Chapter 2
An empty nest hangs where the wood-bird pled; Along the west the dusk dies, stormy red: The frost is subtle as a serpent's breath. The dusk was sad; now night is overhead, Grim as a soul brought face to face with death-- So life lives on when love, its life, lies dead.
II.
Go your own ways. Who shall persuade me now To seek with high face for a star of hope? Or up endeavor's unsubmissive slope Advance a bosom of desire, and bow A back of patience in a thankless task? Alone beside the grave of love I ask, Shalt thou? or thou?
Leave go my hands. Fain would I walk alone The easy ways of silence and of sleep. What though I go with eyes that cannot weep, And lips contracted with no uttered moan, Through rocks and thorns, where every footprint bleeds, A dead-sea path of desert night that leads To one white stone!
Though sands be black and bitter black the sea, Night lie before me and behind me night, And God within far Heaven refuse to light The consolation of the dawn for me,-- Between the shadowy bournes of Heaven and Hell, It is enough love leaves my soul to dwell With memory.
DAYS AND DAYS
The days that clothed white limbs with heat, And rocked the red rose on their breast, Have passed with amber-sandalled feet Into the ruby-gated west.
These were the days that filled the heart With overflowing riches of Life; in whose soul no dream shall start But hath its origin in love.
Now come the days gray-huddled in The haze; whose foggy footsteps drip; Who pin beneath a gipsy chin The frosty marigold and hip.--
The days, whose forms fall shadowy Athwart the heart; whose misty breath Shapes saddest sweets of memory Out of the bitterness of death.
DROUTH IN AUTUMN
Gnarled acorn-oaks against a west Of copper, cavernous with fire; A wind of frost that gives no rest To such lean leaves as haunt the brier, And hide the cricket's vibrant wire.
Sear, shivering shocks, and stubble blurred With bramble-blots of dull maroon; And creekless hills whereon no herd Finds pasture, and whereo'er the loon Flies, haggard as the rainless moon.
MID-WINTER
All day the clouds hung ashen with the cold; And through the snow the muffled waters fell; The day seemed drowned in grief too deep to tell, Like some old hermit whose last bead is told. At eve the wind woke, and the snow-clouds rolled Aside to leave the fierce sky visible; Harsh as an iron landscape of wan hell The dark hills hung framed in with gloomy gold. And then, towards night, the wind seemed some one at My window wailing: now a little child Crying outside the door; and now the long Howl of some starved beast down the flue. I sat And knew 'twas Winter with his madman song Of miseries, whereon he stared and smiled.
COLD
A mist that froze beneath the moon and shook Minutest frosty fire in the air. All night the wind was still as lonely Care Who sighs before her shivering ingle-nook. The face of Winter wore a crueler look Than when he shakes the icicles from his hair, And, in the boisterous pauses, lets his stare Freeze through the forest, fettering bough and brook. He is the despot now who sits and dreams Of Desolation and Despair, and smiles At Poverty, who hath no place to rest, Who wanders o'er Life's snow-made pathless miles, And sees the Home-of-Comfort's window gleams, And hugs her rag-wrapped baby to her breast.
IN WINTER
I.
When black frosts pluck the acorns down, And in the lane the waters freeze; And 'thwart red skies the wild-fowl flies, And death sits grimly 'mid the trees; When home-lights glitter in the brown Of dusk like shaggy eyes,-- Before the door his feet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet, sweetheart, And two white arms that greet.
II.
When ways are drifted with the leaves, And winds make music in the thorns; And lone and lost above the frost The new moon shows its silver horns; When underneath the lamp-lit eaves The opened door is crossed,-- A happy heart and light, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night, sweetheart, And lips to kiss good-night.
ON THE FARM
I.
He sang a song as he sowed the field, Sowed the field at break of day: "When the pursed-up leaves are as lips that yield Balm and balsam, and Spring,--concealed In the odorous green,--is so revealed, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the woods and the far away!"
II.
He trilled a song as he mowed the mead, Mowed the mead as noon begun: "When the hills are gold with the ripened seed, As the sunset stairs that loom and lead To the sky where Summer knows naught of need, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the hills and the harvest sun!"
III.
He hummed a song as he swung the flail, Swung the flail in the afternoon: "When the idle fields are a wrecker's tale, That the Autumn tells to the twilight pale, As the Year turns seaward a crimson sail, Halloo and oh! Hallo for the fields and the hunter's-moon!"
IV.
He whistled a song as he shouldered his axe, Shouldered his axe in the evening storm: "When the snow of the road shows the rabbit's tracks, And the wind is a whip that the Winter cracks, With a herdsman's cry, o'er the clouds' black backs, Halloo and oh! Hallo for home and a hearth to warm!"
PATHS
I.
What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- The path that takes me, in the spring, Past quinces where the blue-birds sing, Where peonies are blossoming, Unto a porch, wistaria-hung, Around whose steps May-lilies blow, A fair girl reaches down among, Her arm more white than their sweet snow.
II.
What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- Another path that leads me, when The summer-time is here again, Past hollyhocks that shame the west When the red sun has sunk to rest; To roses bowering a nest, A lattice, 'neath which mignonette And deep geraniums surge and sough, Where, in the twilight, starless yet, A fair girl's eyes are stars enough.
III.
What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that takes me, when the days Of autumn wrap themselves in haze, Beneath the pippin-pelting tree, 'Mid flitting butterfly and bee; Unto a door where, fiery, The creeper climbs; and, garnet-hued, The cock's-comb and the dahlia flare, And in the door, where shades intrude, Gleams out a fair girl's sunbeam hair.
IV.
What words of mine can tell the spell Of garden ways I know so well?-- A path that brings me o'er the frost Of winter, when the moon is tossed In clouds; beneath great cedars, weak With shaggy snow; past shrubs blown bleak With shivering leaves; to eaves that leak The tattered ice, whereunder is A fire-flickering window-space; And in the light, with lips to kiss, A fair girl's welcome-giving face.
A SONG IN SEASON
I.
When in the wind the vane turns round, And round, and round; And in his kennel whines the hound; When all the gable eaves are bound With icicles of ragged gray, A glinting gray; There is little to do, and much to say, And you hug your fire and pass the day With a thought of the springtime, dearie.
II.
When late at night the owlet hoots, And hoots, and hoots; And wild winds make of keyholes flutes; When to the door the goodman's boots Stamp through the snow the light stains red, The fire-light's red; There is nothing to do, and all is said, And you quaff your cider and go to bed With a dream of the summer, dearie.
III.
When, nearing dawn, the black cock crows, And crows, and crows; And from the barn the milch-cow lows; And the milkmaid's cheeks have each a rose, And the still skies show a star or two, Or one or two; There is little to say, and much to do, And the heartier done the happier you, With a song of the winter, dearie.
APART
I.
While sunset burns and stars are few, And roses scent the fading light, And like a slim urn, dripping dew, A spirit carries through the night, The pearl-pale moon hangs new,-- I think of you, of you.
II.
While waters flow, and soft winds woo The golden-hearted bud with sighs; And, like a flower an angel threw, Out of the momentary skies A star falls burning blue,-- I dream of you, of you.
III.
While love believes, and hearts are true, So let me think, so let me dream; The thought and dream so wedded to Your face, that, far apart, I seem To see each thing you do, And be with you, with you.
FAËRY MORRIS
I.
The winds are whist; and, hid in mist, The moon hangs o'er the wooded height; The bushy bee, with unkempt head, Hath made the sunflower's disk his bed, And sleeps half-hid from sight. The owlet makes us melody-- Come dance with us in Faëry, Come dance with us to-night.
II.
The dew is damp; the glow-worm's lamp Blurs in the moss its tawny light; The great gray moth sinks, half-asleep, Where, in an elfin-laundered heap, The lily-gowns hang white. The crickets make us minstrelsy-- Come dance with us in Faëry, Come dance with us to-night.
III.
With scents of heat, dew-chilled and sweet, The new-cut hay smells by the bight; The ghost of some dead pansy bloom, The butterfly dreams in the gloom, Its pied wings folded tight. The world is lost in fantasy,-- Come dance with us in Faëry, Come dance with us to-night.
THE WORLD'S DESIRE
The roses of voluptuousness Wreathe her dark locks and hide her eyes; Her limbs are flower-like nakedness, Wherethrough the fragrant blood doth press, The blossom-blood of Paradise.
She stands with Lilith finger tips, With Lilith hands; and gathers up The wild wine of all life; and sips With Lilith-laughter-lightened lips The soul as from a crystal cup.
What though she cast the cup away! The empty bowl that flashed with wine! Her curled lips' kiss, that stained the clay, Her fingers' touch--shall not these stay, That made its nothingness divine?
Through one again shall live the glow, Immortalizing, of her touch; And through the other, sweet to know How life swept flame once 'neath the snow Of her mooned breasts,--and this is much!
THE UNATTAINABLE
Mark thou! a shadow crowned with fire of hell. Man holds her in his heart as night doth hold The moonlight memories of day's dead gold; Or as a winter-withered asphodel In its dead loveliness holds scents of old. And looking on her, lo, he thinks 'tis well.
Who would not follow her whose glory sits, Imperishably lovely on the air? Who, from the arms of Earth's desire, flits With eyes defiant and rebellions hair?-- Hers is the beauty that no man shall share.
He who hath seen, what shall it profit him? He who doth love, what shall his passion gain? When disappointment at her cup's bright brim Poisons the pleasure with the hemlock pain? Hers is the passion that no man shall drain.
How long, how long since Life hath touched her eyes, Making their night clairvoyant! And how long Since Love hath kissed her lips and made them wise, Binding her brow with prophecy and song! Hope clad her nakedness in lovely lies, Giving into her hands the right of wrong!
Lo! in her world she sets pale tents of thought, Unearthly bannered; and her dreams' wild bands Besiege the heavens like a twilight fraught With recollections of lost stars. She stands Radiant as Lilith given from God's hands.
The golden rose of patience at her throat Drops fragrant petals--as a pensive tune Drops its surrendered sweetness note by note;-- And from her hands the buds of hope are strewn, Moon-flowers, mothered of the barren moon.
So in her flowers man seats him at her feet In star-faced worship, knowing all of this; And now to him to die seems very sweet, Fed with the fire of her look and kiss; While in his heart the blood's tumultuous beat Drowns, in her own, the drowsing serpent's hiss.
He who hath dreamed but of her world shall give All of his soul unto her restlessly: He who hath seen but her far face shall live No more for things we name reality: Such is the power of her tyranny.
He, whom she wins, hath nothing 'neath the sun; Forgetting all that she may not forget He loves her, who still feeds his soul upon Dreams and desires, and doubt and vain regret,-- Life's bitter bread his heart's fierce tears make wet.
What word of wisdom hast thou, Life, to wake Him now! or song of magic now to dull The dreams he lives in! or what charm to break The spell that makes her evil beautiful! What charm to show her beauty hides a snake, Whose basilisk eyes burn dark behind a skull.
REMEMBERED
Here in the dusk I see her face again As then I knew it, ere she fell asleep; Renunciation glorifying pain Of her soul's inmost deep.
I shall not see its like again! the brow Of passive marble, purely aureoled,-- As some pale lily in the afterglow,-- With supernatural gold.
As if a rose should speak and, somehow heard By some strange sense, the unembodied sound Grow visible, her mouth was as a word A sweet thought falters 'round.
So do I still remember eyes imbued With far reflections--as the stars suggest The silence, purity and solitude Of infinite peace and rest.
She was my all. I loved her as men love A high desire, religion, an ideal-- The meaning purpose in the loss whereof God shall alone reveal.
THE SEA SPIRIT
Ah me! I shall not waken soon From dreams of such divinity! A spirit singing in the moon To me.
White sea-spray driven of the storm Were not so wildly white as she! She beckoned with a foam-white arm To me.
With eyes dark green, and golden-green Loose locks that sparkled drippingly, Out of the green wave she did lean To me.
And sang; till Earth and Heaven were A far, forgotten memory; For more than Heaven seemed hid in her To me:--
Sleep, sweeter than love's face or home; Love, more than immortality; And music of the dreamy foam For me.
Pass over her with all thy ships With all thy stormy tides, O sea! The memory of immortal lips For me!
A DREAM SHAPE
With moon-white hearts that held a gleam, I gathered wild flowers in a dream, And shaped a woman, whose sweet blood Was odor of the wildwood bud.
From dew, the starlight arrowed through, I wrought a woman's eyes of blue; The lids, that on her eyeballs lay, Were rose-pale petals of the May.
I took the music of the breeze, And water whispering in the trees, And shaped the soul that breathed below A woman's blossom breasts of snow.
Out of a rose-bud's veins I drew The fragrant crimson beating through The languid lips of her, whose kiss Was as a poppy's drowsiness.
Out of the moonlight and the air I wrought the glory of her hair, That o'er her eyes' blue heaven lay Like some gold cloud o'er dawn of day.
A shadow's shadow in the glass Of sleep, my spirit saw her pass: And, thinking of it now, meseems We only live within our dreams.
For in that time she was to me More real than our reality; More real than Earth, more real than I-- The unreal things that pass and die.
THE VAMPIRE
A lily in a twilight place? A moonflow'r in the lonely night?-- Strange beauty of a woman's face Of wildflow'r-white!
The rain that hangs a star's green ray Slim on a leaf-point's restlessness, Is not so glimmering green and gray As was her dress.
I drew her dark hair from her eyes, And in their deeps beheld a while Such shadowy moonlight as the skies Of Hell may smile.
She held her mouth up redly wan, And burning cold,--I bent and kissed Such rosy snow as some wild dawn Makes of a mist.
God shall not take from me that hour, When round my neck her white arms clung! When 'neath my lips, like some fierce flower, Her white throat swung!
Or words she murmured while she leaned! Witch-words, she holds me softly by,-- The spell that binds me to a fiend Until I die.
WILL-O'-THE-WISP
I.
There in the calamus he stands With frog-webbed feet and bat-winged hands; His glow-worm garb glints goblin-wise; And elfishly, and elfishly, Above the gleam of owlet eyes, A death's-moth cap of downy dyes Nods out at me, nods out at me.
II.
Now in the reeds his face looks white As witch-down on a witches' night; Now through the dark old haunted mill, So eerily, so eerily, He flits; and with a whippoorwill Mouth calls, and seems to syllable, "Come follow me! come follow me!"
III.
Now o'er the sluggish stream he wends, A slim light at his finger-ends; The spotted spawn, the toad hath clomb, Slips oozily, slips oozily; His easy footsteps seem to come-- Like bubble-gaspings of the scum-- Now near to me, now near to me.
IV.
There by the stagnant pool he stands, A fox-fire lamp in flickering hands; The weeds are slimy to the tread, And mockingly, and mockingly, With slanted eyes and eldritch head He leans above a face long dead,-- The face of me! the face of me!
THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN
On the black road through the wood As I rode, There the Headless Horseman stood; By the wild pool in the wood, As I rode.
From the shadow of an oak, As I rode, Demon steed and rider broke; By the thunder-shattered oak, As I rode.
On the waste road through the plain, As I rode, At my back he whirled like rain; On the tempest-blackened plain, As I rode.
Four fierce hoofs shod red with fire, As I rode, Woke the wild rocks, dark and dire; Eyes and nostrils streamed with fire, As I rode.
On the deep road through the rocks, As I rode, I could reach his horse's locks; Through the echo-hurling rocks, As I rode.
And again I looked behind, As I rode,-- Dark as night and swift as wind, Towering, he rode behind, As I rode.
On the steep road down the dell, As I rode, In the night I heard a bell, In the village in the dell, As I rode.
And my soul called out in prayer, As I rode,-- Lo! the demon went in air, Leaving me alone in prayer, As I rode.
THE WERE-WOLF
SHE.
Nay; still amort, my love? Why dost thou lag?
HE.
The strix-owl cried.
SHE.
Nay! yon wild stream that leaps Hoarse from the black pines of the Hakel steeps, A moon-tipped water, down a glittering crag.-- Why so aghast, sweetheart? Why dost thou stop?
HE.
The demon-huntsman passed with hooting horn!
SHE.
Nay! 't was the blind wind sweeping through the thorn Around the ruins of the Dumburg's top.
HE.
My limbs are cold.
SHE.
Come! warm thee in mine arms.
HE.
Mine eyes are weary.
SHE.
Rest them, love, on mine.
HE.
I am athirst.
SHE.
Quench on my lips thy thirst.-- O dear belovéd, how thy last kiss warms My blood again!
HE.
Off!... How thy eyeballs shine! Thy face!... thy form!... So do I die accursed!
THE TROGLODYTE
In ages dead, a troglodyte, At the hollow roots of a monster height,-- That grew from the heart of the world to light,-- I dwelt in caverns: over me Were mountains older than the moon; And forests vaster than the sea, And gulfs, that the earthquake's hand had hewn, Hung under me. And late and soon I heard the dæmon of change that sighed A cosmic language of mystery; While life sat silent, primeval-eyed, With the infant spirit of prophecy.
Gaunt stars glared down on the Titan peaks; And the gaunter glare of the cratered streaks Of the sunset's ruin heard condor shrieks. The roar of cataracts hurled in air, And the hurricane laying his thunders bare, And rush of battling beasts,--whose lair Was the antechamber of nadir-gloom,-- Were my outworld joys. But who shall tell The awe of the depths that heard the boom Of the iron rivers that fashioned Hell!
THE CITY OF DARKNESS
Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands Beside a mystic sea, With streets strange-trod of many a god, And templed blasphemy.
Far in the night, a rose of light It shines beside the sea; But overhead an unknown dread Impends eternally.
There is a sound above, around Of music by the sea; And weird and wide the torches glide Of pagan revelry.
There is a noise as of a voice That calls beneath the sea; And all the deep grows pale with sleep And vague expectancy.
Then slowly up--as from a cup Seethes poison--lifts the sea; Wild mass on mass, as in black glass, The town glows fiery.
Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towers Set in the iron sea; And monster swarms with awful forms Roll though it cloudily.
Still overhead the unknown dread, Whose shadow dyes the sea, At wrath-winged wait behind its gate Till God shall set it free.
A taloned flash, an earthquake crash, And, lo! upon the sea, Black wall on wall, a giant pall, Night settles hideously.
And where it burned, a rose inurned, Red in the vasty sea, The phantasm of the dread above Sits in immensity.
TRANSMUTATION
To me all beauty that I see Is melody made visible: An earth-translated state, may be, Of music heard in Heaven or Hell.
Out of some love-impassioned strain Of saints, the rose evolved its bloom; And, dreaming of it here again, Perhaps re-lives it as perfume.
Out of some chant that demons sing Of hate and pain, the sunset grew; And, haply, still remembering, Re-lives it here as some wild hue.
THE END
FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK (THIRTY-FIVE COPIES OF WHICH ARE ON HANDMADE PAPER) WERE PRINTED DURING MARCH BY JOHN WILSON AND SON CAMBRIDGE