The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

O what is this cry in our burning ears,
And what is this light on our eyes, dear love?
The cry is the cry of the rolling years,
As they break on the sun-rock, far above;
And the light is the light of that rock of gold
As it burneth bright in a starry sea;
And the cry is clearer a hundredfold,
And the light more bright, when I gaze on thee.
My weak eyes dazzle beneath that gleam,
My sad ears deafen to hear that cry:
I was born in a dream, and I dwell in a dream,
And I go in a dream to die!
O whose is this hand on my forehead bare,
And whose are these eyes that look in mine?
The hand is the Earth's soft hand of air,
The eyes are the Earth's—thro' tears they shine;
And the touch of the hand is so soft, so light,
As the ray of the blind orbs blesseth me;
But the touch is softest, the eyes most bright,
When I sit and smile by the side of thee.
For the mortal Mother's blind eyes beam
With the long-lost love of a life gone by,
On her breast I woke in a beauteous dream,
And I go in a dream to die!

O what are the voices around my way,
And what are these shadows that stir below?

428

The voices of waifs in a world astray,
The shadows of souls that come and go.
And I hear and see, and I wonder more,
For their features are fair and strange as mine,
But most I wonder when most I pore
On the passionate peace of this face of thine.
We walk in silence by wood and stream,
Our gaze upturned to the same blue sky:
We move in a dream, and we love in a dream,
And we go in our dream to die!

O what is this music of merry bells,
And what is this laughter across the wold?
'Tis the mirth of a market that buys and sells,
'Tis the laughter of men that are counting gold.
I walk thro' Cities of silent stone,
And the public places alive I see;
The wicked flourish, the weary groan,
And I think it real, till I turn to thee!
And I smile to answer thine eyes' bright beam,
For I know all's vision that darkens by:
That they buy in a dream, and they sell in a dream,
And they go in a dream to die.

O what are these shapes on their thrones of gold,
And what are those clouds around their feet?
The shapes are kings with their hearts clay-cold,
The clouds are armies that ever meet;
I see the flame of the crimson fire,
I hear the murdered who moan ‘Ah me!’—
My bosom aches with its bitter ire,
And I think it real, till I turn to thee!
And I hear thee whisper, ‘These shapes but seem—
They are but visions that flash and fly,
While we move in a dream, and love in a dream,
And go in our dream to die!’

O what are these Spirits that o'er us creep,
And touch our eyelids and drink our breath?
The first, with a flower in his hand, is Sleep;
The next, with a star on his brow, is Death.
We fade before them whene'er they come,
(And never single those spirits be!)
A little season my lips are dumb,
But I waken ever,—and look for thee.
Yea, ever each night when the pale stars gleam
And the mystical Brethren pass me by,
This cloud of a trance comes across my dream,
As I seem in my dream to die!

O what is this grass beneath our feet,
And what are these beautiful under-blooms?
The grass is the grass of the churchyard, Sweet,
The flowers are flowers on the quiet tombs.
I pluck them softly, and bless the dead,
Silently o'er them I bend the knee,
But my tenderest blessing is surely said,
Tho' my tears fall fast, when I turn to thee.
For our lips are tuned to the same sad theme,
We think of the loveless dead, and sigh;
Dark is the shadow across our dream,
For we go in that dream to die!

O what is this moaning so faint and low,
And what is this crying from night to morn?
The moaning is that of the souls that go,
The crying is that of the souls new-born.
The life-sea gathers with stormy calls,
The wind blows shrilly, the foam flies free.
The great wave rises, the great wave falls,
I swim to its height by the side of thee!
With arms outstretching and throats that scream,
With faces that flash into foam and fly,
Our beings break in the light of a dream,
As the great waves gather and die.

O what is this Spirit with silvern feet,
His bright head wrapt in a saffron veil?
Around his raiment our wild arms beat,
We cling unto them, but faint and fail.

429

'Tis the Spirit that sits on the twilight star,
And soft to the sound of the waves sings he,
He leads the chaunt from his crystal car,
And I join in the mystical chaunt with thee,
And our beings burn with the heavenly theme,
For he sings of wonders beyond the sky,
Of a god-like dream, and of gods in a dream,
Of a dream that cannot die!

O closer creep to this breast of mine;
We rise, we mingle, we break, dear love!
A space on the crest of the wave we shine,
With light and music and mirth we move;
Before and behind us (fear not, sweet!)
Blackens the trough of the surging sea—
A little moment our mouths may meet,
A little moment I cling to thee;
Onward the wonderful waters stream,
'Tis vain to struggle, 'tis vain to cry—
We wake in a dream, and we ache in a dream,
And we break in a dream, and die!

But who is this other with hair of flame,
The naked feet, and the robe of white?
A Spirit, too, with a sweeter name,
A softer smile, a serener light.
He wraps us both in a golden cloud,
He thrills our frames with a fire divine,
Our souls are mingled, our hearts beat loud,
My breath and being are blent with thine:
And the sun-rock flames with a flash supreme,
And the starry waves have a stranger cry—
We climb to the crest of our golden dream,
For we dream that we cannot die!

Aye! the cry rings loud in our burning ears,
And the light flames bright on our eyes, dear love,
And we know the cry of the rolling years
As they break on the sun-rock far above;
And we know the light of the rock of gold,
As it burneth bright in a starry sea,
And the glory deepens a thousandfold
As I name the immortal gods and thee!
We shrink together beneath that gleam,
We cling together before that cry;
We were made in a dream, and we fade in a dream,
And if death be a dream, we die!

Balder the Beautiful.

The gods are brethren. Wheresoe'er
They set their shrines of love or fear,
In Grecian woods, by banks of Nile,
Where cold snows sleep or roses smile,
The gods are brethren. Zeus the Sire
Was fashion'd of the self-same fire
As Odin; He whom Ind brought forth
Hath his pale kinsmen east and north;
And more than one since life began
Hath known Christ's agony for Man.
The gods are brethren. Kin by fate,
In gentleness as well as hate,
'Mid heights that only Thought may climb
They come, they go; they are, or seem;
Each, rainbow'd from the rack of Time,
Casts broken lights across God's Dream.