Chapter 2

"_Love, my love_"--these the words I read-- "_The vision and dream of a life have died. Hurt to the heart by the words you said,_ Angered, stung by a wounded pride, Mad with the thought that your love was dead-- I have wedded a loveless, unloved bride-- Would I had died instead!_"

My heart refuses to understand The words that burn my brain; Palsied, stunned by a felling blow Struck by a cherished hand, I am all too numb for pain; Dead to a deathless woe, Helpless to understand, Shall I ever feel again?

X.

Awake, alive to pain! The first steel gleam of morn Stabs deep the heart I thought had shrunk to dust, The love I prayed might die to loveless scorn Awakes and cries ... Ah, God, how is it just A fault so slight such meed of pain should pay, That one mad word in pride and anger spoken Should leave two lives forever crushed and broken, Should plait a scourge to lash my soul for aye?

How can a just God see men suffer thus?-- Unheedful of the cosmic cry of pain, Unmoved by all the pangs that torture us, Knowing our prayers and tears alike are vain-- Like to a wanton boy who feels no thrill Of pity for the weak his strength holds thrall, Who pins a helpless butterfly against a wall, Watching the bright wings flutter and grow still.

We are the sport of some malignant Power Who nails us to our crosses, hard and fast, Who sees us flutter for a little hour, Struggle and suffer ... and grow still at last; Who hears untouched the ceaseless, cosmic groan Wrung from his creatures' tortured lips alway; He will not hear or heed! What need to pray? There is no hand to help. We stand alone.

* * * * *

Father, forgive! I know not what I say, Frenzied, tortured, torn on the rack of pain; Teach these pain-writhen lips once more to pray-- Help me to trust again!

XI.

A year! How slight a space When winged with ecstasy! (An aeon dark to me.) He has brought her home--God lend me grace! To-night in the throng I shall see his face-- He has long forgotten me. A year! I have learned to smile, I have taught my eyes to lie, I have lived and laughed and sung--the while I have only longed to die.

XII.

I have seen him once again, There in the throng with his wife (An eagle matched with a pitiful wren!) Bitter in sooth has his portion been-- Chained to a clog for life! Strange that our eyes as of yore should meet And hold each other a breathless space, That the dawn-light of old should illumine his face, That the lips that were stern should an instant grow sweet, Touched with the old-time tender grace. But his eyes were haggard and old with pain (Traitors to thwart his resolute will!) They told me the struggle was vain--all vain! He loves me--loves me still.

XIII.

Cruel! that I should be glad That he loves and suffers still, Yet how should my soul be sad That his passionate, resolute will Cannot crush the love that is stronger than he, The love that is all for me!

The year has left its trace (Cover it how he will!) On the proud, impassive face And I know how he suffers still-- Thrall to a love that is stronger than he, A love that is all for me.

Surely, ah surely, I know I who have known his love, I who have loved him so, What such a bond must prove, Linked to a loveless, unloved wife, Chained to a clog for life!

XIV.

She loves him not, they say, Save for his lands and gold; She is narrow, selfish, cold, Stabbing and wounding his soul each day, Growing further and further away From the heart it was hers to hold.

Yet not all blameless he, A woman is quick to feel What man would fain conceal; Surely she can but see That naught to his life is she, Nay--nor can ever be!

I am happier--happier far--than he; He is meshed in a galling silken hold, Bound with a jewelled band of gold; While I, at least, am free. And I know what his daily life must be. Linked with a nature paltry, slight, He with his generous, kingly soul, Stung and goaded past all control By a thousand petty barbs of venom and spite.

Once, but once have we met, And we spoke of trivial things, Of the changes a twelvemonth brings, Of late Summer, lingering yet... (Ah, how should a heart that has loved forget?) Traitors ever to thwart his will His eyes confirm what I half divine. A bitter, bootless victory mine, He cannot choose but to love me still!

XV.

Whose was the fault, the blame? She has fled and left him free, Free! but a stain of shame Rests on the proud old name. At a bitter cost she has set him free-- Free! with a blemished fame.

And he with the pride of his race, With a resolute, calm control, Locks in his heart the heart's disgrace, Shows of his shame no subtlest trace, Hiding the hurt of a stricken soul 'Neath the calm of a passionless face.

He had deemed it a cowardly thing to fly While the village prated anent his shame, And an added blot on his noble name By his own hand to die.

But oft in the deep of night I hear Borne on the wild night wind, The beat of the mare's hoofs thundering past, And my heart is clutched by an icy fear Of a direful thing that may chance at last; For ride he never so far, so fast-- Black Care rides hard behind.

XVI.

Last night as I stood in the gloaming's gray, Ere the moon came into the sky, He came to me for a last good-bye-- At last he is going away.

His face in the dusk showed stern and set, Old and haggard and worn with pain; "Dear, I may never see you again-- Mine but the meed regret! How can I ask you to share my shame, How can I give you my blemished name, Yet how shall the heart forget?

Naught in my life save a dream have I, A dream--a vision, too fair to be, A rose that blooms 'mid the rue for me-- Naught but a dream ... Good-bye."

And then, ere he lifted his bridle rein To ride away down the dark'ning land, He bent and touched with his lips the hand I had laid on the chestnut's mane.

XVII.

Something ... my senses will scarce recall ... The horror they came in the night to tell ... The mare had galloped riderless home, Blown and bleeding and flecked with foam, And they found him there by the sunken wall, Hurt to the death by the desperate fall. How it had chanced, he could only tell, Ere the merciful numbness stole his brain; How the chestnut rose to the leap and fell.... Then his senses closed on the shocks of pain. He spoke, they told me, but once again-- To whisper my name with his struggling breath-- (Thank God, he suffered so brief a while) Then peacefully sank on the breast of Death, Dead, with his lips asmile.

How can I wish him alive again, Lying so peacefully, placidly still, With that carven smile on his marble face. How can I pray that his heart should thrill To waking and waking's pain? Lying so peacefully, placidly still. With the old, sweet smile on his quiet face, Dead to the sting of a heart's disgrace.... How should I wish him a lesser grace, How should I strive with a wiser Will? Yet how can the heart that is reft divine Death's mystical, measureless charity? The cry of the stricken king is mine: "Would I had died for thee!"

Severance

Not severed by long leagues of lonely land, Nor sundered by wide wastes of sounding sea; But ever side by side and hand in hand, And yet--apart are we.

Spartacus

He stands storm-browed, imperial, chief Of all Rome's gladiators; brave Beyond all others; fearless in belief, A captive--but no slave. His brow is like a god's--a brow of power, Lips soft with human sweetness--ere the day He entered the arena, and the hour He first beheld man's life-blood mixed with clay.

Felt rise within him bestial strange desires And savage instincts in a brutal heart That battened on men's blood; burned with unhallowed fires Of slaughter--till--a thing apart, A hired butcher of his fellow men, he stands Daring the fasting lion in his den, Or some fierce gladiator on the blood-stained sands,-- A savage chief of yet more savage men!

He stands, with massive throat and thews of steel, While loud acclaims the listening heavens fill, And Roman women smile. He does not know; or feel A moment's joy or one triumphant thrill. He heeds them not. He sees as in a dream His home and Cyrasella's citron groves; A youth again, beside some purling stream, With gladsome heart and joyous pipe he roves.

He sees anon that gentle shepherd boy, Who knew no harsher sound than plaining flute, In the arena stand--Rome's sport and toy-- A bestial, blood-stained hireling brute.... Then swift thro' every throbbing, pulsing vein The fierce unconquered spirit of old Sparta ran. Rome's fiercest gladiator is to-day again A Thracian--and a man!

The Dead Leader

After the waiting and the anguished weeping He lies at rest at last. How should we mourn him tranced in peaceful sleeping, His pain all past!

The Right's Excalibur his strong arm wielded A little space lies low; The victor in life's sometime strife has yielded To man's last Foe.

Late--all too late--our loyal tribute giving A loyal, fearless soul! He whom we honored late--so late--while living, Lies dead beside the goal.

Yet this the solace of these long sad hours While we who loved him weep, We breathe an answering message in our flowers To him who lies asleep.

To him whom soon the deep, cold earth must cover, To him whose dying breath Left to our hearts a message bridging over The dark abyss of Death.

Hagar

To have known Heaven and then to walk in Hell! Is it not hell to know his face no more, Supplanted, spurned and thrust without his door. Seeing another with my loved lord dwell Sheltered within the tents of wedded love While I must roam the desert of Despair? Ah, God above me harken to my prayer! Send down thy mercy on me as a dove Folding its white wings on my tortured breast. Let me not see the anguish of my child With hunger torn, with thirst's consuming wild, Strike us, oh God, into Thy deep dark Rest! Lo! I have sinned. I kneel and kiss the rod, But she, the wife, who cast us forth to die ... I curse her not! Judge Thou between us, God, Which in Thy sight is guiltier, she or I?

Water-Lilies

They float ethereal, unearthly white Upon the bosom of the darkling mere, Raying the dusk with slumbrous silver light-- Eidolons of lost moons erst mirrored there.

Salvias

Wooing the wind's wild caresses, Courting the sun's fierce flame-- Wantons in cardinal dresses Flaunting their scarlet shame.

Yellow Jessamine

Like little yellow stars that, fallen down, Hang pendulous, enmeshed among the boughs, Mild golden radiances they gem the crown Fair Summer sets upon her beauteous brows.

Sunflowers

They bloom in lowly places-- Unmeet for fairer beds-- Like swarthy Ethiop faces With yellow-turbaned heads.

The Rose

All Orient odors, spikenard, balm and myrrh, Perfumes of Araby and farthest Ind-- Sweet incense from the chaliced heart of her She pours upon the feet of every wind.

Circe

I.

Where fair AEaeia smiles across the sea To olive-crowned Italia, th' enchantress dwells-- A woman set about with dreams and spells, Weird incantations, charms and mystery. Most strangely pale and strangely fair is she-- Yet deadlier than the hemlock draught her smile, Darker than Stygian glooms her subtle guile.... Drawn by her deep eyes' spell, across the sea The Argive galleys wing, till beached they lie Upon the fatal strand. The Greeks beguile The hasting hours with revelry and wine Within her halls.... Eftsoon strange sorcery The Circe weaves. They who were men erewhile Now grovel at her feet, transformed to swine.

II.

'Neath myriad mellow tapers' golden glow A woman stands, proud, insolent and fair; A single gem meshed in the dusk-dyed hair Burns like the evening star descending low Adown the dark'ning sky. Upon the snow Of her full-blossomed breast deep rubies lie. Her fragrant presence breathes sweet sorcery; The shimmering saffron satin's flexile flow Outlines each sinuous curve; a sensuous smile, A touch that fires to flame each pulsant vein-- One draught of eyes more deep than depths of wine The senses steal, the soul and brain beguile Till all seem merged in feeling ... and again A Circe's spells transform men into swine.

To A. M. M.

She is so shy, this little love of mine, So pale and pure, almost I fear to speak The love that thrills my every pulse like wine Yet brings no answering flush to her fair cheek.

She is so calm that Passion's stirring strain To chanson soft and low unbidden dies; The while her longing lover sighs in vain For one soft love-glance from her down-dropped eyes.

A lily she that from its garden bed, Into the golden sunshine glad and sweet Lifts to far sapphire skies its radiant head, Unheedful of the base weeds at its feet.

Yet--should one loving reverently kneel And draw the lily's close-shut leaves apart, Perchance those waxen petals might reveal Enshrined within, a glowing golden heart.

Loveless

As some poor starveling at a palace gate Sees curtained gleams from banquet-litten halls, Hears song out-ringing from the festal walls, Scents viands that shall princely palates sate, Yet in the outer gloom may only wait, Crouched in the cold, thrice-thankful for some least Mean morsel flung him from the plenteous feast-- Poor bondman to the ball and chain of Fate! So, lonely at Love's outer gate I stand And glimpse the brightness and the bliss within, Where love-lit smiles transmute the dark to day-- I wait without--I may not enter in; Long, wistfully, I gaze--then void of hand And starved of spirit, sadly turn away.

Clytie--The Sunflower

(To F. H.)

In pale green twilight lands Under the sea Her rainbow palace stands, Irised and opaline; Agate and almondine, Corals and pearly shells Swept from deep ocean dells, Strewing the silver strands, Starring the golden sands In the green twilight lands Under the sea.

All thro' the dreamy day Under the sea Where the sea-maidens play, Twining foam-garlands fair, Girding their golden hair, Clad in her moss-robe green Veiled in her bright locks' sheen-- Where the dim seaweeds sway, Trackless her white feet stray All thro' the dreamy day Under the sea.

Or like a star she glides Over the sea, Deftly her steeds she guides-- Gold-fish that glint and gleam, Jewels alive they seem-- Softly the surges swell, Rocking the rosy shell Where the sea-maiden rides, Wafture of wooing tides, Swift as a star she glides Over the sea.

One day she lifts her eyes Up from the sea Where the great sun-god flies Over the world afar, Guiding his golden car-- All his star brow aglow, All his bright hair aflow; Dawn in his radiance lies, Dusk at his coming dies-- Hapless she lifts her eyes Up from the sea.

Swiftly his steeds speed on Over the sea, Soon is the splendor flown, Lone on the shore she stands. Stretching imploring hands, Lifting impassioned eyes Where the last sun-gleam dies; All the day's brightness gone, Hapless she stands alone, Heedless the god speeds on Over the sea.

Ever her wistful gaze Over the sea Yearns on the sun-god's rays-- Till by some subtle power Changed to a golden flower-- Still in her robe of green, Crowned with her gold hair's sheen Slight on her stem she sways ... Yet does her yearning gaze Follow the sun-god's rays Over the sea.

In Bondage

What can it profit a man tho' he have the soul of a god Sunk in the form of a beast, with a senseless simian face-- What can the world perceive of the subtler inward grace Breathing upon the dust of the coarse clay clod? What knows the world of me--the Me that is prisoned within-- Seeing only the self that sickens its sensitive eyes-- How can it know that this hateful mask hides not the sneer of Sin, That this cloak of crass, crude flesh, is a trusty soul's disguise?

What can I hope to win? Which of the gifts men prize? What can I have or hold of the bounteous boon I crave-- I, with the coarse stubbed hands, the dull and narrow eyes, The low-browed leer of the brutal, base-born slave? What can I know of Love? I, with my ape-like face, Frighting the tender trust of the timorous, shrinking maid, Who, drawn by my deep soul's spell, half-yields to the soul's embrace Then looks on its hideous mask and trembles and flees dismayed.

Yet must the soul of fire chained to this cursed clay, Galled by its fetters of flesh, seared with a thousand scars, Shriek and struggle and beat its breast on its prison bars Thro' the night's long dark of despair till the dawning of ultimate day, Till the glow of that ultimate dawn transfigure the tortured face And the sacred fire within crumble the coarse clay clod. Till the Soul, breathed on by an unseen, unknown Grace, Stripped of its bonds of flesh, stand face to face with its God!

To a Singer

Beneath thy Midas touch life's sullen grays Are thrilled to sudden gold; as some far gleam From wings of Helios athwart thy dream Irradiates for thee earth's darksome ways. Wild woodland voices ripple thro' thy lays; Sweet silvern murmurs from some deep-delled spring, Brook, tree and flower and each insensate thing, The throstle's call, the calm of sun-steeped days, A glint of sunshine on the swallow's wing, Fern-filagrees, the drowsy drone of bee Made drunk with draughts of purple wild-grape wine; All these Orphean music holds for thee, And all thy days and dreams companioning Walks Nature with her hand close-clasped in thine.

Blossom of Brine

Morn! and a white sail winging Over the sunlit waves; A song on the breezes ringing Up from the coral caves Where sea-nymphs, white arms lifting Wreaths for the sea-god twine Of the frail foam-flowers drifting On the wave-crests--blossom of brine.

Night! and a dark rack flying Over the sullen waves; A dirge on the night winds sighing Up from the cold sea caves Where sea-nymphs white arms lifting Wreaths for a pall entwine For a still white face is drifting On the wave-crest--blossom of brine.

A Memory

Strange that across the vast of varied years, Fraught with life's wonted alloy--mingled joy and pain-- Sun-kissed with smiles or gloomed with mists of tears, Old memories should wake to life again. Old thoughts and dreams, words breathed by lips long dumb, Songs sung by voices silent now for aye, Like hosts of speechless spectres thronging come Dim formless wraiths of each dear vanished day.

Strange that a fragment of a life replete, A few brief hours as men measure time, A chapter in life's book, closed now--yet vaguely sweet As odor-laden zephyrs from some far-off clime-- Should drift across my heart while joysome memories rise Of golden moments snatched from Arcady, Of silver sails and opal-tinted skies, Of viridescent earth and sapphire sea.

Of Lotus-land where pleasure dreamful lies, Of kindred souls responsive each to each, Of thoughts half hidden by deep-tinted eyes-- (Sweet traitors telling that denied to speech!) The merest fragment of a life replete, A sun-gleam 'mid existence's sombre grays, Eyes, hands and hearts that for one moment meet In strange, sweet yearning ... then--divided ways.

To Margaret

Maiden of varying mood, Thalia thou hast wooed, Thespis thereafter, Till 'neath thy lyric sway Each heart must tribute pay-- Tears blent with laughter. So in the days to be This do we crave for thee, Through life's hereafter, Throughout the changing years, May all thy griefs and tears Be blent with laughter.

Regret

Shimmer of rose and pearl, Sheen on an opal sky; Day's crimson banners unfurl, Purple-pleached shadow-gleams die; Dawn flowers bourgeoning fair, Meads with the dawn-dews wet; Rare is the morn--ah, rare! But in the heart, regret-- A vague regret.

Clouds like the scattered snow Stippling a sapphire sky; Fervor and heat and glow, Zephyrs that swoon and die. Drowseth the nooning air On meads with red poppies set; Fair is the day--ah, fair! But in the heart, regret-- And still ... regret.

Flashes of burning gold, Flushes of crimson light Faint on a waning wold, Stealeth the silent night. One from a casement bar Leaneth with lashes wet, Watching the last wan star Fade like a heart's regret-- A vain regret.

"God Bless You, Dear"

Dear patient face and placid brow, Dear lips that smiled despite of pain, Brave toil-worn hands, so helpful now, Sweet spirit free from earthly stain. Within the doorway Mother stands, The while a merry barefoot lad, Across the springtime meadow-lands Goes whistling schoolward, blithe and glad; And where the pathway breasts the hill, I stay my steps and turn to hear Her loving voice, as lingering still, She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."

Dear patient face and furrowed brow, Dear lips that smile thro' all life's pain, Brave toil-worn hands, so weary now, Sweet soul unmarred by earthly stain. Within the doorway Mother stands, The while a man oppressed with care, Across the waning Autumn lands, Goes toil-ward, fain to strive and bear; And where the pathway breasts the hill, I stay my steps and turn to hear Her trembling voice, as ling'ring still, She calls, "Good-bye! God bless you, dear."

Dear peaceful face and placid brow, Dear lips that smile secure from pain, Brave toil-worn hands, soft-folded now, Sweet spirit freed from earthly stain. Within God's portal Mother stands, The while a man forspent with care Seeketh the far-off meadow-lands, By faith made strong to strive and bear. And as I breast life's weary hill, I ofttimes pause--meseems I hear The well-loved accents breathing still The old fond prayer, "God bless you, dear."

Roses

"Where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?"--Rubaiyat.

A red rose burns upon his breast Where erst a white rose lay; Above his fervent heart-throb pressed-- The red rose of To-day.

What recks he of the flower that dies-- (For roses bloom alway!) Low in the dust, forgotten, lies The rose of Yesterday.

But yet, To-day's red rose must die, (For roses fade alway!) To-morrow crushed, forgot, 'twill lie-- A rose of Yesterday.

The Poet

One fluting on sad wolds Pan's flight left drear, One crying down the wayward wind of Chance, One piping unto feet that will not dance And mourning unto ears that will not hear.

Shylock

Cold craft and avarice look from out his eyes, His face with evil passion marred and seamed, Looks frowningly upon a Christian world. Behind that hateful mask a demon lurks To urge the narrow soul to darksome deeds Of violence and greed, of hate and ruth. His God, a God of wrath, a tyrant force To mete to helpless souls eternal doom; A Juggernaut, a hard unsentient power,-- But yet less potent than the yellow gold Those crooked talons clutch, and for the which The miser Shylock fain would sell his soul.

Sonnet

(To Charles J. O'Malley.)

As when above orchestral undertone, The plaining wail of muted violin, The hushed oboe and the distant din, Of muffled drum or viol's raucous groan-- Sudden arises one pure voice-like tone, A silver trumpet's tongue that stirs the soul To feel the theme, and the harmonious whole A sonant setting seems for that alone; So, high above earth's murmurous stir and strife, Riseth thy voice in clear enringing song-- No minor plaint of dull despairing pain, But one true note of hope that bids us long For higher things; and all the din of life Seems to subserve the sweetness of thy strain.

Antithesis

The poet wrought a song of sadness, fraught With all the pain the world's sad heart hath proved; He sang of doubt, and dreams that end in naught ... Then, smiling, turned and kissed the lips he loved.

The poet wrought a song of joyance, thrilled With all the peace the world's glad heart hath kept; He sang of hope and happy dreams fulfilled ... Then bent his face upon his hands and wept.

In Fortune's Twilight