Some Verses

TO B. D

Broad browed beneath a cloud of dusky hairHer eyes are midnight seas that never sleepBut see beyond the dull world's heavy airThe mystery of ages buried deep.The faint sweet shadows trembling round her mouthLighten with youth and love the Sphinx's face.And as she moves, a soft wind from the SouthFloating, flower-laden seems—so sweet her grace.Aloof she stands, from idle mirth and tearsAnd keeps the white sails of her spirit furled,Altho' a girl, pure from the stain of years,An ancient Egypt, smiling at the world.

LITTLE SAD FACE

Little sad face, come close, so close to mine,See through these eyes the sweetness of the day,Feel how the sunbeams dance in Summer's wine,Hold fast my hands and let our pulse combineAnd with my steps dance down the happy way;For youth is love and love is light and gay,Little sad face.Little sad heart, come close, so close to mine,And know the utmost limits of the willOf all the worlds, till soft thy heart divineA joy which can encompass grief like thine;Hide in my breast, and let faint pulses thrill,For youth is love, and love is great and still,Little sad heart.Little sad soul, which ne'er can come to mine,So great in loneliness of grey despair,There is not one whose spirit may entwineWith thee—the world looks on without a sign;Go—hide thy face within thy tossing hair,Thyself veil close with smiles, for none will care,Little sad soul.

EARTH'S TEARS— AND MAN'S

These slanting lines of hoary rainAre as my grizzled hair;The face of earth is old with painAs mine—with dull despair.And yet, one sun will gild the air,Earth's tears were not in vain:No smile can ease mine eyes of careOr make me young again!

I HAVE SEEN WHAT THE SERAPHS HAVE SEEN

I have seen what the seraphs have seenAs they gaze thro' the limitless air—Thro' the wind and the clouds to the leanPale face of the moon, and the bareBright flame of the sun, unaware,I have seen what the seraphs have seen!Thro' the limitless spaces of airThe brave mists that waver and waneAre patient and pallid and fair.I have fathomed the pride and the painOf the snows and compassionate rainThro' the limitless spaces of air.I have known them, the brave mists that waneAnd the glory and peace of the skies.Where all strife and impatience are vainAnd ahush are all passionate sighs,For I gazed in the deeps of Love's eyes,And I know what no seraphs shall gain!

A LASS FROM THE WOODS

A lass from the woodsWith a leaf in her hair!And the rain of the nightAnd the wind of the morn,They both quivered right;For my spirit forlornIn a garment of whiteAnd a laugh newly bornSprang in maddest of moodsLike a blossom in airTo the kiss of the sunAnd the curl of the breeze,Caught the cobwebs begunIn the hush of the treesAll my beatings were oneWith the swirl of the seas.Dead the creature that broodsIn a tangle of care;There's a lass from the woodsWith a leaf in her hair.

WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING

Was there another Spring than this?I half remember through the hazeOf glimmering nights and golden days,A broken pinioned birdling's note,An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat,A wandering through rain-beaten ways!Lean closer, love—I have thy kiss!Was there another Spring than this?

TO DIANE

The ruddy poppies bend and bowDiane! do you remember?The sun you knew shines proudly nowThe lake still lists the breezes' vow;Your towers are fairer for their stains,Each stone you smiled upon remains.Sing low, where is Diane?Diane do you remember?I come to find you through the years—Diane! do you remember?For none may rule my love's soft fears.The ladies now are not your peers,I seek you thro' your tarnished halls,Pale sorrow on my spirit fallsHigh, low—where is Diane?Diane do you remember?I crush the poppies where I tread—Diane! do you remember?Your flower of life—so bright, so red—She does not hear—Diane is dead.I pace the sunny bowers aloneWhere nought of her remains but stone.Sing low—where is Diane?Diane does not remember.

BIRD LOVE— ROSE LOVE

If you were but a rose—dear love—And I your bird, with dip of wingTo tell a promise of the SpringAnd with a golden swift caressMy happy careless love confess,No pain such gentle vows could bring,No tears should stay my flight above,If you were but a rose—dear love.Bird-love, rose-love, to last the dayWhy shall not we whose hearts are lightPut by the coming of the night,Catch glints of rapture from the sky,The scents that swing where lilies lie,And ring them to a garland whiteTo ease the pain of life away?Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day!

THE JOY OF LIFE

Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold,The leopard skin about her shoulders flungShowed gleams of her as marble—fair and cold;I breathed not—listening to the song she sung.Hither and thither thro' the solemn world,Glory of purple, passionate blazing redGlints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled—Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head."Heedless—men pass me in their search for life,Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires,Crying the sun or joy of toil and strifeAnd know not that 'tis I—their heart desires.They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast,The haze and perfume of a Summer's day,The silver stealing o'er the twilight WestAre joys more rich than all the world's display."

MIST

Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing,Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main,Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful slingBurning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.

THE LAST CLOUD

A red rose cloud upon the evening sky,A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight,Too proud for prisons of triumphant night.Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years,Its little hour too short for dreams or tears,The faithful sun its first and latest light—Who would not so be glad to fight and die!A red rose cloud upon the evening sky.

SONG

Love is a broken lily,A pale and crownless roseWith golden heart made chillyBy traitor touch of snows.So sleep my heart—lie sleepingNor open weary eyes,For waking is but weepingAnd Sleep is Paradise.Love is a cadence trailingWhere broken music falls,A hapless shadow sailingAcross deserted walls.So still my heart lie sleepingTill love's hot sun be set,For waking is but weeping.Asleep—sad eyes forget.

IN THE GRAVE

Dear Love—do you wake in that land where my waking is done?Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?And is Summer aflame?Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,Wakeful—sighing my name?Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;Then I sigh and awake.For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,For a woman's sweet sake.Perhaps you are singing—and winding the garlands of May;Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,Or give you pause to your song.Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear—for deathIs so terribly long.

THE FLOWERS OF PROSERPINE

The jewels of the sun are not more rareThan these that lie upon my lurid halls.The perfume kiss upon the drowsy airIs sweet as Spring can hold within her walls.The spell which night may cast upon her thrallsIs mine; the length of all this gloomy landKnows no more sun than falls from my white hand.My wealth great kings have prayed for—in their pride,Bowing before me. Nay—I hate the place.I am no queen at heart—my laughter diedThat I might wear my crown with regal graceThe very flowers which smile on my sad faceI am afraid of. See! they are the worstOf all my fears; so fair—yet black accurst.The languid passion-poppy sways and dipsTo show the black heart bursting into flame.The crimson evil of a satyr's lipsA sneering nodding finger-post of shame;A thousand other flowers without a nameHuddle all trembling in the dusk behindLike hunted ghosts, whose eyes are white and blind.The grass is not the grass that overheadCooled my bare feet with daisies' purest snows;But thick pale blades, like fingers of the deadThrust from forgotten graves upon their foes.Ah—horrid soil! for everything that growsIn this confine but mocks in wicked scornThe fairness of the land where I was born.