Chapter 3
When curved and white, a bugle bright, The moon blows glamour through the night, That sets the world a-dreaming, My heart, where gladness late was guest, Puts off its joy, as to my breast At parting her dear form is pressed, Within the moon's faint gleaming.
It's--Oh! how fast the hours passed!-- They were not slow enough! Too soon, too soon, the sinking moon Says to my soul, like some sad tune, "Come! part from her you love."
LOVE IN A GARDEN.
I.
Between the rose's and the canna's crimson, Beneath her window in the night I stand; The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on The white moonflowers--each a spirit hand That points the path to mystic shadowland.
Awaken, sweet and fair! And add to night thy grace! Suffer its loveliness to share The white moon of thy face, The darkness of thy hair. Awaken, sweet and fair!
II.
A moth, like down, swings on th' althæa's pistil,-- Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell's deep dome;-- And in the August-lily's cone of crystal A firefly blurs, the lantern of a gnome, Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam.
Approach! the moment flies! Thou sweetheart of the South! Come! mingle with night's mysteries The red rose of thy mouth, The starlight of thine eyes.-- Approach! the moment flies!
III.
Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence, Bubbles the Slumber-song of some wild bird; And with it borne, faint on a breeze-sweet essence, The rainy murmur of a fountain's heard-- As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word.
How long, my love, my bliss! How long must I await With night,--that all impatience is,-- Thy greeting at the gate, And at the gate thy kiss? How long, my love, my bliss!
FLORIDIAN.
I.
The cactus and the aloe bloom Beneath the window of your room; Your window where, at evenfall, Beneath the twilight's first pale star, You linger, tall and spiritual, And hearken my guitar.
It is the hour When every flower Is wooed by moth or bee-- Would, would you were the flower, dear, And I the moth to draw you near, To draw you near to me, My dear, To draw you near to me.
II.
The jasmine and bignonia spill Their balm around your windowsill; The sill where, when magnolia-white, In foliage mists, the moon hangs far, You lean with bright deep eyes of night And hearken my guitar.
It is the hour When from each flower The wind woos fragrances-- Would, would you were the flower, love, And I the wind to breathe above, To breathe above and kiss, My love, To breathe above and kiss.
THE GOLDEN HOUR.
I.
She comes,--the dreamy daughter Of day and night,--a girl, Who o'er the western water Lifts up her moon of pearl: Like some Rebecca at the well, Who fills her jar of crystal shell, Down ways of dew, o'er dale and dell, Dusk comes with dreams of you, Of you, Dusk comes with dreams of you.
II.
She comes, the serious sister Of all the stars that strew The deeps of God, and glister Bright on the darkling blue: Like some loved Ruth, who heaps her arm With golden gleanings of the farm, Down fields of stars, where shadows swarm, Dusk comes with thoughts of you, Of you, Dusk comes with thoughts of you.
III.
She comes, and soft winds greet her, And whispering odors woo; She is the words and meter They set their music to: Like Israfel, a spirit fair, Whose heart's a silvery dulcimer, Down listening slopes of earth and air Dusk comes with love of you, Of you, Dusk comes with love of you.
REED CALL FOR APRIL.
I.
When April comes, and pelts with buds And apple-blooms each orchard space, And takes the dog-wood-whitened woods With rain and sunshine of her moods, Like your fair face, like your fair face:
It's honey for the bloom and dew, And honey for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart.
II.
When April comes, and tints the hills With gold and beryl that rejoice, And from her airy apron spills The laughter of the winds and rills, Like your young voice, like your young voice:
It's gladness for God's bending blue, And gladness for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart.
III.
When April comes, and binds and girds The world with warmth that breathes above, And to the breeze flings all her birds, Whose songs are welcome as the words Of you I love, of you I love:
It's music for all things that woo, And music for the heart! And, oh, to be away with you Beyond the town and mart.
"THE YEARS WHEREIN I NEVER KNEW."
The years, wherein I never knew Such beauty as is yours,--so fraught With truth and kindness looking through Your loveliness,--I count them naught, O girl, so like a lily wrought! The years wherein I knew not you.
Ah, let me see you always so!-- A dream that haunts my memory's sight-- Your hair of moonlight, face of snow, And eyes, blue stars of laughing light, O girl, so like a lily white! Through all the years that come and go.
True to you only, in my heart I wear your spirit miniature, Sincere in simpleness of art, That makes my love to still endure, O girl, so like a lily pure! Through years that keep us still apart.
MIGNON.
Oh, Mignon's mouth is like a rose, A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o'er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, shows Within its rosy curve white pearls, White rows of pearls, Is Mignon's mouth that smiles at me.
Oh, Mignon's eyes are like blue gems, Two azure gems, that gleam and glow, Soft sapphires set in ivory: Or like twin violets, whose stems Bloom blue beneath the covering snow, The lidded snow, Are Mignon's eyes that laugh at me.
O mouth of Mignon, Mignon's eyes! O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!-- Within which lies all ecstasy Of tears and kisses and of sighs:-- O mouth, O eyes, and O desire, O love's desire, Have mercy on the soul of me!
QUI DOCET, DISCIT.
I.
When all the world was white with flowers, And Summer, in her sun-built towers, Stood smiling 'mid her handmaid Hours, Who robed her limbs for bridal; Somewhere between the golden sands And purple hills of Folly's lands, Love, with a laugh, let go our hands, And left our sides to idle.
II.
Now all the world is red with doom, And Autumn, in her frost-carved room, Bends darkly o'er the gipsy loom Of memories she weaves there; Who knocks at night upon the door, All travel-worn and pale and poor?-- Open! and let him in once more, The Love that stands and grieves there.
TRANSUBSTANTIATION.
I.
A sunbeam and a drop of dew Lay on a red rose in the South: God took the three and made her mouth, Her sweet, sweet mouth, So red of hue,-- The burning baptism of His kiss Still fills my heart with heavenly bliss.
II.
A dream of truth and love come true Slept on a star in daybreak skies: God mingled these and made her eyes, Her dear, dear eyes, So gray of hue,-- The high communion of His gaze Still fills my soul with deep amaze.
HELEN.
Heaped in raven loops and masses Over temples smooth and fair, Have you marked it, as she passes, Gleam and shadow mingled there,-- Braided strands of midnight air,-- Helen's hair?
Deep with dreams and starry mazes Of the thought that in them lies, Have you seen them, as she raises Them in gladness or surprise,-- Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,-- Helen's eyes?
Moist with dew and honied wafters Of a music sweet that slips, Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter's Song and sunshine to their tips, Rose-buds whence the fragrance drips,-- Helen's lips?
He who sees her needs must love her: But, beware! avoid love's dart! He who loves her must discover Nature overlooked one part, In this masterpiece of art-- Helen's heart.
A CAMEO.
Why speak of Giamschid rubies Whence rosy starlight drips? I know a richer crimson,-- The ruby of her lips.
Why speak of pearls of Oman That shells of ocean sheathe? I know a purer nacre,-- The white pearls of her teeth.
Why tell me of the sapphires That Kings and Khalifs prize? I know a lovelier azure,-- The sapphires of her eyes.
Go search the far Earth over, Go search the farthest sea, You will not find a cameo Like her God carved for me.
LA JEUNESSE ET LA MORT.
I.
Unto her fragrant face and hair,-- As some wild bee unto a rose, That blooms in splendid beauty there Within the South,--my longing goes: My longing, that is over fain To call her mine, but all in vain; Since jealous Death, as each one knows, Is guardian of La belle Heléne; Of her whose face is very fair-- To my despair, Sweet belle Heléne.
II.
The sweetness of her face suggests The sensuous scented Jacqueminots; Magnolia blooms her throat and breasts; Her hands long lilies in repose: Fair flowers all without a stain, That grow for Death to pluck again, Within that garden's radiant close, The body of La belle Heléne; The garden glad that she suggests,-- That Death invests. Sweet belle Heléne.
III.
God had been kinder to me,--when He dipped His hands in fires and snows And made you like a flow'r to ken, A flow'r that in Earth's garden grows,-- Had He, for pleasure or for pain, Instead of Death in that demesne, Made Love the gardener to that rose, Your loveliness, O belle Heléne; God had been kinder to me then-- And to all men, Sweet belle Heléne.
LOVE AND LOSS.
Loss molds our lives in many ways, And fills our souls with guesses; Upon our hearts sad hands it lays Like some grave priest that blesses.
Far better than the love we win, That earthly passions leaven, Is love we lose, that knows no sin, That points the path to Heaven.
Love, whose soft shadow brightens Earth, Through whom our dreams are nearest; And loss, through whom we see the worth Of all that we held dearest.
Not joy it is, but misery That chastens us, and sorrow;-- Perhaps to make us all that we Expect beyond To-morrow.
Within that life where time and fate Are not; that knows no seeming: That world to which death keeps the gate Where love and loss sit dreaming.
SUNSET CLOUDS.
Low clouds, the lightning veins and cleaves, Torn from the forest of the storm, Sweep westward like enormous leaves O'er field and farm.
And in the west, on burning skies, Their wrath is quenched, their hate is hushed, And deep their drifted thunder lies With splendor flushed.
The black turns gray, the gray turns gold; And, seaed in deeps of radiant rose, Summits of fire, manifold They now repose.
What dreams they bring! what thoughts reveal! That have their source in loveliness, Through which the doubts I often feel Grow less and less.
Through which I see that other night, That cloud called Death, transformed of Love To flame, and pointing with its light To life above.
MASKED.
Lying alone I dreamed a dream last night: Methought that Joy had come to comfort me For all the past, its suffering and slight, Yet in my heart I felt this could not be.
All that he said unreal seemed and strange, Too beautiful to last beyond to-morrow; Then suddenly his features seemed to change,-- The mask of joy dropped from the face of Sorrow.
OUT OF THE DEPTHS.
I.
Let me forget her face! So fresh, so lovely! the abiding place Of tears and smiles that won my heart to her; Of dreams and moods that moved my soul's dim deeps, As strong winds stir Dark waters where the starlight glimmering sleeps.-- In every lineament the mind can trace, Let me forget her face!
II.
Let me forget her form! Soft and seductive, that contained each charm, Each grace the sweet word maidenhood implies; And all the sensuous youth of line and curve, That makes men's eyes Bondsmen of beauty eager still to serve.-- In every part that memory can warm, Let me forget her form!
III.
Let me forget her, God! Her who made honeyed love a bitter rod To scourge my heart with, barren with despair; To tear my soul with, sick with vain desire!-- Oh, hear my prayer! Out of the hell of love's unquenchable fire I cry to thee, with face against the sod, Let me forget her, God!
RICHES.
What mines the morning heavens unfold! What far Alaskas of the skies! That, veined with elemental gold, Sierra on Sierra rise.
Heap up the gold of all the world, The ore that makes men fools and slaves; What is it to the gold, cloud-curled, That rivers through the sunset's caves!
Search Earth for riches all who will, The gold that soils, that turns to dust-- Be mine the wealth no thief can steal, The gold of God that can not rust.
BEAUTY AND ART.
The gods are dead; but still for me Lives on in wildwood brook and tree Each myth, each old divinity.
For me still laughs among her rocks The Naiad; and the Dryad's locks Drop perfume on the wild-flower flocks.
The Satyr hoof still prints the loam; And, whiter than the wind-blown foam, The Oread haunts her mountain home.
To him, whose mind is fain to dwell With loveliness no time can quell, All things are real, imperishable.
To him--whatever facts may say-- Who sees the soul beneath the clay, Is proof of a diviner day.
The very stars and flowers preach A gospel old as God, and teach Philosophy a child may reach;
That can not die, that shall not cease, That lives through idealities Of beauty, ev'n as Rome and Greece;
That lift the soul above the clod, And, working out some period Of art, are part and proof of God.
THE AGE OF GOLD.
The clouds, that tower in storm, that beat Arterial thunder in their veins; The wildflowers lifting, shyly sweet, Their perfect faces from the plains,-- All high, all lowly things of Earth For no vague end have had their birth.
Low strips of mist, that mesh the moon Above the foaming waterfall; And mountains that God's hand hath hewn, And forests where the great winds call,-- Within the grasp of such as see Are parts of a conspiracy;
To seize the soul with beauty; hold The heart with love, and so fulfill Within ourselves the Age of Gold, That never died, and never will,-- So long as one true nature feels The wonders that the world reveals.
THE LOVE OF LOVES.
I have not seen her face, and yet She is more sweet than any thing Of Earth--than rose or violet That Mayday winds and sunbeams bring. Of all we know, past or to come, That beauty holds within its net, She is the high compendium: And yet--
I have not touched her robe, and still She is more dear than lyric words And music; or than strains that fill The throbbing throats of forest birds. Of all we mean by poetry, That rules the soul and charms the will, She is the deep epitome: And still--
She is my world; ah, pity me! A dream that flies whom I pursue; Whom all pursue, whoe'er they be, Who toil for art and dare and do. The shadow-love for whom they sigh, The far ideal affinity, For whom they live and gladly die-- Ah, me!
THREE THINGS.
There are three things of Earth That help us more Than those of heavenly birth That all implore-- Than Love or Faith or Hope, For which we strive and grope.
The first one is Desire,-- Who takes our hand And fills our hearts with fire None may withstand;-- Through whom we're lifted far Above both moon and star.
The second one is Dream,-- Who leads our feet By an immortal gleam To visions sweet;-- Through whom our forms put on Dim attributes of dawn.
The last of these is Toil,-- Who maketh true, Within the world's turmoil The other two;-- Through whom we may behold Ourselves with kings enrolled.
IMMORTELLES.
I.
As some warm moment of repose In one rich rose Sums all the summer's lovely bloom And pure perfume-- So did her soul epitomize All hopes that make life wise, Who lies before us now with lidded eyes, Faith's amaranth of truth Crowning her youth.
II.
As some melodious note or strain May so contain All of sweet music in one chord, Or lyric word-- So did her loving heart suggest All dreams that make life blest, Who lies before us now with pulseless breast, Love's asphodel of duty Crowning her beauty.
A LULLABY.
I.
In her wimple of wind and her slippers of sleep The twilight comes like a little goose-girl, Herding her owls with many "tu-whoos," Her little brown owls in the woodland deep, Where dimly she walks in her whispering shoes, And gown of glimmering pearl.
Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; This is the road to Rockaby Town. Rockaby, lullaby, where dreams are cheap; Here you can buy any dream for a crown. Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; The cradle you lie in is soft and is deep, The wagon that takes you to Rockaby Town. Now you go up, sweet, now you go down, Rockaby, lullaby, now you go down.
II.
And after the twilight comes midnight, who wears A mantle of purple so old, so old! Who stables the lily-white moon, it is said, In a wonderful chamber with violet stairs, Up which you can see her come, silent of tread, On hoofs of pale silver and gold.
Dream, dream, little one, dream; This is the way to Lullaby Land. Lullaby, rockaby, where, white as cream, Sugar-plum bowers drop sweets in your hand. Dream, dream, little one, dream; The cradle you lie in is tight at each seam, The boat that goes sailing to Lullaby Land. Over the sea, sweet, over the sand, Lullaby, rockaby, over the sand.
III.
The twilight and midnight are lovers, you know, And each to the other is true, is true! And there on the moon through the heavens they ride, With the little brown owls all huddled arow, Through meadows of heaven where, every side, Blossom the stars and the dew.
Rest, rest, little one, rest; Rockaby Town is in Lullaby Isle. Rockaby, lullaby, set like a nest Deep in the heart of a song and a smile. Rest, rest, little one, rest; The cradle you lie in is warm as my breast, The white bird that bears you to Lullaby Isle. Out of the East, sweet, into the West, Rockaby, lullaby, into the West.
DUM VIVIMUS.
I.
Now with the marriage of the lip and beaker Let Joy be born! and in the rosy shine, The slanting starlight of the lifted liquor, Let Care, the hag, be drowned! No more repine At all life's ills! Come, bury them in wine! Room for great guests! Yea, let us usher in Philosophies of old Anacreon And Omar, that, from dawn to glorious dawn, Shall lesson us in love and song and sin.
II.
Some lives need less than others.--Who can ever Say truly "Thou art mine," of Happiness? Death comes to all. And one, to-day, is never Sure of to-morrow, that may ban or bless; And what's beyond is but a shadowy guess. "All, all is vanity," the preacher sighs; And in this world what has more right than Wrong? Come! let us hush remembrance with a song, And learn with folly to be glad and wise.
III.
There was a poet of the East named Hafiz, Who sang of wine and beauty. Let us go Praising them too. And where good wine to quaff is And maids to kiss, doff life's gray garb of woe; For soon that tavern's reached, that inn, you know, Where wine and love are not, where, sans disguise, Each one must lie in his strait bed apart, The thorn of sleep deep-driven in his heart, And dust and darkness in his mouth and eyes.
FAILURE.
There are some souls Whose lot it is to set their hearts on goals That adverse Fate controls.
While others win With little labor through life's dust and din, And lord-like enter in
Immortal gates; And, of Success the high-born intimates, Inherit Fame's estates....
Why is 't the lot Of merit oft to struggle and yet not Attain? to toil--for what?
Simply to know The disappointment, the despair and woe Of effort here below?
Ambitious still to reach Those lofty peaks, which men aspiring preach, For which their souls beseech:
Those heights that swell Remote, removed, and unattainable, Pinnacle on pinnacle:
Still yearning to attain Their far repose, above life's stress and strain, But all in vain, in vain!...
Why hath God put Great longings in some souls and straightway shut All doors of their clay hut?
The clay accurst That holds achievement back; from which, immersed, The spirit may not burst.
Were it, at least, Not better to have sat at Circe's feast, If afterwards a beast?
Than aye to bleed, To strain and strive, to toil in thought and deed, And nevermore succeed?
THE CUP OF JOY.
Let us mix a cup of Joy That the wretched may employ, Whom the Fates have made their toy.
Who have given brain and heart To the thankless world of Art, And from Fame have won no part.
Who have labored long at thought; Starved and toiled and all for naught; Sought and found not what they sought....
Let our goblet be the skull Of a fool; made beautiful With a gold nor base nor dull:
Gold of madcap fancies, once It contained, that,--sage or dunce,-- Each can read whoever runs.
First we pour the liquid light Of our dreams in; then the bright Beauty that makes day of night.
Let this be the must wherefrom, In due time, the mettlesome Care-destroying drink shall come.
Folly next: with which mix in Laughter of a child of sin, And the red of mouth and chin.
These shall give the tang thereto, Effervescence and rich hue Which to all good wine are due.
Then into our cup we press One wild kiss of wantonness, And a glance that says not less.
Sparkles both that give a fine Lustre to the drink divine, Necessary to good wine.
Lastly in the goblet goes Sweet a love-song, then a rose Warmed upon _her_ breast's repose.
These bouquet our drink.--Now measure With your arm the waist you treasure-- Lift the cup and, "Here's to Pleasure!"
PESTILENCE.
High on a throne of noisome ooze and heat, 'Mid rotting trees of bayou and lagoon, Ghastly she sits beneath the skeleton moon, A tawny horror coiling at her feet-- Fever, whose eyes keep watching, serpent-like, Until _her_ eyes shall bid him rise and strike.
MUSINGS.
INSPIRATION.
All who have toiled for Art, who've won or lost, Sat equal priests at her high Pentecost; Only the chrism and sacrament of flame, Anointing all, inspired not all the same.
APPORTIONMENT.
How often in our search for joy below Hoping for happiness we chance on woe.
VICTORY.
They who take courage from their own defeat Are victors too, no matter how much beat.
PREPARATION.
How often hope's fair flower blooms richest where The soul was fertilized with black despair.
DISILLUSION.
Those unrequited in their love who die Have never drained life's chief illusion dry.
SUCCESS.