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290

MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS.

BEYOND REACH.

Dear Love, thou art so far above my song,
It is small wonder that it fears to rise,
Knowing it cannot reach my Paradise;
Yet ever to dwell here my thoughts among,
Nor try its upward flight, would do thee wrong.
What time the lark soars singing to the skies,
We know he falters, know the sweet song dies,
That fain would reach Heaven's gate, sustained and strong:
But angels bending from the shining brink
Catch the faint note, and know the poor song fails,
Having no strength to reach their heavenly height;
So listen thou, belovèd, and so think—
More for the earth than Heaven his song avails,
Yet sweetest heard when nearest to God's light.
291

I, LEAST OF ALL.

No man is worthy of her favoring grace,
I, least of all, on whom the gods have laid
A heavy hand; who live with soul afraid,
As one who walks by dark, precipitous ways,
Knowing on either side lie death and space.
Yet in a desperate mood my whole heart prayed
That she by whose least touch my blood is swayed,
Whose soul is as a high and heavenly place,
Would love me, seeing how wholly I was hers.
Behold, she did accept my prayer: even she,
Ringed round by bands of goodly worshippers,
Stept from their midst to sit alone with me
Under the shadow of my dark yew-tree,
Where, parted, still her soul with mine confers.

LOVE AND MUSIC.

I listened to the music broad and deep:
I heard the tenor in an ecstasy
Touch the sweet, distant goal; I heard the ery
Of prayer and passion; and I heard the sweep
Of mighty wings, that in their waving keep
The music that the spheres make endlessly,—
Then my cheek shivered, tears made blind mine eye:
As flame to flame I felt the quick blood leap,
And, through the tides and moonlit winds of sound,
To me love's passionate voice grew audible.
Again I felt thy heart to my heart bound,
Then silence on the viols and voices fell;
But, like the still, small voice within a shell,
I heard Love thrilling through the void profound.
292

LOVE'S STRESS.

About my love, O love, why do I sing?
Canst thou by my weak words my great love know?
Or can I hope that any words should show
That exquisite interchange of June with Spring
That makes thy sweet soul the divine, sweet thing
Of which no man the memory lets go,
Once having known? What breath have I to blow
The clarion of thy praise to echoing?
I sing, not for thy sake, nor for men's sake,—
I do but sing to ease mv soul from stress
Of love, and thy deep, passionate loveliness;
So, in some great despair, our hearts must break
But for our bitter sobs and frantic cries,
Sent out against the inaccessible skies.

CROWNING LOVE.

Am I not very part of thee, O Sweet,
Even as a soul is part of the great sun?
In davs before I knew thee, life had run
With me to barren wastefulness; no heat
Informed my days: I only heard the beat
Of Death's dull sea no traveller may shun,—
I did not fear to meet it, being as one
Who goes with head downcast and flagging feet;
When, lo, between me and Death's wave a light,
A sudden heat and splendor in the air!
Thy soul from far caught the importunate prayer
For dawn of one who wrestled with the night;
And, as mine eyes. mv soul had instant sight
Of things divine and strange, for Thou wert there.
293

OUTER SADNESS.

I held my Love against my heart, and knew
The deep dehght of loving her; yea, all
The maddenmg sweetness, when beyond recall,
Her lips through mine my longing spirit drew
And uttermost heaven opened to my view,
Where she and I with Love kept festival.
But with the calm that followed, and the fall
Of gentler kisses, soft and sweet as dew,
Came in the March wind's melancholy voice,
A weary monster seeking after prey;
And farther off I seem to eatch the noise
Of waves that hiss and thunder while they slay,—
A sudden terror seized me 'mid my joys,
And “Death” was all the word Love found to say.

REMEMBERED HOURS.

Not here at all, nor in thy far-off place,
I stand to-day in heart; but by those seas
Which two years back made choral symphonies
To Love's great hymn of rapture and of praise;
I stand and hear the clamor of old days,—
The days of sun, and winds that made no peace
At dusk, but through the night's wide radiances
Fought on, before the moon's affrighted face;
And o'er the confluent thunder of the deep,
The infuriated shrieking of the gale,
I hear the sweetness of thy tones prevail.
Ah. how the blood thrills, and the pulses leap,
When all Love's burning memories assail
This heart which only meets thee, now, in sleep!
294

A DREAM.

Here, where last night she came, — even she for whom
I would so gladly live, or lie down dead, —
Came in the likeness of a Dream, and said
Such words as thrilled this desolate, ghost-thronged room,
I sit alone now, in the absolute gloom.
Ah, surely on her breast was leaned my head!
Ah, surely on my mouth her kiss was shed,
And all my life broke into scent and bloom.
Give thanks, heart, for thy rootless flower of bliss;
Nor think the gods severe, though thus they seem —
Though thou hast much to bear and much to miss —
Whilst thou, through nights and days to be, canst deem
One thing, and that thing veritably this,
Imperishable, —the memory of a Dream.

ALIEN HOURS.

These days that bring no word of hope to me,
From her whose presence turns my dark life bright,
Are guests with whom one may not live aright,
Because they enter not that sanctuary
Of intimate, perfect, dearest secrecy,
As friends to whom one speaks without affright
Of Love, and Love's immaculate delight,
Knowing their heart's unuttered sympathy.
These days— though fair enough, with Summer's soul
Reflected in their eyes, and in their tone
The deep sea's chime —are yet to me unknown.
Depart from me, —your goal is not my goal!
Come that dear day, to make my spirit whole,
Which brings me word of her, my queen, my own!
295

THE HEAVEN OF HEAVENS.

Not to the general heaven take thy flight,
O happy, happy, happy song of mine;
But to the heart of innermost heaven divine;
O'er fields of day, to privacies of light,
Take thou thy way, and being come aright
To that fair place which is my heaven and thine,
Where my thoughts throng, as pilgrims to a shrine, —
Even to her heart, whose love is my soul's sight, —
Say unto her that other songs are free
To sound about the world and win men praise;
Thy greater glory is this sovereign grace
To live alone in her sweet memory, —
To have thy heavenly and abiding place
In her deep heart, Love's holiest sanctuary.

SOON TO MEET.

When a man sails to far-off, longed-for ways,
With many days to pass 'twixt sea and sky,
At first he heeds not time, and seeks thereby
To mock its power; but after weary days,
When one cries, “Land in sight!” he takes his place
With others on the deck, and can descry
The outlines of the land; then feverishly
He counts the minutes till he win their grace.
So when my venturous life put forth alone —
Yourself the lovely land it steered unto —
I dared not count the hours that now are flown,
All but these last remaining, lessening few;
And these, being few enough to count, have grown
As painful ages till they bring me you.
296

LOVE'S LOST DAY.

When thou and I are parted, presently,
This dead day's ghost, with white, accusing face,
Shall walk among our harsh, unpitying days,
Saying, “For tenderness Love fashioned me;
And, lo! ye did defame my deity,
Reft me of sweetness, took away my grace,
And set a horror in my fair self's place, —
That self no tears can make again to be.”
But when, for one of us, vain days go by,
The while the other sleeps beneath the flowers,
Heedless of sunshine, or soft, April showers,
“Look ever in my eyes,” this day shall cry,
“Wherein, as in deep streams, reflected lie
Love's murdered, irrecoverable hours!”

OTHER TWILIGHTS.

O Love, does she recall the far-off place, —
The place we loved in, but two years ago,
And through gray twilights heard the sea-winds blow,
And thunder of the sea that shines and slays?
I walk alone, now, by still, inland ways;
The time is Autumn, and the light is low,
Through which a wind like that we used to know,
Comes, like the voices of those other days, —
Those other twilights, thronged with dreams and hopes,
When all my way with flowers seemed fair to see,
Who now must go by harsh, unflowering slopes,
Through night with which no least light ever copes,
Until some blessed day I come to be
Where all my silent dead ones wait for me.
297

TWO PALACES.

Lo, now, how well, at last, all things come right!
We thought a lordly pleasure-house to raise,
But, shaken by the shock and change of days,
It fell; and now we build upon its site
Another palace of more moderate height, —
Not large, or lordly, but a pleasant place,
With quiet paintings, and a waving grace
Of leaves for June, when suns are over-bright.
“How fair it is! How better in all ways
Than that we strove to build before!” we muse,
Both silently; yet o'er some buried trace
Of that first palace both to bend might choose,
Saying: “This last is worthy of most praise,
Yet here was something that we loved, and lose.”

TWO LIVES.

In a still twilight one sits very still, —
There is no light of rapture in her eyes,
But they are peaceful as the twilight skies.
Life's joy is past; past also is Life's ill;
Soon sleep with dreamless rest her heart shall fill.
Through sunset wastes, where many a wild bird flies,
Thrilling the lurid glow with short, sharp cries,
Wheeling above great waves made strong to kill,
Up a precipitous, unflowering way,
Where salt sea-grasses shiver drearily,
One labors on, toward the disastrous sea,
Moaning, “We were together in Life's day,
But now the night is on us, where are we?”
And the waves, answering, thunder, “Where are they?”
298

HOPE.

I said, “Who art thou, with the flower-crowned hair
And shining eyes?” She answered, “I am Hope,
Thy friend for life, with all thy foes to cope.”
Sweet songs she sang me, of far lands and fair;
Her face made starlight in a starless air;
But once, as down a dark and flowerless slope
That heard the sea, we strove our way to grope,
A sudden terror came upon her there;
She fell, — the strength ebbed from her, and she died.
Above her, dead, in body and soul I bowed,
While with strange tongues the darkness was endowed;
And well I knew the thing they prophesied:
Then up the shore came the waves large and loud,
And my life answered, tide to bitter tide.

AT THE END.

If now, indeed, O Love, the end be near,
And thou and I — who for so many days
Have struggled on, up steep and perilous ways,
Crying “Good cheer,” when there was no good cheer—
Gain now this topmost summit, steep and sheer,
And see below that sad, abysmal place
Where all fair lost things are, whereof one says,
“They rise not ever, who lie buried here,”—
If this be so, once more take hands and kiss;
Let our souls rush together as two flames
Of which the wind makes one flame. By Love's bliss,
By all his saddest, most memorial names,
We swear that no love ever, after this,
Shall claim us, till ourselves Death, mightier, claims.
299

LOVE'S INFINITY.

When to thine arms myself I do consign,
And yield thee with my body all my soul,
Why seems it that I give not yet the whole, —
That by some way thought hardly may divine
I might be more irrevocably thine, —
More utterly subject to thy heart's control?
Oh, far away, before I reached Love's goal,
Lie the dead days which were and were not mine,
Being days that saw not, heard not, felt not thee.
Now, wailing, unconsolable ghosts of days,
They would anew their lives re-live in me,
That so thou might'st have all in thine embrace:
Nay, were it thus, would Love's infinity
Not yearn for gifts of still more lavish grace?

MY LOVE.

My Love is like great music when it fills
Man's heart and brain with high, all-hail delight;
My Love is like some still, immaculate night,
When through the hushed and sleeping earth there thrills
God's very peace; my Love is like the hills
That welcome first the dawn upon each height, —
For is she not as pure as they and bright,
With eyes like sunlight upon wind-kissed rills?
But ah, my song, that thou canst never say
How fairer far she is than all these things, —
My governing moon by night, my sun by day,
My nightingale, in whom the whole choir sings,
My summer of women, in whose beauty clings
What men to pluck would give their souls away!
300

WHAT TWO SAW.

I heard thunder of drums, and the trumpet's blast;
And I saw red banners that waved on the air;
And I heard the shouts of those fighting there;
I saw fires blaze, saw the tents o'ereast,
Saw cannon front cannon, deep, deadly, and vast;
Heard the conqueror's shout, the cries of despair
Of falling and wounded, who died with the glare
Of flame on their features, distraught, and aghast.
You stood beside me, but what did you see? —
No field of battle, but one sown with corn,
Yellow corn, which in time man's bread should be;
You heard not the cry of the hope forlorn;
You heard not the feet of the hosts that flee, —
But my soul at your feet lay dead, down borne.

BESIDE THE DEAD.

Sad seems the room, and strangely still, where lies
Some form now motionless, in which of late
Glad life exulted. Mark the changed estate,
The helpless hands, clasped in such peaceful wise,
The speechless lips, and unbeholding eyes
Which might not look into the eyes of Fate;
And as about the bed you watching wait,
What pleading pity to your spirit cries!
But, surely, yet a sadder thing is this
To look upon Love's face, where Love lies dead,
While all his memories of pain and bliss,
Thorn-crowned and rose-crowned, watch beside the bed.
Sped souls may live again, no man can tell;
But dead Love shall not break Death's awful spell.
301

SPRING SADNESS.

O Spring, and art thou here again, as one
Who, bearing erst the tidings of high things,
And echoes of that song that no man sings,
Com'st now, with all thy promises foredone?
Thy clear, fresh wind, thy clouds surprised by sun,
Swallows that wheel and dart in mazy rings,
Thy charitable wall-flower scent that clings,
And noise of streamlets carolling as they run, —
Are these not sweet as in the far-off days,
When the heart answered some mysterious call,
And eyes discerned the fair, indefinite face,
Of future things to be memorial?
Aye, sweet; and yet, alas for one who says:
“Ghosts of the vanished Springs! and is this all?”

IN EARLY SPRING.

With delicate wind, clear light of the warm sun,
Surely I know the subtle charm of Spring,
The earth and man's worn heart revisiting.
I would not have thy brief existence done,
And yet I would, O new-born Spring, that one
Might meet thine eyes without their mirroring
The ghost of many a sweet and bitter thing, —
Old dreams, old hopes, too frail to lean upon.
O last descended of a hostile race,
Though in thyself so gently, softly fair,
Within thine eyes ancestral Springs I trace!
Thus some wronged woman, in her baby's face
May shuddering see its father's likeness there,
While parted raptures thrill through her despair.
302

MAN AND SPRING.

When love upon the man's side falls away,
And delicate finger-tips and the slow kiss
Which kindled once such wild, delirious bliss
As no words seemed intense enough to say,
And dear, low voice, and eyes that seemed to pray
For Love's reply, —when, at the last, of this
Only the unavailing memory is, —
“Once it was sweet; once, on a far-off day —”
Is there in life, indeed, a sadder thing?—
I answer, there is one thing even more sad, —
To greet with loveless heart and eyes the Spring,
In which of old such pure high joy we had;
To grieve anew, when all her glad birds sing,
Remembering that we too — we once were glad.

VOID SPRING.

This placid day, here at the Winter's end,
This day of temperate sunshine and mild air,
Filled with high promise of glad things and fair,
Is unto me like some dear, chosen friend, —
Loved well by twain whose two lives might not blend
Because Death called the worshipped woman where
Is no delight in love or love's sweet care,
Where neither prayers nor songs nor sighs ascend.
If any comfort to the lover's heart
Yields the dear friend who holds so much of her
At whose light footfall he no more shall start,
Such comfort to my soul these hours impart;
I greet of Spring the Spring-like harbinger,
Knowing with me Spring's self may not confer.
303

YOUTH AND NATURE.

Is this the sky, and this the very earth
I had such pleasure in when I was young?
And can this be the identical sea-song,
Heard once within the storm-cloud's awful girth,
When a great storm from silence burst to birth;
And winds to whom it seemed I did belong
Made the keen blood in me run swift and strong
With irresistible, tempestuous mirth?
Are these the forests, loved of old so well,
Where on May nights enchanted music was?
Are these the fields of soft, delicious grass;
These the old hills with secret things to tell?
O my dead youth, was this inevitable,
That with thy passing, Nature, too, should pass?

A JUNE DAY.

The month is June, but all the sky is gray,
And to the weary earth seems leaning low;
There is no little breath of wind to blow
The searching perfume of these flowers away
That climbing round my window peer and stay;
The thrush sings, where the branches thickly grow;
The day moves by, with heavy feet and slow;
“Death endeth all,” the stillness seems to say.
But Love shall come before Death's nuptial hour;
There sits my queen, and silent — pondering what?
Sees she, as I, Love's joy-environed bower,
Where sweet, conspiring things one sweeter plot;
Or does she hear, 'neath some grave's guardian flower,
Sad sighing of dead loves remembered not?
304

A JULY DAY.

To-day the sun has steadfast been and clear;
No wind has marred the spell of hushful heat,
But with the twilight comes a rush and beat
Of ghost-like wings; the sky turns gray and drear,
The trees are stricken with a sudden fear.
O wind forlorn, that sayest nothing sweet,
With what foreboding message dost thou greet
The dearest month but one of all the year?
Ah, now it seems I catch the moan of seas
Whose boundaries are pale regions of dismay,
Where sad-eyed people wander without ease;
I see in thought that lamentable array,
And surely hear about the dying day
Recorded dooms and mournful prophecies.

MOMENTS OF VISION.

I.

One came to me, and led me by the hand,
And took me from the city far away;
Bright was the sun, and loud with wind the day,
And on we wended till we took our stand
Where mighty waters broke against the land.
Bright in the sunlight shone the shivering spray,
While, loud as monsters roaring after prey,
Roared the strong waters laboring up the strand:
And through their roar an inner note I caught
Of passionate remembrance; and mine eyes
Beheld a light long lost and vainly sought.
My heart was stormed by a divine surprise;
For, lo! this was the sea, — even she who wrought
For the dead boy miraculous ecstasies.
305

II.

So once in Summer walking 'mid the hills,
What time the twilight clothes them with her peace,
And birds fly home to rest in deep-leaved trees
Through which a last, low song one moment thrills,
Then ceases; and the unobtrusive rills
Babble along their ways, and small winds cease,
And in their soft, blue spaces stars increase
Before the moon of Heaven her light fulfils, —
Through that deep peace, long seen though unfelt long,
As from a land divine and most remote
Wherein alone do pale-mouthed dreams make song,
The ancient peace of boyhood seemed to float;
O heart of Heaven! deep rest and undefiled
Needs the man less than the untroubled child?

III.

Then spoke a low, clear voice to me and said:
“What knew the boy of the hot strife for fame,
Or love that often slighted turns to shame?
Ambition's curse you drew upon your head,
And with strange food unnatural hungers stayed;
Then ghosts, with tongues against you to declaim,
With cruel, deriding lips, and eyes of flame,
Filled all your sleep with sorrow and sick dread.
“Good gifts I, Nature, gave you, — storm and rest,
Sundawn and sunset, and the shade profound.
‘Good gifts!’ you laugh, ‘but man must be renowned,
So I will forth. nor weary in the quest
Till mighty gods my ambitious brows have crowned.’
Lo, the lost child! Lo, the forsaken breast!”
306

PARABLES.

I.

I built a house for quiet and dim peace, —
A place whereto when weary I might go,
To sit alone and let the pent tears flow,
And feel a little while their bitter ease.
I built my house, I ringed it round with trees,
And often, when the sun and winds were low,
I sat and mused there, while there seemed to grow
A rest begotten of dear memories.
But strange, unholy shapes with snake-wreathed brows
Did throng my refuge and defile my grove, —
So now no more about that house I move.
Still it looks peaceful through its shadowy boughs;
But voices from within the calm disprove:
What say you, then — shall I not burn my house?

II.

A magic circle holds me round, to-day, —
The air is vital with the young, sweet Spring;
In the fresh wind the leaves and grasses sing;
The songs of birds are blown from spray to spray;
The time is pure, and ardent, and how gay!
Now falls the saintly dusk; low whispering
The gentle wind goes by with flagging wing,
The sun to follow, on his downward way.
Great quietude of moonlight holds the land;
Now if one word I whisper to the air,
If one way turn, or even reach my hand,
The spell is broken, and my Spring to scare
Comes Winter back, and shivering I stand,
Once more the old blast of his old winds to bear.
307

III.

I walked in Summer through green, pleasant ways,
And heard a soft wind singing as I went,
And casual songs of birds; sweet was the scent
Of wild things prospering in a sheltered place;
But suddenly chill rain-drops smote my face,
And, like the sad, melodious discontent
That wakens in the wind-played instrument,
The low wind sighed, recalling other days.
I passed into a churchyard filled with dead;
And all the graves, it seemed, had separate tongues,
For over each a bird poised, wings outspread,
And sang sad things of those deaf, eyeless throngs:
“What may this mean?” I cried, and one there said,
“These be thy griefs of old, and these thy songs.”

IV.

Thou sayest, “The skies are dark above my head,
Destroying waves break loud upon my strand,
Wild winds and ruining blight infest my land:
'T is Summer still, but Summer flowers lie shed
On wind-scourged paths; my song-birds all are dead:
Only the oldest trees may hope to stand
Against this mad wind's devastating hand,
There will I house me till its wrath be sped.”
Thou fool! Thou shalt awake some day to see
Thine oldest trees crash round thee, every one;
To meet no darkness, but the insatiate sun,
A beast with eyes of flame, and thee for prey;
And slight, indeed, on that disastrous day,
Will seem this dead day's harsh calamity.
308

V.

She sits at home in lordly palaces,
With glowing eyes, and flowing, vine-wreathed hair,
And dainty, white-rose body left half bare;
And they who find life glad and full of ease
Make love to her, and sweet she is to these;
And they who know the blackness of despair
Turn to her, seeing she is surely fair,
And from their pain she gives them swift release.
The same she is who walks the populous street,
A painted, brazen harlot without shame;
But all her lovers, poor and rich, shall meet
There where she leads them, — where in lurid flame
Those gone before her fiery kiss entreat,
Gnash teeth, and dying execrate her name.

THREE SONNETS ON SORROW.

I.

A child, with mystic eyes and flowing hair,
I saw her first, 'mid flowers that shared her grace;
Though but a boy, I cried, “How fair a face!”
And, coming nearer, told her she was fair.
She faintly smiled, yet did not say “Forbear!”
But seemed to take a pleasure in my praise.
She led my steps through many a leafy place,
And pointed where shy birds and sweet flowers were.
At length we stood upon a brooklet's brink, —
I seem to hear its sources babbling yet, —
She gave me water from her hand to drink,
The while her eyes upon its flow were set.
“Thy name?” I asked; she whispered low, “Regret,”
Then faded, as the sun began to sink.
309

II.

We met again, as I foresaw we should;
Youth flooded all my veins, and she had grown
To woman's height. yet seemed a rose half-blown.
Like sunset clouds that o'er a landscape brood
Her eyes were, that they might not be withstood;
And like the wind's voice when it takes the tone
Of pine-trees was her voice. I cried, “My own!” —
And kneeling there I worshipped her and wooed.
O bitter marriage, though inevitable, —
Ordained by Fate, who wrecks or saves our days!
Lo, the changed bride, no longer fair of face,
And in her eyes the very fires of hell!
“Thy name?” I cried; and these words hissing fell:
“Anguish and madness come of my embrace.”

III.

What thing may be to come I cannot know.
Her eyes have less of Hell in them, meanwhile;
At times she almost smiles a ghastly smile,
I have in all things done her bidding so.
Chill are the rooms wherein no bright fires glow,
Where no fair picture doth the eye beguile;
Once awful laughter shook the gloomy pile;
Unholy, riotous shapes went to and fro.
There is no sound, now, in the house at all,
Only outside the wind moans on, alway:
My Lady Sorrow hath no word to say,
Seems half content; for well she knows her thrall
Shall not escape from her; that should God call
She would rise with him at the Judgment Day.
310

IN PRAISE OF SLEEP.

I.

There is a Land where nightly I repair,
At whose dim gate I put my cross aside,
Stretch out my arms toward Rest as toward a bride,
And am withal assuaged. Ah, even there,
Beyond false hope, beyond the stress of prayer,
Beyond the hurt and smart of broken pride,
With no more hunger for sweet things denied,
My heart has rest and respite from despair.
O land of mystic shapes and languid pleasure,
Waste field of poppies without track it seems!
O scentless lilies, by the voiceless streams
Where come my ghosts and dance a silent measure,
Hold my last joy, now! — only in dear dreams
Give back to me, sometimes, my buried treasure!

II.

I have no heart in me for Love's delight:
How sweet the Summer was! How strong its spell!
I care not, now, what stars may have to tell;
To me the day is void, and void the night.
Upon her dim and inaccessible height
Fame stands above me, robed and crowned. Ah, well!
Let those who love her find her pleasurable;
She hath no grace or merit in my sight.
I am in love alone with tender Sleep, —
Dew on my sad, unfruitful flower of life
Of which no man the memory may keep.
O most divine forgetfulness of strife,
My sky is not too dark, my path too steep,
While Thou art mine, for Friend, for Love, for Wife!
311

MY LIFE

To me my life seems as a haunted house,
The ways and passages whereof are dumb;
Up whose decaying stair no footsteps come;
Lo, this the hall hung with sere laurel boughs,
Where long years back came victors to carouse.
But none of all that company went home;
For scarce their lips had quaffed the bright wine's foam,
When sudden Death brake dank upon their brows.
Here in this lonely, ruined house I dwell,
While unseen fingers toll the chapel bell;
Sometimes the arras rustles, and I see
A half-veiled figure through the twilight steal,
Which, when I follow, pauses suddenly
Before the door whereon is set a seal.

HAUNTED ROOMS.

Must this not be, whate'er the years disclose,
When I and those in whom my heart has vent,
From whose dear lives soul-light to mine is sent,
Lie at the last 'neath where the long grass grows,
Made one, in one interminable repose,
Not knowing whence we came or whither went, —
Done with regret, with black presentiment
Of greater griefs, or more victorious foes, —
Must this not be that one then dwelling here,
Where one man and his sorrows dwelt so long,
Shall feel the pressure of a ghostly throng,
And shall upon some desolate midnight hear
A sound more sad than is the pine-trees' song,
And thrill with great, inexplicable fear?
312

WORTH REMEMBRANCE.

Of me ye may say many a bitter thing,
O Men, when I am gone, — gone far away
To that dim Land where shines no light of day.
Sharp was the bread for my soul's nourishing
Which Fate allowed, and bitter was the spring
Of which I drank and maddened; even as they
Who wild with thirst at sea will not delay,
But drink the brine and die of its sharp sting.
Not gentle was my war with Chance, and yet
I borrowed no man's sword, — alone I drew
And gave my slain fit burial out of view.
In secret places I and Sorrow met:
So, when you count my sins, do not forget
To say I taxed not any one of you.

A LIFE.

He walked 'midst shadows, and he nursed at heart
A grief that set strange poison in his blood;
He lived, and was of no man understood.
In all glad things that be he had no part;
And wearily he turned unto his art,
But of his labor had he little good.
Comfort he sought in cheerless solitude;
But visionary faces made him start.
Wrong things he did, was quick of thought and speech.
For grievous sin had grievous punishment;
Missed Love, missed Fame, both once within his reach,
Nor might succeed in any high intent;
And when he died had on his monument:
“All that Life taught him, Lord, let Death unteach.”
313

ANTICIPATED DEATH.

Let none be sad for this man when he lies
Alone and out of torment, — past the sting
Of all his various agonies, — but bring
The brightest flowers to lay upon his eyes.
With no high, glad, triumphant chants surprise
His perfect quietness; bend low and sing
Some wistful song, soft as winds whispering
Through leafy branches under twilight skies.
And if when death was on him he had yearned
Once more to try his desperate chance, and so
Had died with life and death unreconciled, —
Think of him only as a wayward child,
Who craves ill things because he does not know;
The rest which shall be his he will have earned.

PRISONED THOUGHTS.

O soul of Song, hast thou forsaken me?
Thoughts journey through my spirit night and day,
And throng the gateways of my soul, and pray
That thou, who holdest in thy hand the key,
Would'st let them forth, that they may wander free.
Listen, O distant soul, to what they say:
“We wander up and down, yet find no way
To lead us forth from our captivity.
“Lo! we have messages for those outside,
And all day long we beat against the gate.”
Come then, O Song, my thoughts to liberate;
Make thou, in turn, each one thy fruitful bride, —
Through life else must they daily watch and wait,
And in dark places of my soul abide.
314

IRREVOCABLE.

Because it did not yield me shade enough,
Because the time seemed long till fruit should be,
I smote at root my flowering apple-tree:
It was the fairest tree in my scant grove,
And fell with little sound. I watched above
And viewed it where it lay, content to see
My fearful handiwork, and angrily
I shook its boughs, and plucked the leaves thereof, —
Poor leaves that never a deep shadow made,
Yet were so fair! I dropped them, one by one;
And then I wept, for what I cannot say, —
Unless my heart conjectured of some day
When I should stand alone, and no such shade
Should interpose between me and the sun.

MY LAND.

I walk 'neath sunless skies; by flowerless ways
With failing feet and heavy heart I go, —
Through leafless trees vague winds of twilight blow.
A strange, still land this is: ghosts of old days
Rise up to meet me; a beloved, dead face
Emerges on my path; or sweet and low
The accents of some voice I used to know
Fall on my heart, where only sorrow stays.
My ghostly Land, wherethro', myself a ghost,
I journey ever toward that stranger strand
By which no ships from this world ever coast, —
Ah, there shall I remember, still, my Land?
Nay, God, — if any God indeed there be, —
Grant me, in Death, release from Memory.
315

THE TEMPTRESS.

I.

Unto the awful Temptress at my side,
From whose embrace comes madness at the end,
I said, “I will not yield, but will defend
My weary soul till body and soul divide.”
“Art thou so much in love with grief?” she cried,
“That thou wilt have no other love or friend?”
I answered her, “In guile thou dost transcend
All other foes who have my strength defied.”
“Once thou didst tarry in my halls,” quoth she,
“And to fair chambers were thy footsteps led.”
“Blood-red and hot thy kisses were,” I said,
“Thralled was I, then, who now, at least, am free;
But if again those floors my feet should tread,
Then thou and Hell should have me utterly.”

II.

Because she stands so fatally close to me;
Because I breathe in anguish with each breath,
Who may not face the awful eyes of Death,
Nor 'scape the pitiless eyes of Memory;
Because my soul is deaf, nor may it see;
Because within my ear the Temptress saith:
“Am I not fair, crowned with my fragrant wreath?
Have I not pleasant gifts to give to thee?”
Because I know the sweet mouth only lies,
Yet surely know that she is very fair, —
I venture not to look into her eyes,
As in a lighter mood I might have done,
Nor touch her hand, nor idle with her hair,
Seeing of this could come no end but one.
316

III.

“Look at me once again,” she pleaded yet;
“Come thou with me, and be no more alone;
Why should thy heart perpetually make moan?”
She took my hand. Then, being so beset,
I spoke no word, but turned, and our eyes met.
My blood leaped in me, as a flame wind-blown.
“Call me again,” she said, “thy very own,
And teach thy heart its sorrow to forget.”
I gazed, and gazing saw that she was fair,
And full of grace; but while I looked, behold
Her beauty like a robe fell from her there,
And left her standing, wrinkled, lean, and old;
“Go hence,” I cried, “base mother of sins untold,
And leave my soul its undefiled despair.”

WARFARE WITH THE GODS.

This man was full of strength once, hope, and fire;
And when the gods derided him, he said:
“O Gods, your curse lies heavy on my head;
Against my peace I know that you conspire;
But, lo! I can defy you. Will ye tire
Yourselves with warfare? Shall my soul fall dead
Because scant blessings on her path are shed?
Some things are left still, dear to my desire;
“And these shall give me courage in despite.”
“Thou fool!” the gods laughed, and with wrong on wrong,
As seas come wave on wave when winds are strong,
They came against him, and laid waste his might,
Till, utterly humbled, prostrate in their sight,
He fell, and moaned, “My Masters, oh, how long?”
317

LIFE.

Prisoned I was within a noble hall,
Ringed round with many gracious images,
And through it floated strains that might appease
The soul's sore thirst for music. On each wall
Fair pictures hung to hold the eye in thrall, —
High mountains clothed in cold, immaculate peace,
A light of water between wavering trees,
Wild seas wherefrom drowned mariners seemed to call.
A table stood there, heaped with fruits and wine,
But, lo, the fruits turned ashes at my gaze,
And to my taste the gold juice seemed like brine:
Here must one die, then, with no chance for strife,
Loathing the impotent beauty of the place? —
Then these words shivered past me, “This is Life!”

A WISH.

I do but ask a little time of peace
Before the end of all. I crave no bliss;
I crave no love, nor fame; but only this, —
On summer days to bask beneath old trees,
Or half asleep to lie by gentle seas,
Hearing the waves that whisper ere they kiss,
Then break and babble; or, when twilight is,
And one by one the birds from singing cease,
Wander the patient, tranquil hills among,
And languish in an exquisite regret,
And hear a sad but not discordant song
Possess the air; and when the sun is set,
Lie down with thankfulness to know, ere long,
All things that ever were I shall forget.
318

A QUESTION.

If I had been in love with Life, had Death
Seemed any ghastlier, more full of dread,
Or I shrank more from thought of being dead,
Sightless and still, and in my lips no breath,
Night all about me, and the dust beneath?
Not so, I think, for then I should have said:
“I have been glad, though now I make my bed
Where dead folk lie, and never a word one saith.”
Harder seems this, — to die and leave the sun,
And carry hence each unfulfilled desire.
I heard one cry, “Come where the feast is spread;”
But when I came the festival was done;
Somewhile I shivered by the extinguished fire,
And now retrace my steps uncomforted.

MAN'S DAYS.

From sorrow unto sorrow man progresses,
If length of days be his; till, come at last,
Nigh to that realm unknowable and vast,
Which hides the whole world's dead in its recesses,
Where iron night on every sleeper presses,
In its strange neighborhood he moves aghast;
Remembering intermittently his past,
Lulled sometimes by a gentle ghost's caresses.
He moves down ways and by-ways listlessly, —
A traveller who, having paid his score,
Knowing therewith he hath to do no more,
Waits till the ship already in sight be free
To bear him back to his far, natal shore,
Back though the darkness and the awful sea.
319

VAIN FREEDOM.

I sat between two shapes with eyes of fire:
All there was dark except those eyes of flame;
Each shape spake severally its dreadful name;
Through them was life made barren of desire.
I heard a sound as of a stricken lyre,
And lust of power and song upon me came;
But they cried out, “For thee shall be no fame;
Kneel down, now, and cast dust on thine attire.”
Silent I knelt, in my most abject woe,
Till from my lips there brake a passionate prayer.
Then Love's voice called me, and I strove to go.
They freed me, with wild laughter on the air;
I struggled forward to the light, and, lo!
Not Love it was, but Death who met me there.

EVEN FOR THEE.

Thy feet are weary, and thy strength is low;
Life's brightness is behind thee, and thy face
Is set against the darkness. For a space
Sad winds about thy path shall moaning blow,
And ghosts on either hand with thee shall go.
Great dread shall be upon thee, in those days, —
Dread of the darkness and the uncertain ways,
Such dread as man again may never know.
But even for thee shall come at last the end,
And Death thy soul with slumber shall assuage.
No painful thought of altered or dead friend
Shall hurt thy heart again, nor impotent rage
At Fate's blind mysteries thy soul shall rend;
But rest shall be thy well-earned heritage.
320

THE PRISONER.

Gloom girdeth gloom, and in the central gloom,
Yea, in the inmost sanctuary of despair,
Lies one who knows the impotence of prayer,
Waiting, perchance, yet more disastrous doom.
Outside his night fair women and sweet flowers bloom,
And doubtless laughter and glad song are there;
No music ever trembles on this air,
But phantoms wail, dread ghosts that burst their tomb.
He broods in solitude, remembering
He once was free about God's world to go;
He once kept holiday with Love and Spring;
He once felt Summer in his glad veins glow:
But now, but now, what hope of anything
Save this, — to cease, to pass, and not to know!

THE LONG WAY.

Still the old paths and the old solitude,
And still the dark soul journeying on its way,
A little nearer to its goal each day.
About it does an awful silence brood,
Nor may it know what dread vicissitude
Shall overwhelm it, ere of it men say:
“It is not; and the place of its dismay
Shall know it never more, and this is good.”
“But, ah, poor Soul, how long?” I questioning cry.
“Already thou hast journeyed very long,
By barren ways, beneath a dumb, dark sky.
Once light was with thee, yea, and birds made song,
And voices cheered thee; but of all that throng
What voice to thy voice shall to-day reply?”
321

BURIED SELF.

Where side by side we sat, I sit alone,
But surely hear the absent voice, — as one
Who, playing, when the tune he plays is done,
Hears the spent music through the strings yet moan.
I rove, through places that my soul has known,
Like the sad ghost of some departed nun
Who comes between the moonrise and the sun,
To sit beside her monumental stone.
So by my buried self I take my seat,
And talk with other ghosts of vanished days,
And watch gray shadows through the twilight fleet,
And half expect to see the buried face
Of my dead self rise in the silent place,
To look at me with mournful eyes and sweet.

MY GHOSTS.

When dark days come, and winds are charged with sleet,
And strong men shiver with cold as if with fear,
Then will I ponder by my bright fire here
On things gone by, — half drowsing seem to meet
Fair, gracious comers, who the silence cheat;
And, as the twilight gathers, seem to hear
About the room, and near me and more near,
Soft stir of robes and fall of phantom feet.
But now, to-day, to-day, when it is Spring,
And larks are almost mad with their delight,
Shall I not go where I can hear them sing,
And send my spirit following on their flight? —
Though still within mine ear old tones shall ring,
And from Spring woods ghosts steal upon my sight.
322

DREAM-MOONLIGHT.

Dream-moonlight, which for me sometimes makes bright
And fair and wonderful the vales of sleep,
Where spirits come in dreams to laugh or weep,
Is, more than that which floods the actual night,
A secret, subtle message to the sight.
Sometimes it shines upon a pale dream-deep,
Or on untrodden fields no reapers reap,
Or some unscaled and inaccessible height; —
Sometimes it falls 'twixt branches of dream-trees,
Where the soft light and shade divinely blend.
O fair dream-moonlight, which dost give surcease
To this sore heart from memories that rend,
If death were but to languish in thy peace
How could one stay and battle to the end?

BIDDEN.

One man at Life's feast sat an honored guest, —
Fame on his left hand, Love upon his right,
And Fame and Love were goodly in his sight;
But while those feasting there waxed merriest,
Sudden his smile flagged far behind the jest.
Then in his eyes altered and failed the light;
For one stood there, vast, garmented in night,
Against whose presence men in vain protest.
Another had gall for wine, and stones for bread;
By Fortune buffeted and overthrown,
Knew neither Fame nor Love, but dwelt alone.
To him, “Come hence with me, O Son,” Death said:
Now which seems worse, since all must bow the head;
To know and leave, or never to have known?
323

LIFE'S UNCERTAINTY.

Man draws his fleeting breath in utmost dread,
Not knowing from what ambush ill may start
To plunge another dagger in his heart.
He scarcely knows his living from his dead;
The skies are dark with gloom above his head;
He hears night-birds upon their meek prey dart, —
O Night, of whom he is a very part,
How long is he his dubious path to tread?
Sometimes he hears, and this appals him most,
Ring through the night a chiming wedding-bell.
It is the signal summoning to its post
A new despair to lead his steps to hell, —
So 'twixt wild seas and some implacable coast
Men, sailing, know their doom inevitable.

VAIN WAITING.

One waits and watches all his days away
For what may never come. So looks alone
Some man, upon a desert island thrown,
For sails that pass not; till, too faint to pray,
He folds his hands, and waits the eventful day
When Death, unintercepted, claims his own,
Bids hope lie down by fear, stills the long moan,
And folds the weary feet, no more to stray.
None knew of his sad life and death, till, lo,
Men voyaging from afar, by fierce winds driven,
Cast anchor on that isle, where tempest-riven
They see a log-propped hut, by which they know
That one has lived and died there, hoped and striven;
They shed their unavailing tears and go.
324

FATAL DELAY.

There sat with Love who feasted and were glad,—
Strong men whose lids through love wax warm and wet,
And amorous women whose soft looks beget
Most poignant passion. There, not richly clad,
Sat one, remote, and on his robes he had
Dust of long journeyings; his fingers met
About Love's goblet, but he sighed, “Not yet,”
Though often through great thirst he was nigh mad.
He held the goblet up against the light,
And saw the sparkling wine therein was good;
But sudden darkness settled on his sight;
The guests were gone; he sat in solitude;
The goblet clanging fell, with all its might,
And now he moistens his charred lips with blood.

DEAD LOVE.

And will you now cry out upon dead Love,
Inform the lifeless clay with new, warm breath?
I tell you that Love sleeps the sleep of death.
Cry out, wring hands, and weep! You will not move
Those lips to any speech: yea, though you clove
With yours to his, enfolded him with faith,
He would not stir your word or kiss beneath;
His soul now dwells from pain and joy aloof.
What time Love lay a-dying you stood near,
With lips shut tight, and cold, confronting eyes;
Love's voice had then no music for your ear,
You had no pity, though one cried, “Love dies!”
And now, behold, as to another sphere
You call on Love, and lo! no voice replies.
325

LATE LOVE.

With two who might have loved each other well
Had they met earlier who meet too late,
How does it fare? Do they keep separate,
Each one with feelings incommunicable;
Or are they as dear friends content to dwell
In heart together till they change this state?
Or may their sad and unaccomplished fate,
Instead of joining, wound them and repel?
So when, unjust, a father wills away
His land and fortune from his rightful heirs,
They, wronged, incensed, come after set of day,
And thief-like gain the house, and scale the stairs,
And slay the invader, spite his threats and prayers;
Yet there for fear of judgment may not stay.

LOVE AND DESPAIR.

One came to me with sad, sweet eyes, and said,
A mighty sorrow trembling in his voice,
“Weep now, poor heart, for all thy dreams and joys,
For, lo, thy very hope of them lies dead.”
And as he spake, withal, he bowed his head,
And for a little while there was a noise
As of one weeping, when fell Chance destroys
The life whereby his following life was led.
And he who spake to me for Love I knew,
Though cypress leaves were bound about his hair:
Then close to us another form there drew,—
Stern was his aspect, surely; nowise fair;
Yet round me a strange, awful rest there grew.
“Thy name?” I cried; and he replied, “Despair!”
326

LEAST LOVE.

This small least love of mine, which can but creep
Between the twisted stems of joy and pain,
Is warmed by sun and bathed by every rain.
Last night, transplanted to the fields of sleep,
It blossomed so I could not choose but weep,
Knowing the sweet, familiar scent again.
Mostly it grows unnoticed, fair, and fain
In depths of sunlit air its leaves to steep;
But there are times when every fairer flower
Looks cold, unsympathetic, in my sight;
Then am I glad to turn, in such an hour,
To this my blossom, neither red nor white,
Holding the fragrance of the last warm shower:
But gather it, it fades before the night.

BITTER-SWEET.

With roses, lilies, and the eglantine,
Love filled our hands; and from the grapes that hung
Above his garden, quick with scent and song,
He pressed a sweet and sleep-begetting wine;
And melody intense, remote, divine,
For our delight from his own harp he wrung:
And when sense failed, so many sweets among,
And very passion threatened to decline,
He plucked for us the sharp and bitter brier,
Wherewith our aching brows he garlanded,
And made a sudden discord with his lyre.
Then with new color lips and cheeks grew red,
And pain was straight converted to desire;
“For thus my bitter turns to sweet,” Love said.
327

BRIDAL EVE.

Half-robed, with gold hair drooped o'er shoulders white,
She sits as one entranced, with eyes that gaze
Upon the mirrored beauties of her face;
And through the distances of dark and light
She hears faint music of the coming night;
She hears the murmur of receding days;
Her future life is veiled in such a haze
As hides, on sultry morns, the sun from sight.
Upon the brink of imminent change she stands,
Glad, yet afraid to look beyond the verge;
She starts, as at the touch of unseen hands;
Love's music grows half anthem and half dirge.
Strange sounds and shadows round her spirit fall,
Yet to herself she stranger seems than all.

THE SOUL'S PREGNANCY.

If all be irrecoverably lost,
Why linger here to watch the dull days out,
To greet the meaningless spring, or hear the shout
Of winds and waves upon some stormy coast,
To wither in the winter's deadly frost,
To think on Death, to speculate, to doubt,
To move in funeral train, or festive rout,
'Mid living presences a very ghost?
'T is that the pain-wed soul is conscious of
Some in-wombed child of spiritual good
The heart, before the end, would recognize, —
So some young widow, feeding with her blood
Her own and her dead husband's fruit of love,
But lives that she may see her baby's eyes.
328

ATHEIST TO PANTHEIST.

No future, separate life, — such is your creed, —
But general life of which you grow a part;
A heart-beat of the universal heart;
A rose, perchance, or poor, unnoticed weed;
A fraction of the brilliance and the speed
Of starlit, gusty nights, when meteors dart
Down all the brightening wind; a pulse of Art;
A portion of man's speech, and actual deed:
And thus, absorbed in all-pervading God,
You think to live, conscious, yet knowing nought
Of all the past with pain and joyance fraught,—
An atom, where the atoms onward plod.
What you call God, I Nature name, and hence
Am Atheist; but where the difference?

TO PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

Not in this life shall we meet, O my friend,—
My friend unseen, but not unknown of me,—
My friend so far away beyond the sea,
To whose sequestered home my thoughts oft tend.
Nor dare I trust that some new life shall blend
Our lives together; yet strange things may be,
And sweet for thinking is the phantasy
That some new life this failure might amend;
And I might hear a voice, unheard till then,
And clasp a hand, till then unclasped of mine.
At once should I not know them to be thine,—
Poet, and man “who loves his fellow-men,”
Whose thoughts are pure and limpid as star-shine,
And greet thee by thy name, that happy when?
329

NO DEATH.

I saw in dreams a mighty multitude,—
Gathered, they seemed, from North, South, East, and West,
And in their looks such horror was exprest
As must forever words of mine elude.
As if transfixed by grief, some silent stood,
While others wildly smote upon the breast,
And cried out fearfully, “No rest, no rest!”
Some fled, as if by shapes unseen pursued.
Some laughed insanely. Others shrieking, said:
“To think but yesterday we might have died;
For then God had not thundered, ‘Death is dead!’”
They gashed themselves till they with blood were red.
“Answer, O God; take back this curse!” they cried,
But “Death is dead,” was all the voice replied.

WITHOUT PASSION.

Yes, I am changed. When passion warmed my blood,
What time your kisses thrilled me through and through,
There was no thing I would not dare or do
Because your manhood stormed my womanhood.
You were my lord, and all you did was good;
Through you, it seemed, my very breath I drew;
My sun-god, in whose bountiful light I grew.
Now that no more my being with joy you flood;
Because the altered blood flows tranquilly,
For the first time I see you with clear sight,—
Changed, now, indeed from Passion's deity,—
Selfish of heart, ambitious, prone to spite,
Mostly at fault, occasionally right,
Your soul's one claim, your steadfast love of me.
330

LOST SOULS.

Ah, fair, lost Love, I thought once to make mine,
Till you chose God, and turned your face away!
Not cruelly, but firmly did you say:
“I must be God's, none other's, — at no shrine
But His bow knee; God only is divine.”
And so you left me, and behold, to-day,
While fair among the rest you chant and pray
Where fumes the incense and the tapers shine,
I, who with you had walked unblamed as most,
I, whom you cast off in your heavenly zeal,
See my own face, grown old before its time,
Scarred deep by grief and many an unguessed crime,—
My own lost soul, and those my soul has lost
At the last day against you shall appeal.

AT THE LAST.

Because the shadows deepened verily;
Because the end of all seemed near, forsooth,—
Her gracious spirit, ever quick to ruth,
Had pity on her bond-slave, even on me.
She came in with the twilight noiselessly,
Fair as a rose, immaculate as Truth;
She leaned above my wrecked and wasted youth,
I felt her presence, which I could not see.
“God keep you, my poor friend,” I heard her say;
And then she kissed my dry, hot lips and eyes.
Kiss thou the next kiss, quiet Death, I pray;
Be instant on this hour, and so surprise
My spirit while the vision seems to stay;
Take thou the heart with the heart's Paradise.
331

JONATHAN SWIFT; HIS LAST ILLNESS.

Thou sawest from far the curse thou might'st not stay,
Most mighty spirit, strong to love and hate.
For what great sin, sinned in some former state,
Was thy soul forced to contemplate that day
Which should not at one blow take life away,
But on each vital sense shut gate by gate,—
Until thy lord's unfathomable hate,
Supreme, relentless, and which none gainsay,
Left thy great brain confounded in black night,
And wild with pain? Yea, thou wert all alone,
Shut fast in night, as in a living tomb
Where no sound was; Death quenched thy spirit's light
So long before, oh, racked in uttermost gloom,
He made thy poor, dark, tortured body his own.

TO ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

ON THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF HIS DEATH, JANUARY 30, 1883.

Again returns this day, and still, my friend,
I listen for a step that comes not near,
And hearken for a voice I may not hear
Save in my dreams, where many memories blend.
Two years have passed, and still the days extend,
Void day on day. He, too, has gone away
Who loved thy lyric work; his praise a bay
For which all songs most gladly might contend.
April, that came and found him with us yet,
And took him hence, makes sad the heart of Spring,
And January days shall not forget
That then it was thy sweet lips ceased to sing,
And we who loved thee, knew our feet were set
In paths where thine were no more journeying.
332

TO JAMES THOMSON, AUTHOR OF “THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT.”

I.

Brother, and fellow-citizen with me
Of this great city whose tremendous gloom
Weighed on thee with the heaviness of doom,—
I walk its ways to-day, and seem to see
Thy saddest eyes; again with thee to be
As on that day when, in this very room,
Thine eyes and ours who watched thee saw Death loom,
A mighty monarch, strong to set thee free.
Still, still the same, this “City of Dreadful Night,”—
Still does it hear a sound of lamentation,
As of a conquered. broken-hearted nation;
Still glowers the Sphinx, and breaks us with her might
Of unresponsive front. There is no light;
There is no hope; God, there is no salvation.

II.

No tears of mine shall fall upon thy face;
Whatever City thou hast gained, at last,
Better it is than that where thy feet passed
So many times, such weary nights and days.
Those journeying feet knew all its inmost ways;
Where shapes and shadows of dread things were cast,
There moved thy soul, profoundly dark and vast,
There did thy voice its hymn of anguish raise.
Thou wouldst have left that City of great Night,
Yet travelled its dark mazes, all in vain;
But one way leads from it, which found aright,
Who goes by it may not return again.
There didst thou grope thy way, through thy long pain;
Hast thou, outside, found any world of light?
333

IN MEMORY OF D. G. ROSSETTI.

What wreath have I above thy rest to place,
What worthy song-wreath, Friend, — nay, more than friend?
For so thou didst all other men transcend
That the pure, fiery worship of old days—
That of the boy, content to hear, to gaze—
Burned on most brightly; though as lamps none tend
The lights on other shrines had made an end,
And darkness reigned where was the festal blaze.
Far from us now thou art; and never again
Thy magic voice shall thrill me, as one thrills
When noblest music storms his heart and brain.
The sea remembers thee, — the woods, the hills,
Sunlight and moonlight, and the hurrying rills,—
And Love saith, “Surely this man leads my train!”
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