Part 7

And the east grew gold with burning bars, And the sun in his chariot came; And this princess proud saw her lord of stars Snuffed out like a taper’s flame: And higher the lord of the light and hours Glared up the glittering sky, And the fragile queen of the morning flowers In his beams did wilt and die: But the jessamine waxed in the sun-god’s ray, And her breath and her beauty made sweet the day.

THE TOAD IN THE SKULL

A human skull in a churchyard lay; For the church was a wreck, and, toppling old, On the graves of their dead, were the tombstones gray, And crumbling into mold.

And a hideous toad of this skull had made A house, a hermitage, long agone, Where the ivy-tod with many a braid Half-hid his cell of bone.

And the place was dark; and my feet were drawn To the desolate spot where the tottering tombs Seemed sheeted ghosts in the twilight wan Of the yew-invested glooms.

The night her crescent had slimly hung From a single star o’er the shattered wall, And its feeble light on the stone was flung Where I sat to hear him call.

And I heard this heremite toad as he sate In the gloom of his ghastly hermitage To himself and the gloom all hollowly prate, Like a misanthropic sage:

“Oh, beauty is well and wealth to all; But wealth without beauty _makes_ fair: And beauty with wealth brings wooers tall Whom she snares with her golden hair.

“Though beauty be well and be wealth to all, And wealth without beauty draw men, Beauty must come to the vaulted wall, And what is wealth to her then?...

“This skeleton face was beautiful erst; These sockets were brighter than stars; And she bartered her beauty for gold accurst-- But the story is older than Mars!” ...

And he blinked at the moon from his grinning cell, And the darnels and burdocks were stirred, Cold-swept of the wind, and I shuddered.--Well! Perhaps ’twas my heart I had heard.

THE MOONMEN

I stood in the forest on Huron Hill When the night was old and the world was still.

The Wind was a wizard who muttering strode In a raven cloak on a haunted road.

The Sound of Water, a witch who crooned Her spells to the rocks the rain had runed.

And the Gleam of the Dew on the fern’s green tip Was a sylvan passing with robe a-drip.

The Light of the Stars was a glimmering maid Who stole, an elfin, from glade to glade.

The Scent of the Woods in the delicate air, A wild-flower shape with chilly hair.

And Silence, a spirit who sat alone With lifted finger and eyes of stone.

And it seemed to me these six were met To greet a greater who came not yet.

And the speech they spoke, that I listened to, Was the archetype of the speech I knew.

For the Wind clasped hands with the Water’s rush, And I heard them whisper, “Hush, oh, hush!”

The Light of the Stars and the Dew’s cool Gleam Touched lips and murmured, “Dream, oh, dream!”

The Scent of the Woods and the Silence deep Sighed, bosom to bosom, “Sleep, oh, sleep!”

And so for a moment the six were dumb, Then exulted together, “They come, they come!”

And I stood expectant and seemed to hear A visible music drawing near.

And the first who came was the Captain Moon Bearing a shield in God’s House hewn.

Then an Army of Glamour, a glittering host, Beleaguered the night from coast to coast.

And the world was filled with spheric fire From the palpitant chords of many a lyre,

As out of the East the Moonmen came Smiting their harps of silver and flame.

More beauty and grace did their forms express Than the God of Love’s white nakedness.

More chastity too their faces held Than the snowy breasts of Diana swelled.

Translucent-limbed, I saw the beat In their hearts of pearl of the golden heat.

And the hair they tossed was a crystal light, And the eyes beneath it were burning white.

Their hands that lifted, their feet that fell, Made the darkness blossom to asphodel.

And the heavens, the hills, and the streams they trod Shone pale with th’ communicated God.

A placid frenzy, a waking trance, A soft oracular radiance,

Wrapped forms that moved as melodies move, Laurelled with Godhead and haloed with Love.

And there in the forest on Huron Hill The Moonmen camped when the world was still.

* * * * *

What wonder that they who have looked on these Are lost to the earth’s realities!

That they sit aside with a far-off look Dreaming the dreams that are writ in no book!

That they walk alone till the day they die, Even as I, yea, even as I!

PHANTOMS

This was her home; one mossy gable thrust Above the cedars and the locust trees: This was her home, whose beauty now is dust, A lonely memory for melodies The wild birds sing, the wild birds and the bees.

Here every evening is a prayer: no boast Or ruin of sunset makes the wan world wroth; Here, through the twilight, like a pale flower’s ghost, A drowsy flutter, flies the tiger-moth; And dusk spreads darkness like a dewy cloth.

In vagabond velvet, all the placid day A stain of crimson, lolls the butterfly; The south-wind sows with ripple and with ray The pleasant waters; and the gentle sky Looks on the homestead like a quiet eye.

Their melancholy quaver, lone and low, When day is done, the gray tree-toads repeat: The whippoorwills, far in the afterglow, Complain to silence: and the lightnings beat, In one still cloud, glimmers of golden heat.

He comes not yet: not till the dusk is dead, And all the western glow is far withdrawn; Not till,--a sleepy mouth love’s kiss makes red,-- The baby bud opes in a rosy yawn, Breathing sweet guesses of the dreamed-of dawn.

When in the shadows, like a rain of gold, The fireflies stream steadily; and bright Along the moss the glow-worm, as of old, A crawling sparkle--like a crooked light In smoldering vellum--scrawls a square of night,--

Then will he come, and she will lean to him,-- She who is buried there, within that place,-- Between the starlight and his eyes; so dim With suave control and soul-compelling grace, He can not help but see her, face to face.

THE HOUSE OF DEATH

(A Dream)

I

Starless and still and lustreless And sombre black, it seemed to me, The heaven hung in hideousness Of Hell’s serenity: Indefinite and vague and old As nothing that is ours, It rose turrets, dark with mould, And dark, colossal towers.

II

Infernal monsters crumbled ’mid The trefoils of its dim façade, And, hideous as murder, hid Gnarled in the pillared shade. And all below and overhead, In cancerous blotches, grew The gray gangrene of lichens dead, And fungus, sickly blue.

III

Beneath the black, impending skies, Like Death’s dead countenance it stood, Hollow, with cavernous window-eyes Staring on solitude. The grass was black, and in it, white The tombstones rose; and gray, Long league on league, adown the night, Like phantoms, stretched away.

IV

And I, who entered in, could hear No organ notes resound and roll, But silence, like an awful fear, Made tumult in my soul. And, lo! I saw, like Hell’s wild songs, The vast interior carved With shapes of stone, vague woman throngs, Naked, obscene, and starved.

V

Medusa mouths and harpy hands, And Gorgon eyes where death abode; Like idols, wherein heathen lands Image the Plague’s black god. Round mighty door and window-frame, On floor and vault, behold, The chiselled forms were all the same-- Gray with exuding mold.

VI

And I, who entered in, in dread Felt silence like some awful hymn-- Or was ’t the effluvia of the dead That round me seemed to swim? Miasms, from which had oozed its walls, Had rotted, breath on breath, This house, within whose haunted halls Death sat and dreamed of death.

EIDOLONS

The white moth-mullein brushed its slim Cool, fairy flowers against his knee; In places where the way lay dim The branches, arching hollowly, Made tomb-like mystery for him.

The wild-rose and the elder, drenched With rain, made pale a misty place,-- From which, as from a ghost, he blenched; He walking with averted face, And lips white-closed and teeth tight-clenched.

For far within the forest,--where Weird shadows stood like phantom men, And where the ground-hog dug its lair, The she-fox whelped and had her den,-- The thing kept calling, buried there.

One dead trunk, like a ruined tower, Dark green with toppling trailers, shoved Its wild wreck o’er the brush; one bower Looked like a dead man, capped and gloved, The thing that haunted him each hour.

Now at his side he heard it: thin As echoes of a thought that speaks In sleep: and, listening with his chin Upon his palm, unto his cheeks He felt the moon’s slow silver win.

And now the voice was still: and lo, With eyes that stared on naught but night, He looked and saw--what none shall know! The form of one, who long from sight Had lain, here murdered long ago?...

And men who found him,--thither led By the she-fox,--within that place Saw in his stony eyes, ’tis said, The thing he met there face to face, The thing that left him staring dead.

IDENTITIES

I sat alone in the arrased room Of Sin, wrapped pale in her winding shroud; The night was stricken with glare and gloom, And the wailing wind was loud.

I heard the gallop of one who rode Like a rushing leaf on the wind that lisps; The night with the speed of her steed was sowed With streaming will-o’-the-wisps.

And I said to myself, “’Tis a long-lost Shame, Who rides to my house through the night and rain! She will blaze in the blackness a face of flame When she opens the door again!”

I thought of the blame on her lips and brow; And stared at the door she must enter in-- To sear my soul with her eyes and bow My heart by the corpse of Sin.

As hushed as the mansion of death was night, When, dark as a sob of the storm, she came-- But her face, like beautiful Sin’s, was white, And her face and Sin’s--the same!

HALLOWE’EN

It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe’en, Where silence and darkness had built them a lair, That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen, And heard her still step on the hush-haunted air.

It was last Hallowe’en in the glimmer and swoon Of mist and of moonlight, where once we had sinned, That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon, And hair, like a raven, blown wild on the wind.

It was last Hallowe’en where starlight and dew Made mystical marriage on flower and leaf, That she led me with looks of a love, that I knew Was dead, and the voice of a passion too brief.

It was last Hallowe’en in the forest of dreams, Where trees are eidolons and flowers have eyes, That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams, And heard, like the night-wind, her tears and her sighs.

It was last Hallowe’en, the haunted, the dread, In the wind-tattered wood, by the storm-twisted pine, That I, who am living, kept tryst with the dead, And clasped her a moment who once had been mine.

ANSWERED

Do you remember how that night drew on? That night of sorrow, when the stars looked wan As eyes that gaze, reproachful, in a dream; Loved eyes, long dead, and sadder than the grave? How through the heaven stole the moon’s gray gleam, Like a nun’s ghost down a cathedral’s nave?-- Do you remember how that night drew on?

Do you remember the hard words then said? The words of hate above my bowed-down head, That left me dead, long, long before I died: Those words, whose bitterness had stabbed and slain My heart before I knew your love had lied, Or pierced me with the dagger of disdain.-- Do you remember the hard words then said?

Do you remember?--now the night draws down,-- As on that night,--the heavens, lightnings crown With wrecks of thunder; and the moon doth give The clouds wild witchery,--as in a room, Behind the sorrowful arras, still may live The pallid secret of the haunted gloom.-- Do you remember, now the night draws down?

Do you remember, now it comes to pass Your form is bowed as is the wind-swept grass? And death hath won from you that confidence Denied to life? now your sick soul rebels Against your pride with tragic eloquence, That self-crowned demon of the heart’s fierce hells.-- Do you remember, now it comes to pass?

Yea, you remember! Bid your soul be still! Here passion hath surrendered unto will, And flesh to spirit. Quiet your wild tongue And wilder heart. Your kiss wakes naught in me. The instrument love gave you lies unstrung, Silent, forsaken of all melody.-- Yea, you remember! Bid your soul be still!

UNFULFILLED

In my dream last night it seemed I stood With a boy’s glad heart in my boyhood’s wood.

The beryl green and the cairngorm brown Of the day through the deep leaves sifted down.

The rippling drip of a passing shower Rinsed wild aroma from herb and flower.

The splash and urge of a waterfall Spread stairwayed rocks with a crystal caul.

And I waded the strip of the creek’s dry bed For the colored keel and the arrow-head.

And I found the cohosh coigne the same Tossing with torches of pearly flame.

The owlet dingle of vine and brier, That the butterfly-weed flecked fierce with fire.

The elder bosk with its warm perfume, And the yellow stars of the daisy bloom;

The moss, the fern, and the touch-me-not I breathed, and the mint-smell keen and hot.

And I saw the bird, that sang its best, In the tufted sumac building its nest.

And I saw the chipmunk’s stealthy face, And the rabbit crouched in a grassy place.

And I watched the crows, that cawed and cried, Harrying the hawk at the forest-side;

The bees that sucked in the blossoms slim, And the wasps that built on the lichened limb.

And felt the silence, the dusk, the dread Of the spot where they buried the unknown dead:

The water-murmur, the insect hum, And a far bird calling, “Come, oh, come!"--

No sweeter music can mortals make To ease the heart of its human ache!--

And it seemed in my dream,--that was all too true,-- That I met in the woods again with you.

A sun-tanned face and brown bare knees, And hands stained red with dewberries.

And we stopped a moment some word to tell, And then in the woods we kissed farewell.

But once I met you; yet, lo! it seems Again and again we meet in dreams.

And I ask my soul what it all may mean: If this is the love that should have been.

And oft and often I wonder, _Can What Fate intends be changed by man_?

DIRGE

What shall her dreaming keep Under the sun? Here where the willows weep And waters run; Here where she lies asleep And all is done.

Lights, when the tree-top swings; Scents that are blown; Sounds of the wood-bird’s wings; And the bee’s drone; These be her comfortings Round her headstone.

What shall watch o’er her here When day is fled? Here when the night is near And skies are red; Here where she lieth dear And young and dead.

Shadows, and winds that spill Dew; and the rune Of the wild whippoorwill; And the white moon; These be the watchers still Round her headstone.

REST

Under the brindled beech, Deep in the mottled shade, Where the rocks hang in reach Flower and ferny blade, Let him be laid.

Here will the brooks that rove Under the mossy trees,-- Grave with the music of Underworld melodies,-- Lap him in peace.

Here will the winds, that blow Out of the haunted west,-- Gold with the dreams that glow There on the heaven’s breast,-- Lull him to rest.

Here will the stars and moon, Silent and far and deep,-- Old with the mystic rune Of the slow years that creep,-- Charm him with sleep.

Under the ancient beech, Deep in the quiet shade,-- Where the wood’s peace may reach Him, as each bough is swayed,-- Let him be laid.

CLAIRVOYANCE

The sunlight, that makes of the heaven A pathway for sylphids to throng; The wind, that makes harps of the forests For spirits to smite into song, Are the image and voice of a vision That comforts the heart and makes strong.

I look in one’s face, and the shadows Are lifted; and, lo, I can see, Through windows of evident being,-- Filled full of eternity,-- The form of the essence of Beauty God garments with mystery.

I hearken one’s voice, and the wrangle Of living hath pause: and I hear, Through doors of invisible spirit,-- Filled full of God’s light that is clear,-- The radiant raiment of Music, In the hush of the heavens, sweep near.

THE IDEAL

Nor time nor all his minions Of sorrow and of pain, Shall dash with vulture pinions The cup she fills again Within the dream-dominions Of life where she doth reign.

Clothed on with bright desire And hope that makes her strong, With limbs of frost and fire, She sits above all wrong, Her heart a living lyre, And love its only song.

And in the waking pauses Of weariness and care, And when the dark hour draws his Black dagger of despair, Above effects and causes I hear her music there.

The longing’s life hath near it Of beauty we would see; The dreams it doth inherit Of immortality; Are callings of her spirit To something yet to be.

TO ONE READING THE MORTE D’ARTHURE

O daughter of our Southern sun, Sweet sister of each flower, Dost dream in terraced Avalon A shadow-haunted hour? Or stand with Guinevere upon Some ivied Camelot tower?

Or, in the wind, dost breathe the musk That blows Tintagel’s sea on? Or ’mid the lists by castled Usk Hear some wild tourney’s glee on? Or ’neath the Merlin moons of dusk Dost muse in old Caerleon?

Or now of Launcelot, and then Of Arthur, ’mid the roses, Dost speak with wily Vivien? Or, where the shade reposes, Dost walk with stately, armored men In marble-fountained closes?

So speak the dreams within thy gaze, The dreams thy spirit cages, Would that Romance--which on thee lays The spell of bygone ages-- Held me! a memory of those days, A portion of those pages.

THE CROSS

The cross I bear no man shall know-- No man shall see the cross I bear!-- Alas! the thorny path of woe Up the steep hill of care!

There is no word to comfort me; No sign to ease my cross-bowed head: Deep night is in the heart of me, And in my soul is dread.

To strive, it seems, that I was born, For that which others shall obtain; The disappointment and the scorn Alone for me remain.

One half my life is overpast; The other half I contemplate-- Meseems the past doth but forecast A darker future state.

Sick to the heart of that which makes Me hope and struggle and desire, The aspiration here that aches With ineffectual fire:

While inwardly I know the lack Of thought, the paucity of power, Each past day’s retrospect makes black Each onward-coming hour.

Now in my youth would I could die! Would God that I could lay me down And pass away without a sigh, Oblivious of renown!

NIGHTFALL

O day, so sicklied o’er with night! O dreadful fruit of fallen dusk!-- A Circe orange, golden-bright, With horror ’neath its husk.--

And I, who gave the promise heed That made life’s tempting surface fair, Have I not eaten to the seed Its ashes of despair!

O silence of the drifted grass! And immemorial eloquence Of stars and winds and waves that pass! And God’s indifference!

Leave me alone with sleep that knows Not anything that life may keep-- Not e’en the pulse that comes and goes In germs that climb and creep.

Or if an aspiration pale Must quicken there--oh, let the spot Grow weeds! that dust may so prevail Where spirit once could not!

PAUSE

Thou too art sick of dreams, that stain The aisle, along which life must pass, With hues of mystic-colored glass, That fills the windows of the brain.

Thou too art sick of thoughts, that carve The house of days with arabesques And gargoyles, where the mind grotesques In masks of hope and faith who starve.

Come, lay thy over-weary head Upon my bosom! Do not weep!-- “He giveth His beloved sleep."-- Heart of my heart, be comforted.

ABOVE THE VALES

We went by ways of bygone days, Up mountain heights of story, Where, lost in vague, historic haze, Tradition, crowned with battle-bays, Sat ’mid her ruins hoary.

Where, wing to wing, the eagles cling And torrents have their sources, War rose with bugle voice to sing Of woods of spears and swords a-swing, And rush of men and horses.

Then deep below, where orchards show A home here, there a steeple, We heard a simple shepherd go, Singing,--within the afterglow,-- A love-song of the people.

As ’mid the trees his song did cease, With voice most sweet and holy, Peace,--’mid the cornlands of increase And rose-beds of love’s victories,-- Took up his music lowly.

INSOMNIA

It seems that dawn will never climb The eastern hills; And, clad in mist and flame and rime, Make flashing highways of the rills.

The night is as an ancient way Through some dead land, Whereon the ghosts of Memory And Sorrow wander, hand in hand.

By which man’s works ignoble seem, Unbeautiful; And grandeur, but the ruined dream Of some dead queen, crowned with a skull.

A way, Past-peopled, dark and old, That stretches far-- Its only real thing, the cold Vague light of Sleep’s one fitful star.

ENCOURAGEMENT

To help our tired hope to toil, Lo! have we not the council here Of trees, that to my heart appear As sermons of the soil?

To help our flagging faith to rise, Lo! have we not the high advice Of stars, that for my soul suffice As gospels of the skies?

Sustain us, Lord! and help us climb, With hope and faith made strong and great, The rock-rough pathway of our fate, The care-dark way of time.

WHICH?

The wind was on the forest, And silence on the wold; And darkness on the waters, And heaven was starry cold; When Sleep, with all her magic, Made me this thing behold:

This side, an iron woodland; That side, an iron waste; Between which rose a tower, Wherein a wan light paced, A light, or phantom woman Ice-eyed and icy-faced.

And through the iron tower Of silence and of night, My Soul and I went only, My Soul, whose face was white, Whose one hand signed me listen, One bore a taper-light.

For, lo! a voice behind me Kept sighing in my ear The dreams my mind accepted, My heart refused to hear-- Of one I loved and loved not, Whose spirit now was near,