Part 4

Far over the summer sea, When the great gold moon low lies In the purple-deepened skies I drift on tearfully Till a spirit form doth rise Low down, low down, 'Twixt the orbèd moon and me Far over the summer sea.

IV

Far over the summer sea With thy foam-cold limbs wound sweet 'Round hair and throat and feet To slay me utterly; At each mad, hot heart beat A kiss, a kiss, To drain the soul with thee, Deep, deep in the summer sea.

FACE TO FACE.

Dead! and all the haughty fate Fair on throat and face of wax, White, calm hands crossed still and lax, Cold, impassionate!

Dead! and no word whispered low At the dull ear now could wake One responsive chord or make One wan temple glow.

Dead! and no hot tear would stir All that woman sweet and fair, Woman soul from feet to hair Which was once of her.

God! and thus to die! and I-- I must live though life be but One long, hard, monotonous rut, There to plod and--die!

Creeds are well in such a case; But no sermon could have wrought More of faith than you have taught With your pale, dead face.

And I see it as you see-- One mistake, so very small! Yet so great it mangled all, Left you this and me!

Oft I pondered saying, "Sure She could never live such life!" And the truth stabbed like a knife When I found you pure.

Pure, so pure! and me bemoiled, Loathly as loathed vermin, just As weak souls are left of lust-- Loveless, low, and soiled.

Nay! I loved you then and love!-- Grand, great eyes, I see them yet, Set like luminous gems of jet In wax lids above.

Lips--O poor, dumb, chideless lips! Once as red as life could make, Moist as wan wild roses wake When the wild dew drips.

Hair--imperial, full, and warm As a Grace's, where one stone Precious lay ensnared and shone Like a star in storm.

Eyes--at parting big with pain; God! I see them and the tear In them--big as eyes of deer Led by lights and slain!

Life so true! I falsely cursed-- Lips that, curled with scorn and pride, Hurt me though I said _they lied_, While the true heart burst.

Rest! my heart has suffered too: And this life had woe enough For the little dole of love Given to me and you.

Can you hear me? can you know What I am and how it came, You, beyond me like a flame, You, before me like the snow!

Dead! and all my heart a cup Hollowed for sad, bitter tears, Bitter in the bitter years Slowly brimming up.

Sleep! 'tis well! but might have been Better!--yes, God knows it might! Better for me in His sight And my soul more clean.

Sleep in very peace! but I With Earth's other fools will stay, Live 'mid laughter, day by day Mocking laugh and--die.

You will know me now, I know, But in life had _never_ known How, indeed, I was alone-- But, 'tis better so.

And I know you what you were, Faithful and--it were no use, Only to yourself abuse,-- I shall tell you there.

There beyond the lightning and The long clouds and utter skies, Moons and suns and stars that rise, Where we'll understand.

THE CHANGELING.

I

There were Faëries two or three, And a high moon white as wool, Or a bloom in Faëry, Where the star-thick blossoms be Star-like beautiful.

II

There were Faëries two or three, And a wind as fragrant as Spicy wafts from Arcady Rocked the sleeping honey bee In the clover grass.

III

There were Faëries two or three, Wee white caps and red wee shoon, Buckles at each dainty knee, "We are come to comfort thee, With the silver moon."

IV

There were Faëries two or three, Buttercups brimmed up with dew, Winning faces sweet to see, Then mine eyes closed heavily: "Faëries, what would you?"

V

There were Faëries two or three, And my babe was dreaming deep, White as whitest ivory, In its crib of ebony Rocked and crooned on sleep.

VI

There were Faëries two or three Standing in the mocking moon, And mine eyes closed drowsily, Drowsily and suddenly There my babe was gone.

VII

Now no Faëries two or three Loitered in the moon alone; Jesu, Marie, comfort me! What is this instead I see-- Ugly skin and bone.

VIII

There were Faëries two or three Stood with buckles on red shoon, But with evil sorcery My sweet babe to Faëry They did steal right soon.

ST. JOHN'S EVE.

I

Dizzily round On the elf-hills white in the yellow moonlight To a sweet, unholy, ravishing sound Of wizard voices from underground, Their mazy dance the Elle-maids wound On St. John's Eve.

II

Beautiful white, Like a wreath of mist by the starbeams kissed; And frail, sweet faces bloomed out on the night From floating tresses of glow-worm light, That puffed like foam to the left and the right On St. John's Eve.

III

Warily there They flashed like a rill which the moonbeams fill, But I saw what a mockery all of them were With their hollow bodies, when the moonlit air Rayed out through their eyes with a sudden glare On St. John's Eve.

IV

Solemnly sweet, By the river's banks in the rushes' ranks, The Necks their sorrowful songs repeat: A music of winds over dipping wheat, Of moss-dulled cascades seemed to meet On St. John's Eve.

V

Drowsily swam The fire-flies fleet in eddies of heat; Through the willows a glimmer of gold harps came, And I saw their hair like a misty flame Bunched over white brows, too white to name, On St. John's Eve.

VI

Beggarly torn, A wizen chap in a red-peaked cap, All gray with the chaff and dust of the corn, And strong with the pungent scent of the barn, The Nis scowled under the flowering thorn On St. John's Eve.

VII

Merrily call The singing crickets in the twinkling thickets, And the Troll hill rose on pillars tall, Crimson pillars that ranked a hall Where the beak-nosed Trolls were holding a ball On St. John's Eve.

VIII

Reveling flew From beakers of gold the wassail old; And she reached me a goblet brimmed bright with dew-- But her wily witcheries well I knew, And the philtre over my shoulder threw On St. John's Eve.

LALAGE.

What were sweet life without her Who maketh all things sweet With smiles that dream about her, With dreams that come and fleet! Soft moods that end in languor; Soft words that end in sighs; Curved frownings as of anger; Cold silence of her eyes.

Sweet eyes born but for slaying, Deep violet-dark and lost In dreams of whilom Maying In climes unstung of frost. Wild eyes shot through with fire God's light in godless years, Brimmed wine-dark with desire, A birth for dreams and tears.

Dear tears as sweet as laughter, Low laughter sweet as love Unwound in ripples after Sad tears we knew not of. What if the day be lawless, What if the heart be dead, Such tears would make it flawless, Such laughter make it red.

Lips that were curled for kisses, For loves and hates and scorns, Brows under gold of tresses, Brows beauteous as the Morn's. Imperial locks and tangled Down to the graceful hips; Hair where one might be strangled Carousing on thy lips.

Rose-lovely lips that hover About the honeyed words, That slip wild bees from clover Whose sweets their sweet affords. Though days be robbed of sunlight, White teeth make light thereof; Though nights unknown of onelight, Thine eyes were stars enough.

Ah, lily-lovely features, Round temples, throat, and chin, Sweet gods of godless natures, Sweet love of loveless men! Still moods and slumberous fanned on To dreams that rock to sleep, Unmerciful abandon, That haunts or makes one weep.

She walks as if with sorrows And all unknown of joy; Eyes fixed on dim to-morrows That all sad feet decoy. Yet she, a peer of pleasures, Tears from Time's taloned hand The hour-glass he treasures, And wastes its sullen sand.

Makes of all hours a beaker Brimmed full of lordly wine, Cold gold of Life's mad liquor, And quaffs to me and mine. The love on lips grows fairer, Keen lights in eyes make wars, And throat and breast grow rarer Than the white-throated stars.

Fleet smiles come fleet and faster And web the willing soul; Warm breasts of alabaster Have snared it as a whole. What then were hell or heaven, The fear of heaven or hell! Lost in the life thus given We well might bid farewell.

To leap against thy bosoms! Live at thy ardent throat! Kiss clinging to its blossoms, Die kissing and not know't! Wound in tumultuous tresses Pulse like a naked hair, Held in long hands for kisses, And killed and never care.

Clasped limb and marble member, Long raven hair with gold, To dream, forget, remember, Grow slowly still and cold. Feel earth and hell forever Remote from thee and me, Nor strong enough to sever Through all eternity.

Feel godlike power for evil High throned within the heart, Should God and hell's arch devil Cast dice our souls to part: Part eyes hot as a jewel, Part covering deeps of curl, Sweet lips as sweet as cruel, And limbs of living pearl.

What if in the hereafter Our love must weep farewell 'Mid the hoarse, strident laughter Of devils deep in hell; We'll know that all infernal, All cactus-growth of time, Slays not that hour eternal That sinned with love to crime.

Love, we could live all tearless, Remember and have breath, Of hell and heaven fearless In love more strong than death. When hope shall be forgotten And death be one with both, Flesh, soul, and spirit rotten And wrapped with clay in sloth.

Take comfort, love, remember Love chastened with his rod, And member torn from member Would leave him still a god. Though soul from soul be riven, God knows we shall regret! In hell or highest heaven We never can forget!

MIRIAM.

White clouds and buds and birds and bees, Low wind-notes piped from southern seas, Brought thee a rose-white offering, A flower-like baby with the Spring.

She, as her April, gave to thee A soul of winsome vagary; Large, heavenly eyes, and tender, whence Shone the sweet mind's soft influence; Where all the winning woman, that Welled up in tears, high sparkling sat.

She, with the dower of her May, Gave thee a nature that could sway Wild men with kindness, and a pride Which all their littleness denied.

Limbs wrought of lilies and a face Bright as a rose flower's, and a grace, God-taught, that clings like happiness In each chaste billow of thy dress.

She, as her heavy June, brought down Night deeps of hair thy brow to crown; A voice so mild and musical It is as water-notes that fall O'er bars of pearl, and in thy heart Stamped like a jewel, that should start From thy pure face in smiles, and break Like radiance when it laughed or spake, Affection that is born of truth And goodness which make very youth.

THE WIND.

The ways of the wind are eerie And I love them all, The blithe, the mad, and the dreary, Spring, Winter, and Fall.

When it tells to the waiting crocus Its beak to show, And hangs on the wayside locust Bloom-bunches of snow.

When it comes like a balmy blessing From the musky wood, The half-grown roses caressing Till their cheeks show blood.

When it roars in the Autumn season, And whines with rain Or sleet like a mind without reason, Or a soul in pain.

When the wood-ways once so spicy With bud and bloom Are desolate, sear, and icy As the icy tomb.

When the wild owl crouched and frowsy In the rotten tree Wails dolorous, cold, and drowsy, His shuddering melody.

Then I love to sit in December Where the big hearth sings, And dreaming forget and remember A host of things.

And the wind--I hear how it strangles And gasps and sighs On the roof's sharp, shivering angles That front the skies.

How it groans and romps and tumbles In attics o'erhead, In the great-throated chimney rumbles, Then all at once falls dead;

Till it comes like footsteps slipping Of a child on the stair, Or a quaint old gentleman tripping With heavily powdered hair.

And my soul grows anxious hearted For those once dear-- The long-lost loves departed In the wind draw near.

And I seem to see their faces, Not one estranged, In their old accustomed places 'Round the wide hearth ranged.

And the wind that waits and poises Where the shadows sway Makes their visionary voices Seem calling me far away.

And I wake in tears to listen Again to the sobbing wind, Far out on the lands that glisten, Like the voice of one who sinned.

MUSIC.

[A NOCTURNE.]

The soul of love is harmony; as such All melodies, that with wide pinions beat Elastic bars, which mew it in the flesh, Till 'twould away to kiss their throats and cling, Are kindred to the soul, and while they sway, Lords of its action molding all at will.

Ah! neither was I I, nor knew the clay, For all my soul lay on full waves of song Reverberating 'twixt the earth and moon.

O soft complaints, that haunted all the heart With dreams of love long cherished, love dreams found On sunset mountains gorgeous toward the West: Kisses--soft kisses bartered 'mid pale buds Of bursting Springs; and vows of fondest faith Kept evermore; and eyes whose witchery Might lure old saints down to the lowest hell For one swift glance,--sweet, melancholy eyes Yet full of hope and dimming o'er with tears, Stooping and gloating in a silver mist At Care's thin brow, and growing at his eyes. Voices of expectation rolling on To diapason of a mighty choir, 'Mid ever-swooning throbbings beating low, Wove in hoarse fabric thunders--and O soul! Wafted to caverns lost by hideous seas, One with the tumult 'neath o'ercircling tiers White with strange diamond spars and feathery gems. O holy music, wailing down long aisles To lose thyself 'neath arched welkins dashed With moons of crystal;--dying, dying down To passionate sobs, and then a silence vast, Vast as thy caves, or as the human soul, Oppressing all this being bulked in flesh Until it strained to burst its bounds and soar.

Harp-tones! that shaped before the poisèd mind The home of Sleep far on a moonlit isle.

White Sleep, who from heaped myriad poppies weighed With baby slumbers, and from violet beds, Culled whiter dreams to fold against her heart In dewy clusters sparkling wet with tears; And on her shadowy pinions soaring high Winged 'neath the vault into oblivion, With all the echoes panting at pale feet To kiss the dreams, and o'er deep, wine-dark waves, Far, far away, lost--and a sound of stars Streaming from burning sockets into night About my soul, about my soul like fire.

Oh, then what agony and bitter woe, Regret and noise of desolation vast As when all that one loves is torn away Forever with "farewell forevermore!" Oh, strife and panic and the rush of winds, Moist ashen brows with raven tresses torn That plunged against the bursting bolts of God, That ploughed the tempest curst with deepest night; Ruin and heartache, moans and demon eyes, Fierce, bestial eyes that cursed at very God; Then blinding tears that wept for such and prayed, Tears blistering all the soul in haunting eyes, Eyes such as Death would fear to ponder on! Then dolorous bell-beats, battle as for light, Folds of oblivion, gaspings, silence, death.

TO ----.

_"Lydia, dic, per omnes Te deos oro!"_

I

What are the subtleties Which woo me in her eyes To oaths she deems but lies, I can not tell, I can not tell, Nor will she. They are beyond my thought. For when I gaze I'm nought, My senses all unwrought, It is not well, it is not well, Now Lily!

II

What is the magic sweet Which makes hot pulses beat, A wayward tongue repeat A name for weeks, a name for weeks Will, nill he? Ai me! the pleasant pain Falls sweetly on the brain Like some slow sunny rain, Whene'er she speaks, whene'er she speaks This Lily.

III

What is the witchery rare Which snares me in her hair So deeply that I dare, I dare not move, I dare not move,-- Lie stilly? In looks and winning ways The bloom of love she lays Like fire on all my days, And makes me love, and makes me love This Lily.

YULE.

Behold! it was night; and the wind and the rushing of snow on the wind, And the boom of the sea and the moaning of desolate pines that were thinned.

And the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the clamor of wassail were filled, With the clash of great beakers of gold and the reek of the ale that was spilled.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and they quaffed as from skulls of the slain, And sware out round oaths in hoarse wit, and long quaffing sware laughing again.

Unharnessed from each shaggy throat that was hot with mad lust and with drink, The burly wild skins and barbaric tossed rent from their broad golden link.

For the Yule was upon them, the Yule, and the "_waes-heils_" were shouted and roared By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls round the ponderous board.

And huge on the hearth, that writhed hissing and bellied a bullion of gold, The yule-log, the half of an oak from the mountains, was royally rolled.

And its warmth was a glory that glared and smote red through the width of the hall, To burnish wild-boar skins and swords and great war-axes hung on the wall.

Till the maidens, who hurried big goblets that bubbled excessive with barm, Blushed rose to the gold of thick curls when the shining steel mirrored each charm.

And Erick's one hundred gray skalds, at the nod and the beck of the king, With the stormy rolled music of an hundred wild harps made the castle re-echoing ring.

For the Yule, for the Yule was upon them, and battle and rapine were o'er, And Harold, the viking, the red, and his brother lay dead on the shore.

For the harrier, Harold the red, and his merciless brother, black Ulf, With their men on the shore of the wintery sea were carrion cold for the wolf.

Behold! for the battle was finished, the battle that boomed in the day With the rumble of shields that were shocked and the shatter of spears that did slay;

With the hewing of swords that fierce lightened hot smoking with riotous blood, And the crush of the mace that was crashed through the helm and the brain that withstood;

And the cursing and shrieking of men at their gods--at their gods whom they cursed, Till the caves of the ocean re-bellowed and storm on their struggling burst.

And they fought in the flying and drifting and silence of covering snow, Till the wounded that lay with the dead, with the dead were stiff frozen in woe.

And they fought; and the mystical flakes that were clutched of the maniac wind Drave sharp on the eyes of the kings, made the sight of their warriors blind.

And they fought; and with leonine wrath were they met till the battle god, Thor, From his thunder-wheeled chariot rolled, making end of destruction and war.

And they fell--like twin rocks of the mountain the ruinous whirlwinds have hurled From their world-rooted crags to the ocean below with the strength of the world.

And, lo! not in vain their loud vows! on the stern iron altars of War Their flesh, their own flesh, yea, the victim, their blood the libation to Thor....

But a glitter and splendor of arms out of snow and the foam of the seas, And the terrible ghosts of the vikings and the gauntleted Valkyries....

Yea, the halls of fierce Erick of Sogn with the turmoil of wassail are filled, With the steam of the flesh of the boar and the reek of the ale that is spilled.

For the Yule and the vict'ry are theirs, and the "_waes-heils_" are shouted and roared By the Berserks, the eaters of fire, and the Jarls 'round the ponderous board.

THE TROUBADOUR.

He stood where all the rare voluptuous West, Like some mad Maenad wine-stained to the breast, Shot from delirious lips of ruby must Long, fierce, triumphant smiles wherein hot lust Swam like a feverish wine exultant tost High from a golden goblet and so lost. And all the West, and all the rosy West, Bathed his frail beauty, hair and throat and breast; And there he bloomed, a thing of rose and snows, A passion flower of men of snows and rose Beneath the casement of her old red tower Whereat the lady sat, as white a flower As ever blew in Provence, and the lace, Mist-like about her hair, half hid her face And all its moods which his sweet singing raised, Sad moods that censured it, sweet moods that praised. And where the white rose climbing over and over Up to her wide-flung lattice like a lover, And gladiolas and deep fleurs-de-lis Held honey-cups up for the violent bee, Within her garden by the ivied wall, Where many a fountain falling musical Flamed fire-fierce in the eve against it flung, Like some mad nightingale the minstrel sung:--

"The passion, O! of plunging through and through Lascivious curls star-litten as light dew, And jeweled thick, as is the bosomed dusk Dense scintillant with stars! Oh frenzy rare Of twisting curling fingers in thy hair! No touch of balm-beat winds from torrid seas Were half so satin-soft in sorceries! No god-like life so sweet as lost to lie Wrapped strand on strand deep in such hair and die, Ah love, sweet love!

"The mounting madness and the rapturous pain With fingers wound in thick, cool curls to strain All the wild sight deep in thy perilous eyes So agate polished, where the thoughts that rise Warm in the heart, like on a witch's glass Must forth in pictures beautiful and pass; No Siren sweetness wailed to lyres of gold, No naked beauty that the Greeks of old God-bosomed thro' the bursting foam did see Were potent, love, to tear mine eyes from thee, Ah love, sweet love!