Myth and Romance: Being a Book of Verses

Spirit of Dreams

IWhere hast thou folded thy pinions,Spirit of Dreams?Hidden elusive garmentsWoven of gleams?In what divine dominions,Brighter than day,Far from the world's dark torments,Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?—When shall my yearnings reach theeAgain?Not in vain let my soul beseech thee!Not in vain! not in vain!III have longed for thee as a loverFor her, the one;As a brother for a sisterLong dead and gone.I have called thee over and overNames sweet to hear;With words than music trister,And thrice as dear.How long must my sad heart woo thee,Yet fail?How long must my soul pursue thee,Nor avail, nor avail?IIIAll night hath thy loving mother,Beautiful Sleep,Lying beside me, listenedAnd heard me weep.But ever thou soughtest anotherWho sought thee not;For him thy soft smile glistened—I was forgot.When shall my soul behold theeAs before?When shall my heart infold thee?—Nevermore? nevermore?

LINES AND LYRICS

To a Wind-Flower

ITeach me the secret of thy loveliness,That, being made wise, I may aspire to beAs beautiful in thought, and so expressImmortal truths to earth's mortality;Though to my soul ability be lessThan 't is to thee, O sweet anemone.IITeach me the secret of thy innocence,That in simplicity I may grow wise;Asking from Art no other recompenseThan the approval of her own just eyes;So may I rise to some fair eminence,Though less than thine, O cousin of the skies.IIITeach me these things; through whose high knowledge, I,—When Death hath poured oblivion through my veins,And brought me home, as all are brought, to lieIn that vast house, common to serfs and Thanes,—I shall not die, I shall not utterly die,For beauty born of beauty—that remains.

Microcosm

The memory of what we've lostIs with us more than what we've won;Perhaps because we count the costBy what we could, yet have not done.'Twixt act and purpose fate hath drawnInvisible threads we can not break,And puppet-like these move us onThe stage of life, and break or make.Less than the dust from which we're wrought,We come and go, and still are hurledFrom change to change, from naught to naught,Heirs of oblivion and the world.

Fortune

Within the hollowed hand of God,Blood-red they lie, the dice of fate,That have no time nor period,And know no early and no late.Postpone you can not, nor advanceSuccess or failure that's to be;All fortune, being born of chance,Is bastard-child to destiny.Bow down your head, or hold it high,Consent, defy—no smallest partOf this you change, although the dieWas fashioned from your living heart.

Death

Through some strange sense of sight or touchI find what all have found before,The presence I have feared so much,The unknown's immaterial door.I seek not and it comes to me:I do not know the thing I find:The fillet of fatalityDrops from my brows that made me blind.Point forward now or backward, light!The way I take I may not choose:Out of the night into the night,And in the night no certain clews.But on the future, dim and vast,And dark with dust and sacrifice,Death's towering ruin from the pastMakes black the land that round me lies.

The Soul

An heritage of hopes and fearsAnd dreams and memory,And vices of ten thousand yearsGod gives to thee.A house of clay, the home of Fate,Haunted of Love and Sin,Where Death stands knocking at the gateTo let him in.

Conscience

Within the soul are throned two powers,One, Love; one, Hate. Begot of these,And veiled between, a presence towers,The shadowy keeper of the keys.With wild command or calm persuasionThis one may argue, that compel;Vain are concealment and evasion—For each he opens heaven and hell.

Youth

IMorn's mystic rose is reddening on the hills,Dawn's irised nautilus makes glad the sea;There is a lyre of flame that throbs and fillsFar heaven and earth with hope's wild ecstasy.—With lilied field and grove,Haunts of the turtle-dove,Here is the land of Love.IIThe chariot of the noon makes blind the blueAs towards the goal his burning axle glares;There is a fiery trumpet thrilling throughWide heaven and earth with deeds of one who dares.—With peaks of splendid name,Wrapped round with astral flame,Here is the land of Fame.IIIThe purple priesthood of the evening waitsWith golden pomp within the templed skies;There is a harp of worship at the gatesOf heaven and earth that bids the soul arise.—With columned cliffs and longVales, music breathes among,Here is the land of Song.IVMoon-crowned, the epic of the night unrollsIts starry utterance o'er height and deep;There is a voice of beauty at the soulsOf heaven and earth that lulls the heart asleep.—With storied woods and streams,Where marble glows and gleams,Here is the land of Dreams.

Life's Seasons

IWhen all the world was Mayday,And all the skies were blue,Young innocence made playdayAmong the flowers and dew;Then all of life was Mayday,And clouds were none or few.IIWhen all the world was Summer,And morn shone overhead,Love was the sweet newcomerWho led youth forth to wed;Then all of life was Summer,And clouds were golden red.IIIWhen earth was all October,And days were gray with mist,On woodways, sad and sober,Grave memory kept her tryst;Then life was all October,And clouds were twilight-kissed.IVNow all the world's December,And night is all alarm,Above the last dim emberGrief bends to keep him warm;Now all of life's December,And clouds are driven storm.

Old Homes

Old homes among the hills! I love their gardens,Their old rock-fences, that our day inherits;Their doors, 'round which the great trees stand like wardens;Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits;Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens.I see them gray among their ancient acres,Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled,—Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers,Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled,—Serene among their memory-hallowed acres.Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies—Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers—Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies,And Autumn coins her marigolds in showers,And all the hours are toilless as the lilies.I love their orchards where the gay woodpeckerFlits, flashing o'er you, like a wingéd jewel;Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checkerWith half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal,The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker.Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul foreverTheir peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter;Like love they touch me, through the years that sever,With simple faith; like friendship, draw me afterThe dreamy patience that is theirs forever.

Field and Forest Call

There is a field, that leans upon two hills,Foamed o'er with flowers and twinkling with clear rills;That in its girdle of wild acres bearsThe anodyne of rest that cures all cares;Wherein soft wind and sun and sound are blentAnd fragrance—as in some old instrumentSweet chords—calm things, that nature's magic spellDistils from heaven's azure crucible,And pours on Earth to make the sick mind well.There lies the path, they say—Come, away! come, away!There is a forest, lying 'twixt two streams,Sung through of birds and haunted of dim dreams;That in its league-long hand of trunk and leafLifts a green wand that charms away all grief;Wrought of quaint silence and the stealth of things,Vague, whispering touches, gleams and twitterings,Dews and cool shadows—that the mystic soulOf nature permeates with suave control,And waves o'er earth to make the sad heart whole.There lies the road, they say—Come, away! come, away!

Meeting in Summer

A tranquil barOf rosy twilight under dusk's first star.A glimmering soundOf whispering waters over grassy ground.A sun-sweet smellOf fresh-reaped hay from dewy field and dell.A lazy breezeJostling the ripeness from the apple-trees.A vibrant cry,Passing, then gone, of bullbats in the sky.And faintly nowThe katydid upon the shadowy bough.And far-off thenThe little owl within the lonely glen.And soon, full soon,The silvery arrival of the moon.And, to your door,The path of roses I have trod before.And, sweetheart, you!Among the roses and the moonlit dew.

Swinging

Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.Her cheeks, with their happy blood,Were pink as the apple-bud.Her eyes, with their deep delight,Were glad as the stars of night.Her curls, with their romp and fun,Were hoiden as wind and sun.Her lips, with their laughter shrill,Were wild as a woodland rill.Under the boughs of springShe swung in the old rope-swing.And I,—who leaned on the fence,Watching her innocence,As, under the boughs that bent,Now high, now low, she went,In her soul the ecstasiesOf the stars, the brooks, the breeze,—Had given the rest of my years,With their blessings, and hopes, and fears,To have been as she was then;And, just for a moment, again,A boy in the old rope-swingUnder the boughs of spring.

Rosemary

Above her, pearl and rose the heavens lay;Around her, flowers scattered earth with gold,Or down the path in insolence held sway—Like cavaliers who ride the elves' highway—Scarlet and blue, within a garden old.Beyond the hills, faint-heard through belts of wood,Bells, Sabbath-sweet, swooned from some far-off town;Gamboge and gold, broad sunset colors strewedThe purple west as if, with God imbued,Her mighty pallet Nature there laid down.Amid such flowers, underneath such skies,Embodying all life knows of sweet and fair,She stood; love's dreams in girlhood's face and eyes,White as a star that comes to emphasizeThe mingled beauty of the earth and air.Behind her, seen through vines and orchard trees,Gray with its twinkling windows—like the faceOf calm old-age that sits and smiles at ease—Porched with old roses, haunts of honey-bees,The homestead loomed dim in a glimmering space.Ah! whom she waited in the afterglow,Soft-eyed and dreamy 'mid the lily and rose,I do not know, I do not wish to know;—It is enough I keep her picture so,Hung up, like poetry, o'er my life's dull prose.A fragrant picture, where I still may findHer face untouched of sorrow or regret,Unspoiled of contact, ever young and kind,Glad spiritual sweetheart of my soul and mind,She had not been, perhaps, if we had met.

Ghost Stories

When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is still,And pale on the pools, where the creek-frogs croon,Glimmering gray is the light o' the moon;And under the willows, where waters lie,The torch of the firefly wanders by;They say that the miller walks here, walks here,All covered with chaff, with his crooked staff,And his horrible hobble and hideous laugh;The old lame miller hung many a year:When the hoot of the owl comes over the hill,He walks alone by the rotting mill.When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is shrill,And faint, on the ways where the crickets creep,The starlight fails and the shadows sleep;And under the willows, that toss and moan,The glow-worm kindles its lanthorn lone;They say that a woman floats dead, floats dead,In a weedy space that the lilies lace,A curse in her eyes and a smile on her face,The miller's young wife with a gash in her head:When the bark of the fox comes over the hill,She floats alone by the rotting mill.When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,At twelve o'clock when the night is ill,And the thunder mutters and forests sob,And the fox-fire glows like the lamp of a Lob;And under the willows, that gloom and glance,The will-o'-the-wisps hold a devils' dance;They say that that crime is re-acted again,And each cranny and chink of the mill doth winkWith the light o' hell or the lightning's blink,And a woman's shrieks come wild through the rain:When the howl of the hound comes over the hill,That murder returns to the rotting mill.

Dolce far Niente

IOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Far to the East lay the ocean palingUnder the skies of Augustine.—There, in the boat as we sat together,Soft in the glow of the turquoise weather,Light as the foam or a seagull's feather,Fair of form and of face serene,Sweet at my side I felt you lean,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Pine and palm, to the West, hung, trailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the wind that sighed above you?Was it the wave that whispered of you?Was it my soul that said "I love you"?Was it your heart that murmured between,Answering, shy as a bird unseen?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IIIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Gray and low flew the heron wailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Naught was spoken. We watched the simpleGulls wing past. Your hat's white wimpleShadowed your eyes. And your lips, a-dimple,Smiled and seemed from your soul to weanAn inner beauty, an added sheen,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.IVOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Red on the marshes the day flared, failingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it your thought, or the transitoryGold of the West, like a dreamy story,Bright on your brow, that I read? the gloryAnd grace of love, like a rose-crowned queenPictured pensive in mind and mien?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.VOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,Wan on the waters the mist lay veilingUnder the skies of Augustine.—Was it the joy that begot the sorrow?—Joy that was filled with the dreams that borrowPrescience sad of a far To-morrow,—There in the Now that was all too keen,That shadowed the fate that might intervene?As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.VIOver the bay as our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine,The marsh-hen cried and the tide was ailingUnder the skies of Augustine.—And so we parted. No vows were spoken.No faith was plighted that might be broken.But deep in our hearts each bore a tokenOf life and of love and of all they mean,Beautiful, thornless and ever green,As over the bay our boat went sailingUnder the skies of Augustine.

St. Augustine, Fla.

Words

I cannot tell what I would tell thee,What I would say, what thou shouldst hear:Words of the soul that should compell thee,Words of the heart to draw thee near.For when thou smilest, thou, who fillestMy life with joy, and I would speak,'T is then my lips and tongue are stillest,Knowing all language is too weak.Look in my eyes: read there confession:The truest love has least of art:Nor needs it words for its expressionWhen soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

Reasons

IYea, why I love thee let my heart repeat:I look upon thy face and then divineHow men could die for beauty, such as thine,—Deeming it sweetTo lay my life and manhood at thy feet,And for a word, a glance,Do deeds of old romance.IIYea, why I love thee let my heart unfold:I look into thy heart and then I knowThe wondrous poetry of the long-ago,The Age of Gold,That speaks strange music, that is old, so old,Yet young, as when 't was born,With all the youth of morn.IIIYea, why I love thee let my heart conclude:I look into thy soul and realizeThe undiscovered meaning of the skies,—That long have wooedThe world with far ideals that elude,—Out of whose dreams, maybe,God shapes reality.

Evasion

Why do I love you, who have never givenMy heart encouragement or any cause?Is it because, as earth is held of heaven,Your soul holds mine by some mysterious laws?Perhaps, unseen of me, within your eyesThe answer lies, the answer lies.IIFrom your sweet lips no word hath ever fallenTo tell my heart its love is not in vain—The bee that wooes the flow'r hath honey and pollenTo cheer him on and bring him back again:But what have I, your other friends above,To feed my love, to feed my love?IIIStill, still you are my dream and my desire;Your love is an allurement and a dareSet for attainment, like a shining spire,Far, far above me in the starry air:And gazing upward, 'gainst the hope of hope,I breast the slope, I breast the slope.

In May

IWhen you and I in the hills went Maying,You and I in the sweet May weather,The birds, that sang on the boughs together,There in the green of the woods, kept sayingAll that my heart was saying low,Love, as glad as the May's glad glow,—And did you know?When you and I in the hills went Maying.IIThere where the brook on its rocks went winking,There by its banks where the May had led us,Flowers, that bloomed in the woods and meadows,Azure and gold at our feet, kept thinkingAll that my soul was thinking there,Love, as pure as the May's pure air,—And did you care?There where the brook on its rocks went winking.IIIWhatever befalls through fate's compelling,Should our paths unite or our pathways sever,In the Mays to come I shall feel foreverThe wildflowers thinking, the wildbirds tellingThe same fond love that my heart then knew,Love unspeakable, deep and true,—But what of you?Whatever befalls through fate's compelling.

Will You Forget?

In years to come, will you forget,Dear girl, how often we have met?And I have gazed into your eyesAnd there beheld no sad regretTo cloud the gladness of their skies,While in your heart—unheard as yet—Love slept, oblivious of my sighs?—In years to come, will you forget?Ah, me! I only pray that when,In other days, some man of menHas taught those eyes to laugh and weepWith joy and sorrow, hearts must kenWhen love awakens in their deep,—I only pray some memory then,Or sad or sweet, you still will keepOf me and love that might have been.

Clouds of the Autumn Night

Clouds of the autumn night,Under the hunter's moon,—Ghostly and windy white,—Whither, like leaves wild strewn,Take ye your stormy flight?Out of the west, where dusk,From her rich windowsill,Leaned with a wand of tusk,Witch-like, and wood and hillPhantomed with mist and musk.Into the east, where mornSleeps in a shadowy close,Shut with a gate of horn,'Round which the dreams she knowsFlutter with rose and thorn.Blow from the west, oh, blow,Clouds that the tempest steers!And with your rain and snowBear of my heart the tears,And of my soul the woe.Into the east then pass,Clouds that the night winds sweep!And on her grave's sear grass,There where she lies asleep.There let them fall, alas!

The Glory and the Dream

There in the past I see her as of old,Blue-eyed and hazel-haired, within a roomDim with a twilight of tenebrious gold;Her white face sensuous as a delicate bloomNight opens in the tropics. Fold on foldPale laces drape her; and a frail perfume,As of a moonlit primrose brimmed with rain,Breathes from her presence, drowsing heart and brain.Her head is bent; some red carnations glowDeep in her heavy hair; her large eyes gleam;—Bright sister stars of those twin worlds of snow,Her breasts, through which the veinéd violets stream;—I hold her hand; her smile comes sweetly slowAs thoughts of love that haunt a poet's dream;And at her feet once more I sit and hearWild words of passion—dead this many a year.

Snow and Fire

Deep-hearted roses of the purple duskAnd lilies of the morn;And cactus, holding up a slender tuskOf fragrance on a thorn;All heavy flowers, sultry with their musk,Her presence puts to scorn.For she is like the pale, pale snowdrop there,Scentless and chaste of heart;The moonflower, making spiritual the air,Like some pure work of art;Divine and holy, exquisitely fair,And virtue's counterpart.Yet when her eyes gaze into mine, and whenHer lips to mine are pressed,—Why are my veins all fire then? and thenWhy should her soul suggestVoluptuous perfumes, maddening unto men,And prurient with unrest?

Restraint

Dear heart and love! what happiness to sitAnd watch the firelight's varying shade and shineOn thy young face; and through those eyes of thine—As through glad windows—mark fair fancies flitIn sumptuous chambers of thy soul's chaste witLike graceful women: then to take in mineThy hand, whose pressure brims my heart's divineHushed rapture as with music exquisite!When I remember how thy look and touchSway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy,I dare not think to what fierce heaven might leadThy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how muchSweet hell,—beyond all help of me,—might be,Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!

Why Should I Pine?

Why should I pine? when there in SpainAre eyes to woo, and not in vain;Dark eyes, and dreamily divine:And lips, as red as sunlit wine;Sweet lips, that never know disdain:And hearts, for passion over fain;Fond, trusting hearts that know no stainOf scorn for hearts that love like mine.—Why should I pine?Because all dreams I entertainOf beauty wear thy form, Elain;And e'en their lips and eyes are thine:So though I gladly would resignAll love, I love, and still complain,"Why should I pine?"

When Lydia Smiles

When Lydia smiles, I seem to seeThe walls around me fade and flee;And, lo, in haunts of hart and hindI seem with lovely Rosalind,In Arden 'neath the greenwood tree:The day is drowsy with the bee,And one wild bird flutes dreamily,And all the mellow air is kind,When Lydia smiles.Ah, me! what were this world to meWithout her smile!—What poetry,What glad hesperian paths I findOf love, that lead my soul and mindTo happy hills of Arcady,When Lydia smiles!

The Rose

You have forgot: it once was redWith life, this rose, to which you said,—When, there in happy days gone by,You plucked it, on my breast to lie,—"Sleep there, O rose! how sweet a bedIs thine!—And, heart, be comforted;For, though we part and roses shedTheir leaves and fade, love cannot die.—"You have forgot.So by those words of yours I'm ledTo send it you this day you wed.Look well upon it. You, as I,Should ask it now, without a sigh,If love can lie as it lies dead.—You have forgot.

A Ballad of Sweethearts

Summer may come, in sun-blonde splendor,To reap the harvest that Springtime sows;And Fall lead in her old defender,Winter, all huddled up in snows:Ever a-south the love-wind blowsInto my heart, like a vane aswayFrom face to face of the girls it knows—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.If Carrie smile or Maud look tender,Straight in my bosom the gladness glows;But scarce at their side am I all surrenderWhen Gertrude sings where the garden grows:And my heart is a bloom, like the red rose showsFor her hand to gather and toss away,Or wear on her breast, as her fancy goes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.Let Laura pass, as a sapling slender,Her cheek a berry, her mouth a rose,—Or Blanche or Helen,—to each I renderThe worship due to the charms she shows:But Mary's a poem when these are prose;Here at her feet my life I lay;All of devotion to her it owes—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.How can my heart of my hand dispose?When Ruth and Clara, and Kate and May,In form and feature no flaw disclose—But who is the fairest it's hard to say.

Her Portrait

Were I an artist, Lydia, IWould paint you as you merit,Not as my eyes, but dreams, descry;Not in the flesh, but spirit.The canvas I would paint you onShould be a bit of heaven;My brush, a sunbeam; pigments, dawnAnd night and starry even.Your form and features to express,Likewise your soul's chaste whiteness,I'd take the primal essencesOf darkness and of brightness.I'd take pure night to paint your hair;Stars for your eyes; and morningTo paint your skin—the rosy airThat is your limbs' adorning.To paint the love-bows of your lips,I'd mix, for colors, kisses;And for your breasts and finger-tips,Sweet odors and soft blisses.And to complete the picture well,I'd temper all with woman,—Some tears, some laughter; heaven and hell,To show you still are human.

A Song for Yule

ISing, Hey, when the time rolls round this way,And the bells peal out, 'Tis Christmas Day;The world is better then by half,For joy, for joy;In a little while you will see it laugh—For a song's to sing and a glass to quaff,My boy, my boy.So here's to the man who never says nay!—Sing, Hey, a song of Christmas-Day!IISing, Ho, when roofs are white with snow,And homes are hung with mistletoe;Old Earth is not half bad, I wis—What cheer! what cheer!How it ever seemed sad the wonder is—With a gift to give and a girl to kiss,My dear, my dear.So here's to the girl who never says no!Sing, Ho, a song of the mistletoe!IIINo thing in the world to the heart seems wrongWhen the soul of a man walks out with song;Wherever they go, glad hand in hand,And glove in glove,The round of the land is rainbow-spanned,And the meaning of life they understandIs love, is love.Let the heart be open, the soul be strong,And life will be glad as a Christmas song.