Shapes and Shadows

Time and Death and Love

Last night I watched for Death —So sick of life was I! —When in the street beneathI heard his watchman cryThe hour, while passing by.I called. And in the nightI heard him stop below,His owlish lanthorn's lightBlurring the windy snow —How long the time and slow!I said, Why dost thou cowerThere at my door and knock?Come in! It is the hour!Cease fumbling at the lock!Naught's well! 'Tis no o'clock!Black through the door with himSwept in the Winter's breath;His cloak was great and grim —But he, who smiled beneath,Had the face of Love not Death.

Passion

The wine-loud laughter of indulged DesireUpon his lips, and, in his eyes, the fireOf uncontrol, he takes in reckless hands, —And interrupts with discords, – the sad lyreOf Love's deep soul, and never understands.

When the Wine-Cup at the Lip

When the wine-cup at the lipSlants its sparkling fire,O'er its level, while you sip,Have you marked the finger-tipOf the god Desire slip,Of the god Desire?Saying —Lo, the hours run!Live your day before 't is done!When the empty goblet liesAt the ended revel,In the glass, the wine-stain dyes,Have you marked the hollow eyesOf a mocking Devil rise,Of a mocking Devil?Saying —Lo, the day is through!Look on joy it gave to you!

Art

[A Phantasy.]I know not how I found youWith your wild hair a-blow,Nor why the world around youWould never let me know:Perhaps 't was Heaven relented,Perhaps 't was Hell resentedMy dream, and grimly ventedIts hate upon me so.In Shadowland I met youWhere all dim shadows meet;Within my heart I set you,A phantom bitter-sweet:No hope for me to win you,Though I with soul and sinewStrive on and on, when in youThere is no heart or heat!Yet ever, aye, and ever,Although I knew you lied,I followed on, but neverWould your white form abide:With loving arms stretched meward,As Sirens beckon seawardTo some fair vessel leeward,Before me you would glide.But like an evil fairy,That mocks one with a light,Now near, you led your airy,Now far, your fitful flight:With red-gold tresses blowing,And eyes of sapphire glowing,With limbs like marble showing,You lured me through the night.To some unearthly revelOf mimes, a motley crew,'Twixt Angel-land and Devil,You lured me on, I knew,And lure me still! soft whilingThe way with hopes beguiling,While dark Despair sits smilingBehind the eyes of you!

A Song for Old Age

Now nights grow cold and colder,And North the wild vane swings,And round each tree and boulderThe driving snow-storm sings —Come, make my old heart older,O memory of lost things!Of Hope, when promise sung herBrave songs and I was young,That banquets now on hungerSince all youth's songs are sung;Of Love, who walks with youngerSweethearts the flowers among.Ah, well! while Life holds levee,Death's ceaseless dance goes on.So let the curtains, heavyAbout my couch, be drawn —The curtains, sad and heavy,Where all shall sleep anon.

Tristram And Isolt

Night and vast caverns of rock and of iron;Voices like water, and voices like wind;Horror and tempests of hail that environShapes and the shadows of two who have sinned.Wan on the whirlwind, in loathing upliftingFaces that loved once, forever they go,Tristam and Isolt, the lovers, go drifting,The sullen laughter of Hell below.

The Better Lot

Her life was bound to crutches: pale and bent,But smiling ever, she would go and come:For of her soul God made an instrumentOf strength and comfort to an humble home.Better a life of toil and slow diseaseThat Love companions through the patient years,Than one whose heritage is loveless ease,That never knows the blessedness of tears.

Dusk in the Woods

Three miles of hill it is; and ICame through the woods that waited, dumb,For the cool Summer dusk to come;And lingered there to watch the skyUp which the gradual sunset clomb.A tree-toad quavered in a tree;And then a sudden whip-poor-willCalled overhead, so wildly shrill,The startled woodland seemed to seeHow very lone it was and still.Then through dark boughs its stealthy flightAn owl took; and, at sleepy strife,The cricket turned its fairy fife;And through the dead leaves, in the night,Soft rustlings stirred of unseen life.And in the punk-wood everywhereThe inserts ticked, or bored belowThe rotted bark; and, glow on glow,The gleaming fireflies here and thereLit up their Jack-o'-lantern show.I heard a vesper-sparrow sing,Withdrawn, it seemed, into the farSlow sunset's tranquil cinnabar;The sunset, softly smoulderingBehind gaunt trunks, with its one star.A dog barked; and down ways, that gleamed,Through dew and clover faint the noiseOf cow-bells moved. And then a voice,That sang a-milking, so it seemed,Made glad my heart as some glad boy's.And then the lane; and full in viewA farmhouse with a rose-grown gate,And honeysuckle paths, awaitFor night's white moon and love and you —These are the things that made me late.

At the Ferry

Oh, dim and wan came in the dawn,And gloomy closed the day;The killdee whistled among the weeds,The heron flapped in the river reeds,And the snipe piped far away.At dawn she stood – her dark gray hoodFlung back – in the ferry-boat;Sad were the eyes that watched him ride,Her raider love, from the riverside,His kiss on her mouth and throat.Like some wild spell the twilight fell,And black the tempest came;The heavens seemed filled with the warring dead,Whose batteries opened overheadWith thunder and with flame.At night again in the wind and rain,She toiled at the ferry oar;For she heard a voice in the night and storm,And it seemed that her lover's shadowy formBeckoned her to the shore.And swift to save she braved the wave,And reached the shore and foundHis riderless horse, with head hung low,A blur of blood on the saddle-bow,And the empty night around.

Her Violin

IHer violin! – Again beginThe dream-notes of her violin;And dim and fair, with gold-brown hair,I seem to see her standing there,Soft-eyed and sweetly slender:The room again, with strain on strain,Vibrates to Love's melodious pain,As, sloping slow, is poised her bow,While round her form the golden glowOf sunset spills its splendour.IIHer violin! – now deep, now thin,Again I hear her violin;And, dream by dream, again I seemTo see the love-light's tender gleamBeneath her eyes' long lashes:While to my heart she seems a partOf her pure song's inspirèd art;And, as she plays, the rosy graysOf twilight halo hair and face,While sunset burns to ashes.IIIO violin! – Cease, cease withinMy soul, O haunting violin!In vain, in vain, you bring againBack from the past the blissful painOf all the love then spoken;When on my breast, at happy rest,A sunny while her head was pressed —Peace, peace to these wild memories!For, like my heart naught remedies,Her violin lies broken.

Her Vesper Song

The Summer lightning comes and goesIn one pale cloud above the hill,As if within its soft reposeA burning heart were never still —As in my bosom pulses beatBefore the coming of his feet.All drugged with odorous sleep, the roseBreathes dewy balm about the place,As if the dreams the garden knowsTook immaterial form and face —As in my heart sweet thoughts ariseBeneath the ardour of his eyes.The moon above the darkness showsAn orb of silvery snow and fire,As if the night would now discloseTo heav'n her one divine desire —As in the rapture of his kissAll of my soul is drawn to his.The cloud, it knows not that it glows;The rose knows nothing of its scent;Nor knows the moon that it bestowsLight on our earth and firmament —So is the soul unconscious ofThe beauties it reveals through Love.

At Parting

What is there left for us to say,Now it has come to say good-by?And all our dreams of yesterdayHave vanished in the sunset sky —What is there left for us to say,Now different ways before us lie?A word of hope, a word of cheer,A word of love, that still shall last,When we are far to bring us nearThrough memories of the happy past;A word of hope, a word of cheer,To keep our sad hearts true and fast.What is there left for us to do,Now it has come to say farewell?And care, that bade us once adieu,Returns again with us to dwell —What is there left for us to do,Now different ways our fates compel?Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And look the love that shall remain —When severed so by many a mile —The sweetest balm for bitterest pain;Clasp hands and sigh, touch lips and smile,And trust in God to meet again.

Carissima Mea

I look upon my lady's face,And, in the world about me, seeNo face like hers in any place:Therefore it is I sing her praise.It is not made, as others singOf their dear loves, like ivory,But like a wild rose in the spring:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her brow is low and very fair,And o'er it, smooth and shadowy,Lies deep the darkness of her hair:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Beneath her brows her eyes are gray,And gaze out glad and fearlessly,Their wonder haunts me night and day:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her eyebrows, arched and delicate,Twin curves of pencilled ebony,Within their spans contain my fate:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her mouth, that was for kisses curved,So small and sweet, it well may beThat it for me is yet reserved:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Between her hair and rounded chin,Calm with her soul's calm purity,There lies no shadow of a sin:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Of perfect form, she is not tall,Just higher than the heart of me,Where'er I place her, all in all:Therefore it is I sing her praise.She is not shaped, as some have sungOf their dear loves, like some slim tree,But like the moon when it is young:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Her hands, that smell of violet,So white and fashioned gracefully,Have woven round my heart a net:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Yea, I have loved her many a day;And though for me she may not be,Still at her feet my love I lay:Therefore it is I sing her praise.Albeit she be not for me,God send her grace and grant that sheKnow nought of sorrow all her days:Therefore it is I sing her praise.

Margery

IWhen Spring is here and MargeryGoes walking in the woods with me,She is so white, she is so shy,The little leaves clap hands and cry —Perdie!So white is she, so sky is she,Ah me!The maiden May hath just passed by!IIWhen Summer's here and MargeryGoes walking in the fields with me,She is so pure, she is so fair,The wildflowers eye her and declare —Perdie!So pure is she, so fair is she,Just see,Where our sweet cousin takes the air!IIIWhy is it that my MargeryHears nothing that these say to me?She is so good, she is so true,My heart it maketh such ado;Perdie!So good is she, so true is she,You see,She can not hear the other two.

Constance

Beyond the orchard, in the lane,The crested red-bird sings again —O bird, whose song says, Have no care.Should I not care when Constance there, —My Constance, with the bashful gaze,Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock, —If I declare my love, just saysSome careless thing as if in mock?Like —Past the orchard, in the lane,How sweet the red-bird sings again!There, while the red-bird sings his best,His listening mate sits on the nest —O bird, whose patience says, All's well,How can it be with me, now tell?When Constance, with averted eyes, —Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea, —If I speak marriage, just repliesWith some such quaint irrelevancy,As, While the red-bird sings his best,His loving mate sits on the nest.What shall I say? what can I do?Would such replies mean aught to you,O birds, whose gladness says, Be glad?Have I not reason to be sadWhen Constance, with demurest glance,Her face a-poppy with distress,If I reproach her, pouts, perchance,And answers so in waywardness? —What shall I say? what can I do?My meaning should be plain to you!

Gertrude

When first I gazed on Gertrude's face,Beheld her loveliness and grace;Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair,Her ways, more winsome than the kissSpring gives the flowers; her smile, that isBrighter than all the summer airMade sweet with birds: – I did declare, —And still declare! – there is no one,No girl beneath the moon or sun,So beautiful to look upon!And to my thoughts, that on her dwell,Nothing seems more desirable —Not Ophir gold nor Orient pearls —Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.

Lydia

When Autumn's here and days are short,Let Lydia laugh and, hey!Straightway 't is May-day in my heart,And blossoms strew the way.When Summer's here and days are long,Let Lydia sigh and, ho!December's fields I walk among,And shiver in the snow.No matter what the Seasons are,My Lydia is so dear,My soul admits no CalendarOf earth when she is near.

A Southern Girl

Serious but smiling, stately and serene,And dreamier than a flower;A girl in whom all sympathies conveneAs perfumes in a bower;Through whom one feels what soul and heart may mean,And their resistless power.Eyes, that commune with the frank skies of truth,Where thought like starlight curls;Lips of immortal rose, where love and youthNestle like two sweet pearls;Hair, that suggests the Bible braids of Ruth,Deeper than any girl's.When first I saw you, 't was as if withinMy soul took shape some song —Played by a master of the violin —A music pure and strong,That rapt my soul above all earthly sinTo heights that know no wrong.

A Daughter of the States

She has the eyes of some barbarian QueenLeading her wild tribes into battle; eyes,Wherein th' unconquerable soul defies,And Love sits throned, imperious and serene.And I have thought that Liberty, aloneAmong the mountain stars, might look like her,Kneeling to GOD, her only emperor,Kindling her torch on Freedom's altar-stone.For in her self, regal with riches ofBeauty and youth, again those Queens seem born —Boadicea, meeting scorn with scorn,And Ermengarde, returning love for love.

An Autumn Night

Some things are good on Autumn nights,When with the storm the forest fights,And in the room the heaped hearth lightsOld-fashioned press and rafter:Plump chestnuts hissing in the heat,A mug of cider, sharp and sweet,And at your side a face petite,With lips of laughter.Upon the roof the rolling rain,And tapping at the window-pane,The wind that seems a witch's caneThat summons spells together:A hand within your own awhile;A mouth reflecting back your smile;And eyes, two stars, whose beams exileAll thoughts of weather.And, while the wind lulls, still to sitAnd watch her fire-lit needles flitA-knitting, and to feel her knitYour very heartstrings in it:Then, when the old clock ticks 'tis late,To rise, and at the door to wait,Two words, or at the garden gate,A kissing minute.

Lines

If God should say to me, Behold! —Yea, who shall doubt? —They who love others more than me,Shall I not turn, as oft of old,My face from them and cast them out?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your faceIs all God's grace.If God should say to me, Behold! —Is it not well? —They who have other gods than me,Shall I not bid them, as of old,Depart into the outerHell?So let it be with thee, behold!—I should not care, for in your eyesIs Paradise.

The Blind God

I know not if she be unkind,If she have faults I do not care;Search through the world – where will you findA face like hers, a form, a mind?I love her to despair.If she be cruel, crueltyIs a great virtue, I will swear;If she be proud – then pride must beAkin to Heaven's divinest three —I love her to despair.Why speak to me of that and this?All you may say weighs not a hair!In her, – whose lips I may not kiss, —To me naught but perfection is! —I love her to despair.

A Valentine

My life is grown a witchcraft placeThrough gazing on thy form and face.Now 't is thy Smile's soft sorceryThat makes my soul a melody.Now 't is thy Frown, that comes and goes,That makes my heart a page of prose.Some day, perhaps, a word of thineWill change me to thy Valentine.

A Catch

When roads are mired with ice and snow,And the air of morn is crisp with rime;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And bells ring in the Christmas time: —It's – Saddle, my Heart, and ride away,To the sweet-faced girl with the eyes of gray!Who waits with a smile for the gifts you bring —A man's strong love and a wedding-ring —It's – Saddle, my Heart, and ride!When vanes veer North and storm-winds blow,And the sun of noon is a blur o'erhead;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And the Christmas service is sung and said: —It's – Come, O my Heart, and wait awhile,Where the organ peals, in the altar aisle,For the gifts that the church now gives to you —A woman's hand and a heart that's true.It's – Come, O my Heart, and wait!When rooms gleam warm with the fire's glow,And the sleet raps sharp on the window-pane;When the holly hangs by the mistletoe,And Christmas revels begin again: —It's – Home, O my Heart, and love, at last!And her happy breast to your own held fast;A song to sing and a tale to tell,A good-night kiss, and all is well.It's – Home, O my Heart, and love!

The New Year

Lift up thy torch, O Year, and let us seeWhat DestinyHath made thee heir to at nativity!Doubt, some call Faith; and ancient Wrong and Might,Whom some name Right;And Darkness, that the purblind world calls Light.Despair, with Hope's brave form; and Hate, who goesIn Friendship's clothes;And Happiness, the mask of many woes.Neglect, whom Merit serves; Lust, to whom, see,Love bends the knee;And Selfishness, who preacheth charity.Vice, in whose dungeon Virtue lies in chains;And Cares and Pains,That on the throne of Pleasure hold their reigns.Corruption, known as Honesty; and FameThat's but a name;And Innocence, the outward guise of Shame.And Folly, men call Wisdom here, forsooth;And, like a youth,Fair Falsehood, whom some worship for the Truth.Abundance, who hath Famine's house in lease;And, high 'mid these,War, blood-black, on the spotless shrine of Peace.Lift up thy torch, O Year! assist our sight!Deep lies the nightAround us, and God grants us little light!

Then and Now

When my old heart was young, my dear,The Earth and Heaven were so nearThat in my dreams I oft could hearThe steps of unseen races;In woodlands, where bright waters ran,On hills, God's rainbows used to span,I followed voices not of man,And smiled in spirit faces.Now my old heart is old, my sweet,No longer Earth and Heaven meet;All Life is grown to one long streetWhere fact with fancy clashes;The voices now that speak to meAre prose instead of poetry:And in the faces now I seeIs less of flame than ashes.

Epilogue

Beyond the moon, within a land of mist,Lies the dim Garden of all Dead Desires,Walled round with morning's clouded amethyst,And haunted of the sunset's shadowy fires;There all lost things we loved hold ghostly tryst —Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.Sad are the stars that day and night existAbove the Garden of all Dead Desires;And sad the roses that within it twistDeep bow'rs; and sad the wind that through it quires;But sadder far are they who there hold tryst —Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.There, like a dove, upon the twilight's wrist,Soft in the Garden of all Dead Desires,Sleep broods; and there, where never a serpent hissed,On the wan willows music hangs her lyres,Æolian dials by which phantoms tryst —Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.There you shall hear low voices; kisses kissed,Faint in the Garden of all Dead Desires,By lips the anguish of vain song makes whist;And meet with shapes that art's despair attires;And gaze in eyes where all sweet sorrows tryst —Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.Thither we go, dreamer and realist,Bound for the Garden of all Dead Desires,Where we shall find, perhaps, all Life hath missed,All Life hath longed for when the soul aspires,All Earth's elusive loveliness at tryst —Dead dreams, dead hopes, dead loves, and dead desires.