it wakes? Adown the sky What star of Time forsakes Her pinnacle? What dream and dreamer die?

A presence half-divine Stands at the threshold, ready to depart Without a sign. Now seems the world’s deep heart About to break. What sorrow stirs in mine?

A mist of twilight rain Hides now the orange edges of the day. In vain, in vain We labor that thou stay, Beauty who wast, and shalt not be again!

STARS OF THE NOON

Untaught, I meet the question of the hours-- Travail and prayer and call; But ye, with stillness deeper than the flow’rs’, O stars! can answer all.

Now, tho’ the sapphire walls of noon forbid Your beams compassionate, Witheld by light, as love by silence hid, Unchanging ye await,

Till Day, whom all the swords of sunset bar From Edens daily lost, Pass, and your lonely armies sink afar To oceans nightly crost.

Ah! when, ere long, I watch your kingdoms reach Past the departed sun, Will ye, in silence holier than speech, Tell that our ways are one?--

That I, as ye, vanish awhile in day (The day we reckon night), Till dusks of birth reveal the backward way To darkness reckoned light?

Come! for the ancient Altar waits your flame, The seas of shadow call, And, exile of a land I cannot name, Homesick, I question all.

THE APOTHECARY’S

Its red and emerald beacons from the night Draw human moths in melancholy flight, With beams whose gaudy glories point the way To safety or destruction--choose who may! Crystal and powder, oils or tincture clear, Such the dim sight of man beholds, but here Await, indisputable in their pow’r, Great Presences, abiding each his hour; And for a little price rash man attains This council of the perils and the pains-- This parliament of death, and brotherhood Omniponent for evil and for good.

Venoms of vision, myrrh of splendid swoons, They wait us past the green and scarlet moons. Here prisoned rest the tender hands of Peace, And there an angel at whose bidding cease The clamors of the tortured sense, the strife Of nerves confounded in the war of life. Within this vial pallid Sleep is caught, In that, the sleep eternal. Here are sought Such webs as in their agonizing mesh Draw back from doom the half-reluctant flesh. There beck the traitor joys to him who buys, And Death sits panoplied in gorgeous guise.

The dusts of hell, the dews of heavenly sods, Water of Lethe or the wine of gods, Purchase who will, but, ere his task begin, Beware the service that you set the djinn! Each hath his mercy, each his certain law, And each his Lord behind the veil of awe; But ponder well the ministry you crave, Lest he be final master, you the slave. Each hath a price, and each a tribute gives To him who turns from life and him who lives. If so you win from Pain a swift release, His face shall haunt you in the house of Peace; If so from Pain you scorn an anodyne, Peace shall repay you with a draft divine. Tho’ toil and time be now by them surpast, Exact the recompense they take at last-- These genii of the vials, wreaking still Their sorceries on human sense and will.

THE SWIMMERS

We were eight fishers of the western sea, Who sailed our craft beside a barren land, Where harsh with pines the herdless mountains stand And lonely beaches be.

There no man dwells, and ships go seldom past; Yet sometimes there we lift our keels ashore, To rest in safety ’mid the broken roar And mist of surges vast.

One strand we know, remote from all the rest, For north and south the cliffs are high and steep, Whose naked leagues of rock repel the deep, Insurgent from the west.

Tawny it lies, untrodden e’er by man, Save when from storm we sought its narrow rift To beach our craft and light a fire of drift And sleep till day began.

Along its sands no flower nor bird has home. Abrupt its breast, girt by no splendor save The whorled and curving emerald of the wave And scarves of rustling foam--

A place of solemn beauty; yet we swore, By all the ocean stars’ unhasting flight, To seek no refuge for another night Upon that haunted shore.

That year a sombre autumn held the earth. At dawn we sailed from out our village bay; We sang; a taut wind leapt along the day; The sea-birds mocked our mirth.

Southwest we drave, like arrows to a mark; Ere set of sun the coast was far to lee, Where thundered over by the white-hooved sea The reefs lie gaunt and dark.

But when we would have cast our hooks, the main Grew wroth a-sudden, and our captains said: “Seek we a shelter.” And the west was red; God gave his winds the rein.

And eastward lay the sands of which I told; Thither we fled, and on the narrow beach Drew up our keels beyond the lessening reach Of waters green and cold.

Then set the wounded sun. The wind blew clean The skies. A wincing star came forth at last. We heard like mighty tollings on the blast The shock of waves unseen.

The wide-winged Eagle hovered overhead; The Scorpion crept slowly in the south To pits below the horizon; in its mouth Lay a young moon that bled.

And from our fire the ravished flame swept back, Like yellow hair of one who flies apace, Compelled in lands barbarian to race With lions on her track.

Then from the maelstroms of the surf arose Wild laughter, mystical, and up the sands Came Two that walked with intertwining hands Amid those ocean snows.

Ghostly they shone before the lofty spray-- Fairer than gods and naked as the moon, The foamy fillets at their ankles strewn Less marble-white than they.

Laughing they stood, then to our beacon’s glare Drew nearer, as we watched in mad surprise The scarlet-flashing lips, the sea-green eyes, The red and tangled hair.

Then spoke the god (goddess and god they seemed), In harplike accents of a tongue unknown-- About his brows the dripping locks were blown; Like wannest gold he gleamed.

Staring we sat; again the Vision spoke. Beyond his form we saw the billows rave,-- The leap of those white leopards in the wave,-- The spume of seas that broke.

Yet sat we mute, for then a human word Seemed folly’s worst. And scorn began to trace Its presence on the wild, imperious face; Again the red lips stirred,

But spoke not. In an instant we were free From that enchantment: fleet as deer they turned And sudden amber leapt the sands they spurned. We saw them meet the sea.

We heard the seven-chorded surf, unquelled, Call in one thunder to the granite walls; But over all, like broken clarion-calls, Disdainful laughter welled.

Then silence, save for cloven wave and wind. Our fire had faltered on its little dune. Far out a fog-wall reared, and hid the moon. The night lay vast and blind.

Silent, we waited the assuring morn, Which rose on angered waters. But we set Our hooded prows to sea, and, tempest-wet, Beat up the coast forlorn.

And no man scorned our tale, for well they knew Had mystery befallen: in our eyes Were alien terrors and unknown surmise. Men saw the tale was true.

And no man seeks a refuge on that shore, Tho tempests gather in impelling skies; Unseen, unsolved, unhazarded it lies, Forsaken evermore.

For on those sands immaculate and lone Perchance They list the sea’s immeasured lyre, When sunset casts an evanescent fire Thro billows thunder-sown.

BENEATH THE REDWOODS

O trees! so vast, so calm! Softly ye lay On heart and mind today The unpurchaseable balm.

Ere yet the wind can cease, Your mighty sigh Is spirit of the sky-- Half sorrow and half peace.

Mourn ye your brothers slain, That now afar From hush and dews and star Man barters for his gain?

Mourn them with all your boughs, For I must mourn, In seasons yet unborn, The cares that they will house.

MUSIC AT DUSK

O Twilight, Twilight! evermore to hear The wounded viols pleading to thy heart! To dream we watch thy purple wings depart; To wake, and know thy presence alway near!

What dost thou on the pathway of the sun? Abide thy sister Night, while strains so pure Make heaven and all its beauty seem too sure, And all too certain her oblivion.

One star awakes to turn thee from the south. Oh, linger in the shadows thou hast drawn, Ere Night cast dew before the feet of Dawn, Or Silence lay her kiss on Music’s mouth!

THE TIDES OF CHANGE

Wherewith is Beauty fashioned? Canst thou deem Her evanescent roses bourgeon save Within the sunlight tender on her grave? Awake no winds but bear her dust, a gleam In morning’s prophecy or sunset’s dream; And every cry that ever Sirens gave From islands mournful with the quiring wave Was echo of a music once supreme.

All æons, conquests, excellencies, stars, All pain and peril of seraphic wars, Were met to shape thy soul’s divinity. Pause, for the breath of gods is on thy face! The ghost of dawns forgotten and to be Abides a moment in the twilight’s grace.

MORNING TWILIGHT

An early thrush acclaims the light-- The wide, low-billowing day O’er dews and grasses chill with night Upcasts its foam of grey.

Now end the darkness and its dreams. The ashen moon is low; Like petal-drift on placid streams We watch her sink and go.

And like a dryad to her tree The morning star hath sped-- Gone ere an eye essayed to see The path whereon she fled.

Hark how, as here we stand the wards Of woodlands newly green, The pine’s innumerable chords Are touched by hands unseen!

Hearing, the forest seems forlorn And all the air a sigh Of things that seek a vaster morn, And find it not, and die.

O tranquil hour! the haggard noon Shall make a ghost of thee Soon to be memory’s, and soon Not even of memory.

AN ALTAR OF THE WEST

(Point Lobos, the southern boundary of Carmel Bay.)

Beauty, what dost thou here? Why hauntest thou this empery of pain Where men in vain Long for another sphere? Art not an exile shy, A dreamer ’mid the swords, Upon this iron world where men defy Time and its hidden lords? Thou waitest with a splendor on thy brow. And seem’st to watch with compensating eyes Each jest our dwarfing Fates devise; And after all the strife, ’Tis thou Who standest where the slayers’ feet have trod-- Perchance a portion of this dream of God That will not go from life.

All that man’s yearning finds beyond its reach Thou hast in promise, giving to his heart A rapturous sadness all too wild for speech,-- A glory past the thresholds of his art, Tho Nature tell it with the wind And beckon him to find. Thou dost reward our barren years: Our very tears-- The dews of memory-- Were lovely as the dew, could Grief but see. What marvel fills Thine evenings, dawns and noons!-- The dryad-haunted hills And gold of reeds that wait the lips of Pan; Silence and silver one in wasting moons; The stains Of mornings beautiful ere Time began, And wine-souled Autumn and the ghostly rains; A bird In moonlit valleys of enchantment heard; The fall of sunsets past the sea, And shadow of celestial pearls to be Where meet in day The night’s last star, the morning’s youngest ray.

On thine incarnate face could we but look, Would not we die, Desiring overmuch? And yet we sigh, Who find on land and sea thy radiant touch And dream thou hast on earth a secret nook-- A glade supremely blest In woodlands where thou wanderest unseen. Hath not the snowy North Or star-concealing ocean of the West A court wherein thou sittest queen, A temple whence thou goest forth, An altar for our quest? Goddess, one such I know, And fain would praise, Tho less the gift my words bestow Than tapers ’mid the blaze Of peaceless stars that gather at thy throne. Yet seems it most thine own.

Past Carmel lies a headland that the deep-- A Titan at his toil-- Has graven with the measured surge and sweep Of waves that broke ten thousand years ago. Here winds assoil That blow From unfamiliar skies And isolating waters of the West. Deep-channelled by the billows’ rage it lies, As tho the land Thrust forth a vast, tree-shaggy hand To bar the furious ocean from its breast. Here Beauty would I seek, For this I deem her home, And surely here The sea-adoring Greek, Poseidon, unto thee Thy loftiest temple had been swift to rear, Of chosen marble and chalcedony, Pure as the irrecoverable foam.

Ere evening from this granite bulwark gaze, Above the deeper sapphire that the winds Drag to and fro. A zone Of coldest chrysoprase Tells where the sunlight finds The glimmering shoal. How slow Yon clouds, like giants overthrown Sink to the ocean’s western verge, From whence incessant roll Thro unresponding years The waves whose anthem challenges the soul-- The everlasting surge Whose ancient salt is in our blood and tears. Listen, with sight made blind, And dream thou hearest on the according wind The music of the gods again, The murmur of their slain And firmamental echo of great wars. See how the wave in sudden anger flings White arms about a rock to drag it down! No siren sings, But in that pool of crystal gleams her crown, Flung on a rocky shelf-- Grey jewels cold and agates of the elf That in yon scarlet cavern still is hid, ’Mid shells that mock the dawn. Here, where the northern surge is swayed Upon a beach of amber where a faun Might clasp the beauty of a Nereid, Translucent waters cover loops of jade. Beyond, the sea-scourged walls uphold A mount of granite, steep and harsh, where cling Along its rugged length The cypress legions, melancholy, old. O’er wasting cliff and strand In terraced emerald they stand Against the sky, Each elder tree a king Whose fame the wordless billows magnify. A thousand winters of achieving storm Moulded each mighty form To beauty and to strength: A thousand more shall raven ere they die.

But wander to the verge again Where the immeasurable main Below the red horizon rears its wall, The day’s enormous pyre Whence oft, in mighty sunsets of the West, The world seems menaced by invading fire. Dost hear no call From these hesperian Islands of the Blest That wait the quest Of galleys of adventure, launched at dawn And seaward on the tides of peril drawn? The sky-line’s crimson harbors seem to hold, At dusk, their prows of gold. Now, ere the stars come out along the wind, The veering sea-birds find The refuge that they crave On cliffs above the weedy mouth Of some reverberant cave In which the ocean’s monstrous chuckle wakes. Fast comes the night; The west witholds at last Those last red relics of departing light That once were noon. Hark how the billow breaks, Forever cast On reefs round which wild waters and the moon Weave silver garlands--foamy fillets strewn Along her shining pathway to the South! The stars arise, And westward now the Eagle holds their van. See how the Pleiades, Like hounds in leash before Aldebaran, Strain up the shifting skies! The cypress trees, Drenched in the milk o’ the moon, conspirant seem, The surf a chant of giants heard afar, While seaward gleam The lamps of Lyra and the evening star....

The midnight hushes all; The winds are dumb; Eastward, Orion treads the mountain-wall. But lo! what visitant is on the gloom? Beauty and mystery and terror meet At this her chosen seat: The writhing fog is come, White as the moon’s cold hands Laid on a marble tomb. Slow swarm the dragon-bands-- Those pallid monsters of the mist that nose The granite bare And glide along the flanks Of hill and headland where the cypress ranks Are crouched like silent foes, Relentless and aware. Far to the sombre hills they roam Like winds that have no home, And creep, Unhasting and intent, Along the muffled deep, As tho malignly sent From Lethe’s murmur and the starless foam. They pass, and now again the moon is free, Slow pacing with the Signs about her head; Soon shall the dawn arise and find her fled From yon blue battlement, As tho a pearl were hidden by the sea.

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