The Garden of Dreams

OCTOBER

Long hosts of sunlight, and the bright wind blowsA tourney trumpet on the listed hill:Past is the splendor of the royal roseAnd duchess daffodil.Crowned queen of beauty, in the garden's space,Strong daughter of a bitter race and bold,A ragged beggar with a lovely face,Reigns the sad marigold.And I have sought June's butterfly for days,To find it – like a coreopsis bloom —Amber and seal, rain-murdered 'neath the blazeOf this sunflower's plume.Here basks the bee; and there, sky-voyaging wingsDare God's blue gulfs of heaven; the last song,The red-bird flings me as adieu, still ringsUpon yon pear-tree's prong.No angry sunset brims with rosier redThe bowl of heaven than the days, indeed,Pour in each blossom of this salvia-bed,Where each leaf seems to bleed.And where the wood-gnats dance, a tiny mist,Above the efforts of the weedy stream,The girl, October, tired of the tryst,Dreams a diviner dream.One foot just dipping the caressing wave,One knee at languid angle; locks that drownHands nut-stained; hazel-eyed, she lies, and grave,Watching the leaves drift down.

BARE BOUGHS

O heart, that beat the bird's blithe blood,The blithe bird's message that pursued,Now song is dead as last year's bud,What dost thou in the wood?O soul, that kept the brook's glad flow,The glad brook's word to sun and moon,What dost thou here where song lies lowAs all the dreams of June?Where once was heard a voice of song,The hautboys of the mad winds sing;Where once a music flowed along,The rain's wild bugles ring.The weedy water frets and ails,And moans in many a sunless fall;And, o'er the melancholy, trailsThe black crow's eldritch call.Unhappy brook! O withered wood!O days, whom death makes comrades of!Where are the birds that thrilled the bloodWhen life struck hands with love?A song, one soared against the blue;A song, one bubbled in the leaves;A song, one threw where orchards grewAll appled to the eaves.But now the birds are flown or dead;And sky and earth are bleak and gray;The wild winds sob i' the boughs instead,The wild leaves sigh i' the way.

A THRENODY

IThe rainy smell of a ferny dell,Whose shadow no sunray flaws,When Autumn sits in the wayside weedsTelling her beadsOf haws.IIThe phantom mist, that is moonbeam-kissed,On hills where the trees are thinned,When Autumn leans at the oak-root's scarp,Playing a harpOf wind.IIIThe crickets' chirr 'neath brier and burr,By leaf-strewn pools and streams,When Autumn stands 'mid the dropping nuts,With the book, she shuts,Of dreams.IVThe gray "alas" of the days that pass,And the hope that says "adieu,"A parting sorrow, a shriveled flower,And one ghost's hourWith you.

SNOW

The moon, like a round deviceOn a shadowy shield of war,Hangs white in a heaven of iceWith a solitary star.The wind is sunk to a sigh,And the waters are stern with frost;And gray, in the eastern sky,The last snow-cloud is lost.White fields, that are winter-starved,Black woods, that are winter-fraught,Cold, harsh as a face death-carvedWith the iron of some black thought.

VAGABONDS

Your heart's a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June,So let us go a-roving beneath the summer moon:Oh, was it in the sunlight, or was it in the rain,We met among the blossoms within the locust lane?All that I can remember's the bird that sang aboon,And with its music in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we'll read the rune,While we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A love-kiss of the water we'll often stop to hear —The echoed words and kisses of our own love, my dear:And all our path shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon,And with their fragrance in our hearts we'll rove beneath the moon.It will not be forever, yet merry goes the tuneWhile we still go a-roving beneath the summer moon:A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelightWhen old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white:Where we can nod together above the logs and croonThe songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon.

AN OLD SONG

It's Oh, for the hills, where the wind's some oneWith a vagabond foot that follows!And a cheer-up hand that he claps uponYour arm with the hearty words, "Come on!We'll soon be out of the hollows,My heart!We'll soon be out of the hollows!"It's Oh, for the songs, where the hope's some oneWith a renegade foot that doubles!And a kindly look that he turns uponYour face with the friendly laugh, "Come on!We'll soon be out of the troubles,My heart!We'll soon be out of the troubles!"

A ROSE O' THE HILLS

The hills look down on wood and stream,On orchard-land and farm;And o'er the hills the azure-grayOf heaven bends the livelong dayWith thoughts of calm and storm.On wood and stream the hills look down,On farm and orchard-land;And o'er the hills she came to meThrough wildrose-brake and blackberry,The hill wind hand in hand.The hills look down on home and field,On wood and winding stream;And o'er the hills she came along,Upon her lips a woodland song,And in her eyes, a dream.On home and field the hills look down,On stream and vistaed wood;And breast-deep, with disordered hair,Fair in the wildrose tangle there,A sudden space she stood.O hills, that look on rock and road,On grove and harvest-field,To whom God giveth rest and peace,And slumber, that is kin to these,And visions unrevealed!O hills, that look on road and rock,On field and fruited grove,What now is mine of peace and restIn you! since entered at my breastGod's sweet unrest of love!

DIRGE

What shall her silence keepUnder the sun?Here, where the willows weepAnd waters run;Here, where she lies asleep,And all is done.Lights, when the tree-top swings;Scents that are sown;Sounds of the wood-bird's wings;And the bee's drone:These be her comfortingsUnder the stone.What shall watch o'er her hereWhen day is fled?Here, when the night is nearAnd skies are red;Here, where she lieth dearAnd young and dead.Shadows, and winds that spillDew; and the tuneOf the wild whippoorwill;And the white moon;These be the watchers stillOver her stone.

REST

Under the brindled beech,Deep in the mottled shade,Where the rocks hang in reachFlower and ferny blade,Let him be laid.Here will the brooks, that roveUnder the mossy trees,Grave with the music ofUnderworld melodies,Lap him in peace.Here will the winds, that blowOut of the haunted west,Gold with the dreams that glowThere on the heaven's breast,Lull him to rest.Here will the stars and moon,Silent and far and deep,Old with the mystic runeOf the slow years that creep,Charm him with sleep.Under the ancient beech,Deep in the mossy shade,Where the hill moods may reach,Where the hill dreams may aid,Let him be laid.

CLAIRVOYANCE

The sunlight that makes of the heavenA pathway for sylphids to throng;The wind that makes harps of the forestsFor spirits to smite into song,Are the image and voice of a visionThat comforts my heart and makes strong.I look in one's face, and the shadowsAre lifted: and, lo, I can see,Through windows of evident being,That open on eternity,The form of the essence of BeautyGod clothes with His own mystery.I lean to one's voice, and the wrangleOf living hath pause: and I hearThrough doors of invisible spirit,That open on light that is clear,The radiant raiment of MusicIn the hush of the heavens sweep near.

INDIFFERENCE

She is so dear the wildflowers nearEach path she passes by,Are over fain to kiss againHer feet and then to die.She is so fair the wild birds thereThat sing upon the bough,Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,And sing no other now.Alas! that she should never see,Should never care to know,The wildflower's love, the bird's above,And his, who loves her so!

PICTURED

This is the face of herI've dreamed of long;Here in my heart's despair,This is the face of herPictured in song.Look on the lily lids,The eyes of dawn,Deep as a Nereid's,Swimming with dewy lidsIn waters wan.Look on the brows of snow,The locks brown-bright;Only young sleep can showSuch brows of placid snow,Such locks of night.The cheeks, like rosy moons,The lips of fire;Love thinks no sweeter tunesUnder enchanted moonsThan their desire.Loved lips and eyes and hair,Lo, this is she!She, who sits smiling thereOver my heart's despair,Never for me!

SERENADE

The pink rose drops its petals onThe moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn;The moon, like some wide rose of white,Drops down the summer night.No rose there isAs sweet as this —Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss.The lattice of thy casement twinesWith jasmine vines, with jasmine vines;The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lieAbout the glimmering sky.No jasmine tressCan so caressAs thy white arms' soft loveliness.About thy door magnolia bloomsMake sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms;A moon-magnolia is the duskClosed in a dewy husk.However much,No bloom gives suchSoft fragrance as thy bosom's touch.The flowers, blooming now, shall pass,And strew the grass, and strew the grass;The night, like some frail flower, dawnShall soon make gray and wan.Still, still above,The flower ofTrue love shall live forever, love.

KINSHIP

IThere is no flower of wood or lea,No April flower, as fair as she:O white anemone, who hastThe wind's wild grace,Know her a cousin of thy race,Into whose faceA presence like the wind's hath passed.IIThere is no flower of wood or lea,No Maytime flower, as fair as she:O bluebell, tender with the blueOf limpid skies,Thy lineage hath kindred tiesIn her, whose eyesThe heav'n's own qualities imbue.IIIThere is no flower of wood or lea,No Juneday flower, as fair as she:Rose, – odorous with beauty ofLife's first and best, —Behold thy sister here confessed!Whose maiden breastIs fragrant with the dreams of love.

SHE IS SO MUCH

She is so much to me, to me,And, oh! I love her so,I look into my soul and seeHow comfort keeps me companyIn hopes she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So dear she is to me, so dear,And, oh! I love her so,I listen in my heart and hearThe voice of gladness singing nearIn thoughts she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.So much she is to me, so much,And, oh! I love her so,In heart and soul I feel the touchOf angel callers, that are suchDreams as she, too, may know.I love her, I love her, I love her,This I know.

HER EYES

In her dark eyes dreams poetize;The soul sits lost in love:There is no thing in all the skies,To gladden all the world I prize,Like the deep love in her dark eyes,Or one sweet dream thereof.In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise,Her soul's soft moods I see:Of hope and faith, that make life wise;And charity, whose food is sighs —Not truer than her own true eyesIs truth's divinity.In her dark eyes the knowledge liesOf an immortal sod,Her soul once trod in angel-guise,Nor can forget its heavenly ties,Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyesOnce gazed the eyes of God.

MESSENGERS

The wind, that gives the rose a kissWith murmured music of the south,Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this, —The wind, that gives the rose a kiss —The perfume of her mouth.The brook, that mirrors skies and trees,And echoes in a grottoed place,Hath held a fairer thing than these, —The brook, that mirrors skies and trees, —The image of her face.O happy wind! O happy brook!So dear before, so free of cares!How dearer since her kiss and look, —O happy wind! O happy brook! —Have blessed you unawares!

AT TWENTY-ONE

The rosy hills of her high breasts,Whereon, like misty morning, restsThe breathing lace; her auburn hair,Wherein, a star point sparkling there,One jewel burns; her eyes, that keepRecorded dreams of song and sleep;Her mouth, with whose comparisonThe richest rose were poor and wan;Her throat, her form – what masterpieceOf man can picture half of these!She comes! a classic from the handOf God! wherethrough I understandWhat Nature means and Art and Love,And all the lovely Myths thereof.

BABY MARY

TO LITTLE M. E. C. GDeep in baby Mary's eyes,Baby Mary's sweet blue eyes,Dwell the golden memoriesOf the music once her earsHeard in far-off Paradise;So she has no time for tears, —Baby Mary, —Listening to the songs she hears.Soft in baby Mary's face,Baby Mary's lovely face,If you watch, you, too, may traceDreams her spirit-self hath seenIn some far-off Eden-place,Whence her soul she can not wean, —Baby Mary, —Dreaming in a world between.

A MOTIVE IN GOLD AND GRAY

ITo-night he sees their star burn, dewy-bright,Deep in the pansy, eve hath made for it,Low in the west; a placid purple litAt its far edge with warm auroral light:Love's planet hangs above a cedared height;And there in shadow, like gold music writOf dusk's dark fingers, scale-like fire-flies flitNow up, now down the balmy bars of night.How different from that eve a year ago!Which was a stormy flower in the hairOf dolorous day, whose sombre eyes looked, blurred,Into night's sibyl face, and saw the woeOf parting near, and imaged a despair,As now a hope caught from a homing word.IIShe came unto him – as the springtime doesUnto the land where all lies dead and cold,Until her rosary of days is toldAnd beauty, prayer-like, blossoms where death was. —Nature divined her coming – yea, the duskSeemed thinking of that happiness: behold,No cloud it had to blot its marigoldMoon, great and golden, o'er the slopes of musk;Whereon earth's voice made music; leaf and streamLilting the same low lullaby again,To coax the wind, who romped among the hillsAll day, a tired child, to sleep and dream:When through the moonlight of the locust-laneShe came, as spring comes through her daffodils.IIIWhite as a lily molded of Earth's milkThat eve the moon swam in a hyacinth sky;Soft in the gleaming glens the wind went by,Faint as a phantom clothed in unseen silk:Bright as a naiad's leap, from shine to shade,The runnel twinkled through the shaken brier;Above the hills one long cloud, pulsed with fire,Flashed like a great, enchantment-welded blade.And when the western sky seemed some weird land,And night a witching spell at whose commandOne sloping star fell green from heav'n; and deepThe warm rose opened for the moth to sleep;Then she, consenting, laid her hands in his,And lifted up her lips for their first kiss.IVThere where they part, the porch's step is strewnWith wind-tossed petals of the purple vine;Athwart the porch the shadow of a pineCleaves the white moonlight; and, like some calm runeHeaven says to Earth, shines the majestic moon;And now a meteor draws a lilac lineAcross the welkin, as if God would signThe perfect poem of this night of June.The wood-wind stirs the flowering chestnut-tree,Whose curving blossoms strew the glimmering grassLike crescents that wind-wrinkled waters glass;And, like a moonstone in a frill of flame,The dew-drop trembles on the peony,As in a lover's heart his sweetheart's name.VIn after years shall she stand here again,In heart regretful? and with lonely sighsThink on that night of love, and realizeWhose was the fault whence grew the parting pain?And, in her soul, persuading still in vain,Shall doubt take shape, and all its old surmiseBid darker phantoms of remorse ariseTrailing the raiment of a dead disdain?Masks, unto whom shall her avowal yearn,With looks clairvoyant seeing how each isA different form, with eyes and lips that burnInto her heart with love's last look and kiss? —And, ere they pass, shall she behold them turnTo her a face which evermore is his?VIIn after years shall he remember howDawn had no breeze soft as her murmured name?And day no sunlight that availed the sameAs her bright smile to cheer the world below?Nor had the conscious twilight's golds and graysHer soul's allurement, that was free of blame, —Nor dusk's gold canvas, where one star's white flameShone, more bewitchment than her own sweet ways. —Then as the night with moonlight and perfume,And dew and darkness, qualifies the wholeDim world with glamour, shall the past with dreams —That were the love-theme of their lives – illumeThe present with remembered hours, whose gleams,Unknown to him, shall face them soul to soul?VIINo! not for her and him that part; – the Might-Have-Been's sad consolation; – where had bent,Haply, in prayer and patience penitent,Both, though apart, before no blown-out light.The otherwise of fate for them, when whiteThe lilacs bloom again, and, innocent,Spring comes with beauty for her testament,Singing the praises of the day and night.When orchards blossom and the distant hillIs vague with haw-trees as a ridge with mist,The moon shall see him where a watch he keepsBy her young form that lieth white and still,With lidded eyes and passive wrist on wrist,While by her side he bows himself and weeps.VIIIAnd, oh, what pain to see the blooms appearOf haw and dogwood in the spring again;The primrose leaning with the dragging rain,And hill-locked orchards swarming far and near.To see the old fields, that her steps made dear,Grow green with deepening plenty of the grain,Yet feel how this excess of life is vain, —How vain to him! – since she no more is here.What though the woodland burgeon, water flow,Like a rejoicing harp, beneath the boughs!The cat-bird and the hermit-thrush arouseDay with the impulsive music of their love!Beneath the graveyard sod she will not know,Nor what his heart is all too conscious of!IXHow blessed is he who, gazing in the tomb,Can yet behold, beneath th' investing maskOf mockery, – whose horror seems to askSphinx-riddles of the soul within the gloom, —Upon dead lips no dust of Love's dead bloom;And in dead hands no shards of Faith's rent flask;But Hope, who still stands at her starry task,Weaving the web of comfort on her loom!Thrice blessed! who, 'though he hear the tomb proclaim,How all is Death's and Life Death's other name;Can yet reply: "O Grave, these things are yours!But that is left which life indeed assures —Love, through whose touch I shall arise the same!Love, of whose self was wrought the universe!"

A REED SHAKEN WITH THE WIND

INot for you and me the pathWinding through the shadowlessFields of morning's dewiness!Where the brook, that hurries, hathLaughter lighter than a boy's;Where recurrent odors poise,Romp-like, with irreverent tresses,In the sun; and birds and boughsBuild a music-haunted houseFor the winds to hang their dresses,Whisper-silken, rustling in.Ours a path that led untoTwilight regions gray with dew;Where moon-vapors gathered thinOver acres sisterlessOf all healthy beauty; whereFungus growths made sad the airWith a phantom-like caress:Under darkness and strange stars,To the sorrow-silenced barsOf a dubious forestland,Where the wood-scents seemed to stand,And the sounds, on either hand,Clad like sleep's own servitorsIn the shadowy liveryOf the ancient house of dreams;That before us, – fitfully,With white intermittent gleamsOf its pale-lamped windows, – shone;Echoing with the dim unknown.IITo say to hope, – Take all from me,And grant me naught:The rose, the song, the melody,The word, the thought:Then all my life bid me be slave, —Is all I crave.To say to time, – Be true to me,Nor grant me lessThe dream, the sigh, the memory,The heart's distress;Then unto death set me a task,Is all I ask.IIII came to you when eve was young.And, where the park went downward toThe river, and, among the dew,One vesper moment lit and sungA bird, your eyes said something dear.How sweet it was to walk with you!How, with our souls, we seemed to hearThe darkness coming with its stars!How calm the moon sloped up her sphereOf fire-filled pearl through passive barsOf clouds that berged the tender east!While all the dark inanimateOf nature woke; initiateWith th' moon's arrival, something ceasedIn nature's soul; she stood againAnother self, that seemed t' have beenDormant, suppressed and so unseenAll day; a life, unknown and strangeAnd dream-suggestive, that had lain, —Masked on with light, – within the rangeOf thought, but unrevealed till now.It was the hour of love. And you,With downward eyes and pensive brow,Among the moonlight and the dew, —Although no word of love was spoken, —Heard the sweet night's confession brokenOf something here that spoke in me;A love, depth made inaudible,Save to your soul, that answered well,With eyes replying silently.IVFair you are as a rose is fair,There where the shadows dew it;And the deeps of your brown, brown hair,Sweet as the cloud that lingers thereWith the sunset's auburn through it.Eyes of azure and throat of snow,Tell me what my heart would know!Every dream I dream of youHas a love-thought in it,And a hope, a kiss or two,Something dear and something true,Telling me each minute,With three words it whispers clear,What my heart from you would hear.VSummer came; the days grew kindWith increasing favors; deepWere the nights with rest and sleep:Fair, with poppies intertwinedOn their blonde locks, dreamy hours,Sunny-hearted as the rose,Went among the banded flowers,Teaching them, how no one knows,Fresher color and perfume. —In the window of your roomBloomed a rich azalea. Pink,As an egret's rosy plumes,Shone its tender-tufted blooms.From your care and love, I think,Love's rose-color it did drink,Growing rosier day by dayOf your 'tending hand's caress;And your own dear naturalnessHad imbued it in some way.Once you gave a blossom of it,Smiling, to me when I left:Need I tell you how I love itFaded though it is now! – ReftOf its fragrance and its color,Yet 'tis dearer now than then,As past happiness is whenWe regret. And dimmer, dullerThough its beauty be, when ILook upon it, I recallEvery part of that old wall;And the dingy window high,Where you sat and read; and allThe fond love that made your faceA soft sunbeam in that place:And the plant, that grew this bloomWithered here, itself long dead,Makes a halo overheadThere again – and through my room,Like faint whispers of perfume,Steal the words of love then said.VIAll of my love I send to you,I send to you,On thoughts, like paths, that wend to you,Here in my heart's glad garden,Wherein, its lovely warden,Your face, a lily seeming,Is dreaming.All of my life I bring to you,I bring to you,In deeds, like birds, that sing to you,Here, in my soul's sweet valley,Wherethrough, most musically,Your love, a fountain, glistens,And listens.My love, my life, how blessed in you!How blessed in you!Whose thoughts, whose deeds find rest in you,Here, on my self's dark ocean,Whereo'er, in heavenly motion,Your soul, a star, abideth,And guideth.VIIWhere the old Kentucky woundThrough the land, – its stream betweenHills of primitive forest green, —Like a goodly belt aroundGiant breasts of grandeur; withMany an unknown Indian myth,On the boat we steamed. The landLike an hospitable handWelcomed us. Alone we satOn the under-deck, and sawFarm-house and plantation drawNear and vanish. 'Neath your hat,Your young eyes laughed; and your hair,Blown about them by the airOf our passage, clung and curled.Music, and the summer moon;And the hills' great shadows hewnOut of silence; and the tuneOf the whistle, when we whirledRound a moonlit bend in sight ofSome lone landing heaped with hayOr tobacco; where the light ofOne dim solitary lampSignaled through the evening's damp:Then a bell; and, dusky gray,Shuffling figures on the shoreWith the cable; rugged formsOn the gang-plank; backs and armsWith their cargo bending o'er;And the burly mate before.Then an iron bell, and puffOf escaping steam; and outWhere the stream is wheel-whipped rough;Music, and a parting shoutFrom the shore; the pilot's bellBeating on the deck below;Then the steady, quivering, slowSmooth advance again. UntilTwinkling lights beyond us tellThere's a lock or little town,Clasped between a hill and hill,Where the blue-grass fields slope down. —So we went. That summer-timeLingers with me like a rhymeLearned for dreamy beauty ofIts old-fashioned faith and love,In some musing moment; sithHeart-associated withJoy that moment's quiet bore,Thought repeated evermore.VIIIThree sweet things love lives upon:Music, at whose fountain's brinkStill he stoops his face to drink;Seeing, as the wave is drawn,His own image rise and sink.Three sweet things love lives upon.Three sweet things love lives upon:Odor, whose red roses wreatheHis bright brow that shines beneath;Hearing, as each bud is blown,His own spirit breathe and breathe.Three sweet things love lives upon.Three sweet things love lives upon:Color, to whose rainbow heLifts his dark eyes burningly;Feeling, as the wild hues dawn,His own immortality.Three sweet things love lives upon.IXMemories of other days,With the whilom happiness,Rise before my musing gazeIn the twilight … And your dressSeems beside me, like a hazeShimmering white; as when we went'Neath the star-strewn firmament,Love-led, with impatient feetDown the night that, summer-sweet,Sparkled o'er the lamp-lit street.Every look love gave us thenComes before my eyes again,Making music for my heartOn that path, that grew for usRoses, red and amorous,On that path, from which oft start,Out of recollected places,With remembered forms and faces,Dreams, love's ardent hands have wovenIn my life's dark tapestry,Beckoning, soft and shadowy,To the soul. And o'er the clovenGulf of time, I seem to hearWords, once whispered in the ear,Calling – as might friends long dead,With familiar voices, deep,Speak to those who lie asleep,Comforting – So I was ledBackward to forgotten things,Contiguities that spreadSudden unremembered wings;And across my mind's still blueFrom the nest they fledged in, flewDazzling shapes affection knew.XAh! over full my heart isOf sadness and of pain;As a rose-flower in the gardenThe dull dusk fills with rain;As a blown red rose that shiversAnd bends to the wind and rain.So give me thy hands and speak meAs once in the days of yore,When love spoke sweetly to us,The love that speaks no more;The sound of thy voice may help himTo speak in our hearts once more.Ah! over grieved my soul is,And tired and sick for sleep,As a poppy-bloom that withers,Forgotten, where reapers reap;As a harvested poppy-flowerThat dies where reapers reap.So bend to my face and kiss meAs once in the days of yore,When the touch of thy lips was magicThat restored to life once more;The thought of thy kiss, which awakensTo life that love once more.XISitting often I have, oh!Often have desired you so —Yearned to kiss you as I didWhen your love to me you gave,In the moonlight, by the wave,And a long impetuous kissPressed upon your mouth that chid,And upon each dewy lid —That, all passion-shaken, IWith love language will addressEach dear thing I know you by,Picture, needle-work or frame:Each suggestive in the samePerfume of past happiness:Till, meseems, the ways we knewNow again I tread with youFrom the oldtime tryst: and thereFeel the pressure of your hairCool and easy on my cheek,And your breath's aroma: bareHand upon my arm, as weakAs a lily on a stream:And your eyes, that gaze at meWith the sometime witchery,To my inmost spirit speak.And remembered ecstacySweeps my soul again … I seemDreaming, yet I do not dream.XIIWhen day dies, lone, forsaken,And joy is kissed asleep;When doubt's gray eyes awaken,And love, with music takenFrom hearts with sighings shaken,Sits in the dusk to weep:With ghostly lifted fingerWhat memory then shall rise? —Of dark regret the bringer —To tell the sorrowing singerOf days whose echoes linger,Till dawn unstars the skies.When night is gone and, beaming,Faith journeys forth to toil;When hope's blue eyes wake gleaming,And life is done with dreamingThe dreams that seem but seeming,Within the world's turmoil:Can we forget the presenceOf death who walks unseen?Whose scythe casts shadowy crescentsAround life's glittering essence,As lessens, slowly lessens,The space that lies between.XIIIBland was that October day,Calm and balmy as the spring,When we went a forest-way,'Neath paternal beeches gray,To a valleyed opening:Where the purple aster flowered,And, like torches shadow-held,Red the fiery sumach towered;And, where gum-trees sentineledVistas, robed in gold and garnet,Ripe the thorny chestnut shelledIts brown plumpness. Bee and hornetDroned around us; quick the cricket,Tireless in the wood-rose thicket,Tremoloed; and, to the windAll its moon-spun silver casting,Swung the milk-weed pod unthinned;And, its clean flame on the sodBy the fading golden-rod,Burned the white life-everlasting.It was not so much the time,Nor the place, nor way we went,That made all our moods to rhyme,Nor the season's sentiment,As it was the innocentCarefree childhood of our hearts,Reading each expression ofDeath and care as life and love:That impression joy impartsUnto others and retortsOn itself, which then made gladAll the sorrow of decay,As the memory of that dayMakes this day of spring, now, sad.XIVThe balsam-breathed petuniasHang riven of the rain;And where the tiger-lily wasNow droops a tawny stain;While in the twilight's purple pauseEarth dreams of Heaven again.When one shall sit and sigh,And one lie all aloneBeneath the unseen sky —Whose love shall then deny?Whose love atone?With ragged petals round its podThe rain-wrecked poppy dies;And where the hectic rose did nodA crumbled crimson lies;While distant as the dreams of GodThe stars slip in the skies.When one shall lie asleep,And one be dead and gone —Within the unknown deep,Shall we the trysts then keepThat now are done?XVHolding both your hands in mine,Often have we sat together,While, outside, the boisterous weatherHung the wild wind on the pineLike a black marauder, andWith a sudden warning handAt the casement rapped. The nightRead no sentiment of light,Starbeam-syllabled, withinHer romance of death and sin,Shadow-chaptered tragicly. —Looking in your eyes, ah me!Though I heard, I did not heedWhat the night read unto us,Threatening and ominous:For love helped my heart to readForward through unopened pagesTo a coming day, that heldMore for us than all the agesPast, that it epitomizedIn its sentence; where we spelledWhat our present realizedOnly – all the love that wasPast and yet to be for us.XVI'Though in the garden, gray with dew,All life lies withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knew,When buds were opening.Perhaps we shall not search in vainWithin its wreck and gloom;'Mid roses ruined of the rainThere still may live one bloom;One flower, whose heart may still retainThe long-lost soul-perfume.And then, perhaps, will come to usThe dreams we dreamed before;And song, who spoke so beauteous,Will speak to us once more;And love, with eyes all amorous,Will ope again his door.So 'though the garden's gray with dew,And flowers are withering,And there's no more to say or do,No more to sigh or sing,Yet go we back the ways we knewWhen buds were opening.XVIILooking on the desolate street,Where the March snow drifts and drives,Trodden black of hurrying feet,Where the athlete storm-wind strivesWith each tree and dangling light, —Centers, sphered with glittering white, —Hissing in the dancing snow …Backward in my soul I goTo that tempest-haunted nightOf two autumns past, when we,Hastening homeward, were o'ertakenOf the storm; and 'neath a tree,With its wild leaves whisper-shaken,Sheltered us in that forsaken,Sad and ancient cemetery, —Where folk came no more to bury. —Haggard grave-stones, mossed and crumbled,Tottered 'round us, or o'ertumbledIn their sunken graves; and some,Urned and obelisked aboveIron-fenced in tombs, stood dumbRecords of forgotten love.And again I see the westYawning inward to its coreOf electric-spasmed ore,Swiftly, without pause or rest.And a great wind sweeps the dustUp abandoned sidewalks; and,In the rotting trees, the gustShouts again – a voice that wouldMake its gaunt self understoodMoaning over death's lean land.And we sat there, hand in hand;On the granite; where we read,By the leaping skies o'erhead,Something of one young and dead.Yet the words begot no fearIn our souls: you leaned your cheekSmiling on mine: very nearWere our lips: we did not speak.XVIIIAnd suddenly alone I stoodWith scared eyes gazing through the wood.For some still sign of ill or good,To lead me from the solitude.The day was at its twilighting;One cloud o'erhead spread a vast wingOf rosy thunder; vanishingAbove the far hills' mystic ring.Some stars shone timidly o'erhead;And toward the west's cadaverous red —Like some wild dream that haunts the deadIn limbo – the lean moon was led.Upon the sad, debatableVague lands of twilight slowly fellA silence that I knew too well,A sorrow that I can not tell.What way to take, what path to go,Whether into the east's gray glow,Or where the west burnt red and low —What road to choose, I did not know.So, hesitating, there I stoodLost in my soul's uncertain wood:One sign I craved of ill or good,To lead me from its solitude.XIXIt was autumn: and a night,Full of whispers and of mist,With a gray moon, wanly whist,Hanging like a phantom lightO'er the hills. We stood amongWindy fields of weed and flower,Where the withered seed pod hung,And the chill leaf-crickets sung.Melancholy was the hourWith the mystery and lonenessOf the year, that seemed to lookOn its own departed face;As our love then, in its oneness,All its dead past did retrace,And from that sad moment tookPresage of approaching parting. —Sorrowful the hour and dark:Low among the trees, now starting,Now concealed, a star's pale spark —Like a fen-fire – winked and luredOn to shuddering shadows; whereAll was doubtful, unassured,Immaterial; and the bareFacts of unideal dayChanged to substance such as dreams.And meseemed then, far away —Farther than remotest gleamsOf the stars – lost, separated,And estranged, and out of reach,Grew our lives away from each,Loving lives, that long had waited.XXThere is no gladness in the dayNow you're away;Dull is the morn, the noon is dull,Once beautiful;And when the evening fills the skiesWith dusky dyes,With tired eyes and tired heartI sit alone, I sigh apart,And wish for you.Ah! darker now the night comes onSince you are gone;Sad are the stars, the moon is sad,Once wholly glad;And when the stars and moon are set,And earth lies wet,With heart's regret and soul's hard ache,I dream alone, I lie awake,And wish for you.These who once spake me, speak no more,Now all is o'er;Day hath forgot the language ofIts hopes of love;Night, whose sweet lips were burdensomeWith dreams, is dumb;Far different from what used to be,With silence and despondencyThey speak to me.XXISo it ends – the path that creptThrough a land all slumber-kissed;Where the sickly moonlight sleptLike a pale antagonist.Now the star, that led us onward, —Reassuring with its light, —Fails and falters; dipping downwardLeaves us wandering in night,With old doubts we once disdained …So it ends. The woods attained —Where our heart's desire buildedA fair temple, fire-gilded,With hope's marble shrine within,Where the lineaments of our loveShone, with lilies clad and crowned,'Neath white columns reared aboveSorrow and her sister sin,Columns, rose and ribbon-wound, —In the forest we have foundBut a ruin! All aroundLie the shattered capitals,And vast fragments of the walls …Like a climbing cloud, – that plies,Wind-wrecked, o'er the moon that lies'Neath its blackness, – taking onGradual certainties of wan,Soft assaults of easy white,Pale-approaching; till the skies'Emptiness and hungry nightClaim its bulk again, while sheRides in lonely purity:So we found our temple, broken,And a musing moment's spaceLove, whose latest word was spoken,Seemed to meet us face to face,Making bright that ruined placeWith a strange effulgence; thenPassed, and left all black again.