Chapter 3
The old house totters 'neath its weight of years, Bowed, like the form of him who shelters there, Old, friendless, lone--save for the wanton, Care, Who flouts him, mocks his grief with gibes and jeers And laughs to see his piteous hopes grow fears. Not his the joy of placid, sun-crowned age-- His dim eyes falter as he scans the page Of Life's worn album, blotted with his tears. He sees in dreams the wife he loved--long dead; The son--once proud to bear his father's name-- Who mixed his honest blood with dire disgrace; The wayward girl who wrought her father shame ... He sits alone with Care; the day has fled And twilight falls, upon the furrowed face.
Fate
Thro' countless aeons sunless and remote A Soul went searching for its spirit mate, Thro' star-stained space, o'er wind-swept deep, afloat, Forever desolate.
Anon, another spirit, lone of heart Goes forth thro' voiceless void to seek its mate; Eftsoon they meet, these twain, strike hands ... and part! And this is Fate.
The Path of Dreams
Beside the stream that silverly steals on To swell the song of that far-sounding sea Which breaks upon the utmost shore of Thought, They who have drunk at Song's immortal spring Walk with glad feet the upland path of dreams That whitely winds thro' long low-lying lands-- By one, yclept the Way of Fools--a plain Of dust and ashes and of Dead Sea fruit; But by another called the Path of Hope That leads far up the slope of heart's desire;-- And haply both speak truth--for oft the way Is set with stones that tear the climbing feet, And oft for roses there is bitter rue, And oft for singing there is idle scorn, And sneers full oft for smiles. Yet well we know The upland Path of Dreams that whitely winds (Yclept or Way of Fools or Path of Hope) Leads upward ever to the Hills of Song!
Beside the silent stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless sea They who have drunk of Slumber's poppied draught Walk with unsandalled feet the path of dreams That winds thro' gray, low-lying fields of sleep To dim dream shores girt with dim spectre-trees, Swayed ever by the sweep of unseen wings, Slow-stirring palms and arabesques of ferns And fields of sombre bloom and scentless flowers Not of their wonted hue, but dimly gray, Where songless birds like shades of shadows flit, And silent winds from poppied meadows blow-- And here dear presences to us denied By sterner Day, approach to cry us hail; And here a little do we taste the joy Of kisses dreamed on lips forever mute, A little know the bliss of Hope fulfilled, And dreams that seem as true as very Truth ... Yet well we know that with the stir of dawn, Waking, we must return from Sleep's far fields! Beside the Lethean stream whose soundless tide Sets ever to the unknown tideless Sea That breaks upon the farthest unknown shore-- They who have quaffed dark Asrael's mystic draught Walk with still feet the viewless Path of Dreams That winds thro' long, low-lying fields of Sleep To fields Elysian or Tartarian glooms; And haply, longed-for presences denied By sterner Life shall come to cry us hail,-- Bright radiances from realms of light eterne, Or shadows from the shades of awful Dis-- But whether here we taste of Hope fulfilled, Or find our dreams are but as drifted dust-- From dark of Dis or realms of Light eterne, Full well we know we shall return no more!
An Autumn Song
The dim sun slips adown the sky That dies from gold to gray; The homing birds that Southward fly To my heart's hailing make reply, Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Southward I turn my wistful eyes, Southward, where all my treasure lies, Whither the homing sparrow flies, Piping, "Good-bye, good-bye!"
The chill blast sweeps the steely sky That glooms a sullen gray; Soft summer winds that Southward fly To my soul's sighing make reply Breathing "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Southward I turn my longing eyes, Southward my yearning spirit hies, Whither or bird or zephyr flies Sighing "Good-bye, good-bye!"
Vain
Wreath of laurel and crown of bay And the noisy trump of Fame, Praise for the singer's deathless lay, And a listening world's acclaim.
But the singer sits with his grief alone Where love lies cold and dead. The plaudits fall on a heart of stone; The Soul of the song has fled.
Sartor Resartus
Ah, God be merciful to him who sees Thro' ermined pomp and pageantry of kings, Thro' regal mien and beauty's witcheries The poor, weak, shrivelled soul that crouches hid Within the body's hold! Thrice-cursed is he Whose soul sees souls of others face to face, Who strips the outer man like vestments off And views the naked heart in all its shame And poverty; who still must rend the veil Of motive, purpose, false humanity And futile pretense! God! to walk this world Doomed still to see what others fain would hide, Reading men's thoughts as scholars read the page Of some old language dead to all save them; Seeing beneath the tender woman flesh, The woman-grace, the pleading woman-eyes, The grisly skeleton, the hollow ribs, The eyeless sockets and the grinning jaw; Reading for aye the sneer beneath the smile, The lie that lurks behind the seeming truth; To know that such, or haply worse, am I, A living lie, false prophet to myself, Clothed on with shimmering robes of fallacy And vain deceit! Ah God, where is the truth? Are all men false or lies the fault in me Who, vulture-like, seize only on the taint, And leave the pure? If haply thus it be In pity take away the subtle sight That pierces thought. Give back the old fond faith, The young belief in all humanity; Hide from my view the canker in the rose, The taint in truth, the blight upon the bloom.
Far better 'twere to drink the hemlock draught And, happy, deem it nectar than to find The drop of gall within the nectared cup. Far better trust repaid with treachery Than doubt confirmed! Ah, Thou all-seeing God Who art the Truth, make me to see the truth; Lift from my soul the shadow; in the room Of doubt, send trust. Let me believe again; Help me to see the highest in mankind!
Illumed
Like to a little child, whose straying feet, Tracking the fox-fire's guiling glint and gleam, Have wandered far afield by marsh and stream While just before the wavering glimmers fleet On and still on where sky and meadow meet, Till, spent and fearful in the gathering gloom, At last he sees the guiding light of home, Where love awaits and mother-kisses sweet. So was it mine through fens of doubt to stray Pursuing still some fair ephemeron, Or fleeting gleam, or shimmering fallacy, Till through the deepening dusk a beacon shone Set by the hand of Love to light the way O Father, to implicit trust in Thee!
In the Play
In a painted "Forest of Arden," in the glare of the garish light, In doublet and hose, be-powdered and rouged, you sigh to me night by night; Attuned to the sway of your cadenced voice, as a harp to the wooing wind, I thrill at the touch of your painted lips--for--"_I am your Rosalind!_"
Could you know that my art in seeming was a dearer thing than art, That the love-words spoken nightly spring straight from a loving heart; Could you know that my soul speaks to you--aye soul and spirit and mind! When I gaze deep into your eyes and breathe--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"
To you 'tis a vain dissembling--a part of the work of the day, And the words that your voice makes music, but the dull, dead lines of the play. Little you care for the woman you woo, save as a foil designed. To prove your skill as a lover--yet--"_I am your Rosalind!_"
I merge in the player, the woman! The actress good at her art Must needs look well to each glance and tone, must needs play still her part--
Tho' the woman's soul that must else be mute; aye soul and spirit and mind! Cry to your soul in another's words--"_And I am your Rosalind!_"
To E. P. B.
Imperial as that famed Elizabeth Before whose feet a knight his cloak cast down-- A sovereign--altho' thine only crown Love's roses 'twine for thee, Elizabeth.
Ah, maiden sweeter than morn's nectared breath, Across thy path no regal robe I fling-- Only a living, loving heart I bring To lay at thy dear feet, Elizabeth.
Through the Dark
Last night they laid me in my winding sheet, Set burning tapers at my feet and head, Decked me with wan white blossoms faint and sweet, And told each other softly, "She is dead."
Ay, dumb and dead! Enshrouded, cold and stark I lay where waned the tawny tapers dim, Pulseless and pale; yet thro' the dreadful dark I lived in thoughts of _him_.
The morning came. One who had loved me bent Above my face with tears and bated breath; Laid on my heart the roses _he_ had sent-- And I--was glad of death!
Preluding
Frail fronds of ferns uncurling, Blue iris flags unfurling, Pale showers of blossoms swirling Like clouds of wind-blown snow; With fragile wildings playing, Like two blithe children maying, Across the glad meads straying, Together, dear, we go.
The silver clouds far-drifting, Vague lights and shadows shifting, The sungleams gold-dust sifting Down thro' the latticed leaves; Gray brooks the meadows lacing, Young flow'rs the uplands gracing, Her faery 'broidery tracing The skillful spider weaves.
From long, long day-dreams shaken, The vivid violets waken; His Southern haunts forsaken, The bluebird flecks the sky; Ah, breath of bloom-bright heather, Ah, golden Maytime weather, We drift in dreams together-- Together, you and I.
The Heights of Silence
(Transcribed from "The Choir Invisible.")
Above the valleys, peopled, fair and warm, Rise the bleak, silent uplands where abide Wraiths of lost loves, love's recompense denied, Unspoken, unconfessed, unsatisfied.... Cold, silent heights, engirt with zones of storm, Where Love for aye unmated must abide.
The broad, sweet downward vistas of the flesh Stretch fair and far; the calm white spirit-height Is lone and chill; there dimly shines the light Of sun and star that burns and beacons bright Where Sin spreads still her guiling, glitt'ring mesh. Ah, warm the valley! Lone and chill the height!
Yet he who wins the height's sublimity-- The silent height where loves unlived abide, Loves stainless, sublimated, purified-- Shall glimpse that land, to grosser view denied, Where love and longing infinite shall be Or ever stilled--or ever satisfied.
Andromeda
Bound ever to a great grey rock of Doom, Striving with futile hands to rive the chain Of woven fear, distrust and subtle pain, While gaunt wolf-waves that leap from out the gloom Of doubt's cold sea are snarling at my feet, As nearer writhes the dragon of Despair Foul with dank horrors of his caverned lair, And like a clock of doom the dark tides beat.... I lift my eyes; Lo! sudden sweeps along Thought's empyrean and the vast of dreams One star-browed, Jove-like, human-orbed; meseems His feet are winged with music, shod with song; Ah, Perseus, should'st thou, pitying, leave the sky To loose my bonds--then all the fear were gone, Soul touching soul, trust from distrust were won, Like god and goddess 'fronted, thou and I; Despair were slain, closed the unequal strife, Thy great soul's strength should make weak purpose strong, Thy hand should lead me up the slopes of Song, Thy winged feet guide me to the peaks of Life!
Requital
What tho' you loved me once? Man's love at best Is but a mood--the fancy of an hour, You held all faith and truth a theme for jest, Love's recompense, a smile. You knew your power.
What tho' you loved me then? You went away And left my life an arid waste of pain; And now--your best years spent, your idols clay-- You stretch imploring arms to me again.
What tho' you love me still? What tho' you say The current of your life toward mine is set, As vagrant stars obey the planets' sway, Or perfume clingeth to the violet?
What tho' I once loved you? See in yon West Day's fires have burned to ashes cold and gray; So in my quiet heart love's wild unrest By its own flame consumed, is dead for aye.
When Fades the Light
When fades the light along the western sky, When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray, When darkling mere and mead enshadowed lie, And Night's wide arms enfold the wearied Day; When tired lilies ring their vesper bells And dusking leaves speak whispered orison, When cassocked Twilight breathing benison His rosary of flashing fireflies tells-- Then ends the day-long struggle. Strong no more I drift far out on Fancy's phantom sea, Setting full sail for that forbidden shore Where waiteth Love for me.
* * * * *
When fades the light from out my dying eyes, And soul and sense seem slipping soft away, When Death's swift shallop launched on Lethe lies Waiting to wing me to the unknown Gray; When things of time and thought grow strangely dim, And the pent spirit strains to loose its bands Till from the fettered feet and helpless hands Shall fall life's shackles pitiless and grim-- Then shall the conflict cease. Enchained no more My soul shall sail the silent unknown sea Until it touch the unforbidden shore Where Love awaiteth me.
Butterflies
As if a bed of bloom had taken wing-- Bright marigolds, nasturtiums, zinnias gay-- They breast the breeze or, lightly poising, cling To other flowers not animate as they.
In the Dark Forest
The long gray twilight falls and deeper glooms Close round the graying wood that dimmer grows As dies the Day's last yearning tint of rose, And Dusk spins shadows on her eldritch looms. The black bat flits, the eerie white moth flies-- Wan ghost of yesterday's bright butterfly-- The dusking forest pools uplooking lie Like graveless dead men's staring, sightless eyes.
Ah, eerie, eerie is the lonely wood, But lo! the faeries light their firefly lamps, Elusive foxfire flames from marish damps; Hastes to the morris-dance an elfin brood; A far bell chimes, the cricket cheerly shrills, The droning beetle sounds his hoarse bassoon And hylas trill; eftsoon the rising moon The ambient air to molten silver thrills.
Then all the lyric night is set to song! The cuckoo calls, the plaining whippoorwill Cries faint and far away; more distant still The hoopoe, hid his marshy haunts among, Wails with the cry of some lost soul in pain; The nightingale engilds the pulsant dark With golden-throated melody--but hark! The night-jar's discord mars the perfect strain.
The night wears on, black shadows throng apace, The wood is still, the moon grows wan and old, White marsh-mists wreathe like clammy arms, death-cold, And moth-wings like dead fingers sweep my face; The bittern wailing leaves the sombre pool, Voicing the world-old pain that never dies; The owl with ghoulish laughter outward flies Like some weird Vivien shrieking, "Fool!" and "Fool!"
Insatiate
What though she lieth mute on yonder hill? Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere Have held in tender fold through many a year Her quiet grave, I fear her--fear her still.
He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet, No touch of mine can make his life replete For man's first love is oftentimes his last.
A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye. E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp, And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.
She lives incarnate in each flower fair, Her eyes illume the violets in my hand, The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.
Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me-- For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still Who lies forever mute on yonder hill. He loved her once. Would God that I were she!
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Table of Contents: Slight listing changes were made to match poem titles.
Page 29: Added opening parenthesis: (And I knew that tho' many a woman had loved you, Till that moment, the glance of no woman had moved you!)
Page 47: Added closing parenthesis: (Thank God, he suffered so brief a while)
Page 70: Corrected wathway to pathway: And where the pathway breasts the hill,
Page 79: Added a blank line after first stanza: Piping "Good-bye, good-bye!"
End of Project Gutenberg's The Path of Dreams, by Leigh Gordon Giltner