The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston

Round the vast city draws the twilight gray;
I know men say
This evening is the eve of Christmas Day;
But what has Christmas-time to do with me,
Who live a shameful life out, shamelessly?
A creature now that doth not even yearn
From sin to turn;
Too blind, perchance, it may be to discern
God's mighty mercy, and the boundless love
That those paid, praying preachers tell us of.

Here he lies dead, with whom my shame began!
This is the man,
Through whom my life to such dishonor ran.
His was the snare in which my soul was caught;
Oh, the sweet ways wherein for love he wrought!
Yet God, not he, my wrath of soul shall bear,
God set the snare!
God made him lustful, and God made me fair.
O God! were not his kisses more to me
Than Christians' hopes of immortality?

O lovely, wasted fingers, lithe and long,
So kind and strong!
O lips, wherein all laughter was a song,

All song as laughter! Oh, the cold, calm face,
The speechless marble mouth, that had such ways
Of singing, that for very joy of it
My heart would beat
Almost as loud as when our lips would meet,
And all love's passion, hotter for its shame,
Set panting mouths and thirsting eyes on flame.

Thus, would I part his hair back from the brow;
But look you now,
What thing is left for me, save this, to bow
Myself unto him, as in days gone by,
To stretch myself beside him, and to die;
To crush my burning, aching lips on his,
In one long kiss;
And know how cold and strange a thing death is?
His lips are cold, but my lips are so hot,
That all death's fearful coldness chills them not.

Fast falls the night, and down the iron street,
Loud ring the feet
Of happy people, who pass on to meet
Fair sights of home; I hear the roll and roar
Of traffic, like a sea upon a shore.
One dying candle's pallid light is shed
Upon the bed
Whereon is laid my beautiful, cold dead, —
Mine, altogether mine, for two brief days!
Are not these hands his hands; this face his face?

And now I can recall the time gone by,
The pure fresh sky
Of spring, 'neath which we first met, he and I,
The smell of rainy fields in early spring,
The song of thrushes, and the glimmering

Of rain-drenched leaves by sudden sun made bright;
The tender light
Of peaceful evening, and the saintly night.
Sweet, still, the scent of roses; only this,
They had a perfume then which now I miss.

Yea, too, I can recall the night wherein
Did first begin
The joy of that intoxicating sin.
Late was the day in April, gray and still,
Too faint to gladden, and too mild to chill;
Hot lay upon my lips the last night's kiss,
The first of his:
I wandered blindly between shame and bliss;
And, yearning, hung all day about the lane,
Where, in the evening, he should come again.

Now, when the time of the sun's setting came,
The sky caught flame;
For all the sun, which as an empty name
Had been that day, then rent the leaden veil
And flashed out sharp, 'twixt watery clouds, and pale,
Then, suddenly, a stormy wind upsprang,
That shrieked and sang;
Around the reeling tree-tops, loud it rang,
And all was dappled blue, and faint, fresh gold,
Lovely and virgin, wild and sweet and cold.

Then through the wind I heard his voice ring out;
And half in doubt,
Trembling and glad, I turned, and looked about,
And saw him standing in my downward way,
Full in the splendor of the dying day.
Silent I stood a space, and then at last
Strong arms were cast
About me, and his burning spirit passed
Into my spirit, till the twain as one
Shone out together under passion's sun.

I felt that joy unnamable was near;
A great sweet fear
Fell all around me, and no thing was clear
To me save this, — that in his arms I lay,
And felt his kisses burn my soul away.
I heard the wild wind singing in my hair,
And saw the fair
Green branches tossing in the stormy air;
And, through the failing light, I heard a voice
That cried, “O soul, at least this night rejoice!”

Ah me! the shameless, limitless delight
Of that spring night!
The magic ways wherein, 'twixt dusk and light,
I wandered, dazed and faint with joy's excess —
Ah, God! what human creature shall express
That night's dear joy, the long thirst quenched at last,
All shame outcast,
The haven entered, and the tempest past?
O shameful, sacred night, whereby alone
I bear with life till life's last day be done!

But when the feverish night had passed away,
And faint and gray,
On wet, chill April fields calm broke the day,
I rose, and in an altered world had part;
Love, marred by shame, lay bitter at my heart.
Through all my daily rounds that day I went,
Till day was spent;
And with the night once more came sweet content,
And joy that shut out every thought of shame,
And made of infamy an empty name.

Then quickly came the waste, gold, summer days,
The blinding blaze
Of burning sunlight, and the sultry ways

Of breathless nights, wherein the moon seemed strange,
And with the scent of roses came the change;
Yea, when as naked blades sharp-edged and bright,
'Neath blasting light,
Sharp flashed the streams; when every coming night,
Solemn with moonlight, or with stars thrilled through,
Or quite unlit but passionately blue,

Was sweet as rest, — 'mid song and scent and flame,
To me there came
The sense of loss, and bitterness of shame.
Surely between his kisses he had said,
“O love! before the summer-time has fled
I will return, and thou with me shalt come
To a fair home.”
My kisses answered, for my voice was dumb.
Ah, God! those terrible June days, wherein
No rapture came to hush the cry of sin.

O sickening perfume of those summer days!
O tree-girt ways
Wherein we wandered! O the happy place
Where first I burst on love, and love on me!
O sleepless nights when tears fell bitterly!
So died the Summer, and the Autumn sweet,
With languid feet,
And recollections of the by-gone heat
Came down to us; but still he came no more,
And then I knew my destiny was sure.

I know not how, at length, when hope was gone,
And shame had grown
Too sharp a thing to be endured alone,
I left the peaceful country far behind,
And to the mighty city came to find
Some opiate for pain, and found it, too.
Fresh passions grew
Within me; and a little while I knew

The bitter joys that set the blood on flame, —
So grief slays joy, and wretchedness slays shame.

But still, through every feverish night and day,
The old love lay
Hot at my heart, though he had gone his way,
As I had mine; sometimes of him I heard,
And how the world was by his spirit stirred.
Then came the news, how he lay dying here!
I shed no tear,
I only felt the time at length was near,
When meeting I should see his face again,
And feel, through all, I had not lived in vain.

And now it is two nights ago, since first
With eyes athirst
To see his face, resolved to know the worst,
I came in here, and stood beside his bed.
No look he gave me, and no word he said;
But I said, bowing down, and speaking low, —
“Two years ago
You slew my honor; and I come here now
To tell you, whether yet you die or live,
Lost as I am, I love you, and forgive.”

He turned, and then I knew that he would speak;
Against my cheek
Hot beat the blood; I stood there dazed and weak.
He said: “O face and voice that I remember!
'T was July then, and now it is December;
Poor dove! that all God's hawks for prey have got.
Ah me! how hot
This fever burns, and she remembers not
The ways of love wherein last June we trod!—
They work their will, this woman and her God.”

Thus, as towards ending of his speech he drew,
I only knew
Some other bitter mem'ry had come through

His thoughts of me, and set his soul adrift;
Then, as he backward fell, I saw him lift
Bright hollow eyes unto the wall, whereon
A picture shone, —
A picture now that from the wall has gone;
A portrait of a woman strange as fair,
With calm gray eyes, and wayward golden hair.

The pale, calm face, immovable and sad,
Such beauty had
As well might make with love a strong man mad.
The long sweet hands upon her breast were laid,
The full throat just a little back was swayed,
Its firm white beauty better to expose;
The mouth kept close
The spirit's secret of all joys and woes.
So calm and still he lay I thought he slept,
Till, bending nearer down, I knew he wept.

And then he said, as one who speaks in dreams, —
“O face that gleams
Upon me when in sleep my spirit seems
To walk with thine! O long-loved love, O sweet,
O vanished eyes, O unreturning feet!
O heart that all the tempest of my love
Could no way move!
O death, is not the end now sharp enough, —
To love her, and to lose her, and to die,
While she knows not how life is going by?

“Could she know all, I think she would arise,
And let her eyes,
Wherein the very calm of heaven lies,
Fall on my face; yea, too, I do believe,
So sweet her sweet soul is, that she would grieve

A little space, in silence sitting here,
To see draw near
Death's sea o'er which no light and land appear;
Yea, too, with words and touches she might make
The death-ward path smile as a flowering brake.”

Then all his love came on him, and he cried, —
“O death! divide
My soul from thought of hers; O darkness! hide
The passionless cold face, and speechless mouth
By mine unkissed, that waste my soul with drought!
O love, and must I die unkissed by thee?
What man shall be
The chosen one to come 'twixt thee and me?”
Then forth into the air he stretched his hand,
As one who, drowning, strives to reach the land.

Upon his brow a trembling touch I laid,
And tearless said,—
“Lie down and rest.” Then, as the rain is shed
When awful thunder-storms break up the heat,
My kisses on his lips and eyelids beat,
My fingers met and closed within his hair,
He was so fair;
And, like the unhoped granting of a prayer,
Such prayers as dying men for life must pray,
At length upon my hand his kisses lay.

Then by him, bowed with all my love, I fell,
And cried, “'T is well,
Live yet, and in thy presence let me dwell!”
He smiled, and said, “O tender hands and kind,
O lovely, worshipped hands that now I find
So sweet, so sweet! O love, that bringest bliss,
What joy is this
To gain at last the heaven of thy kiss?”
And then he turned himself, gave thanks and sighed,
Nor spake again; and in the dawn he died.

My lips sealed up his eyes, my hands were spread
Beneath his head.
I stretched the lovely limbs upon the bed,
Folded the wasted hands upon the breast;
As there he lay in calm and frozen rest,
The drawn and rigid lips looked cold and stern,
That seemed to spurn
All joys and griefs; no soul was left to yearn
Within the hollow, dreamless, lampless eyes,
Whose death-look said the dead soul shall not rise.

I know not whether I did wrong or right,
But in the night
I came into his room, and raised the light
Unto the pictured face upon the wall
That looked on his, and was not moved at all;
I took it down, — the face indeed was fair, —
But, standing there,
I spurned it with my foot as God spurns prayer;
And lacking strength, not will, to spoil the face,
I cast it forth where none might know its grace.

And yet I think sometimes if he could know,
Loving her so, —
As men, O God, can love and bear with woe, —
He might be angry for the face downcast,
And for it come to hate me, at the last.
But now the heavy tread upon the stair
Of men who bear
Some strange thing up; they come, they will not spare.
O God! they come, and now the door goes back;
They smell of death, the thing they bear is black.

SHAKE HANDS AND GO.

Come now, behold, how small a thing is love;
How long ago is it since, side by side,
We stood together, in that summer-tide,
And heard the June sea, blue and deep and wide,
Murmuring as one that in her dreams doth move
To thoughts of love's first kiss and beauty's pride?

How long is it? But one brief year ago,—
One autumn, and one winter, and one spring;
Now, as last year, the birds awake and sing,
Once more unto the hills the hill-flowers cling.
How is it with you? What heart you have, I know,
Changes with every comer and fresh thing.

And yet, I think you loved me for a space;
At all events you loved my love of you:
Whether to me or that your love was due
I know not. While it lived perchance 't was true;
But you forget each season and each face,
And love the new as long as it is new.

Scan o'er that time, as at the close of day
One thinks what he has done or left undone;
Know you those days when noontide heats of sun
Smote full upon us, and we strove to shun
Their flaming force and took the sheltered way
'Neath shading trees, with green leaves softly spun

There in an island of dim green and shade
We paused, while round, like a great silent sea,
Lay the blue, blinding, burning day; but we
Knew nothing save our own life's melody,
And there, until the day was done, delayed;
Then homeward wended o'er the dewy lea.

Know you those moonlit nights upon the sand,—
The golden sand beside the lucid deep,—
Where soft waves rippled as they sang in sleep;
How there we sowed what I alone shall reap?
Nay, feign not thus to draw away your hand,
Nor droop your lids; I know you cannot weep.

O pliant crimson lips and bright cold eyes,—
Lips that my lips have pressed, and fingers sweet
That lay about my neck, or soft, would meet
Around my eyes to screen them from the heat;
Where are your words, where is our paradise?
Your love was warm as summer — and as fleet.

And yet, behold, with some how strong is love;
How helpless is the dupe that boasts a heart!
I know you now, and yet regret to part.
Fairer than ever, in the marriage mart
You'll fetch your price; time's dealings that are rough
With nature, leave untouched the works of art.

Well, kiss once more as in the gone-by time;
Let your hair mix with mine; take hands again.
Your kiss is sweet — and do you only feign?
There, look once more on jutting cliff and main;
And now go hence, while I in some sad rhyme
Weave our love's tale, — brief joy and lasting pain.

Go, go thy way; return not to the gates
Of the fair past, forsake the dear dead days;
I know thou wilt. I to some distant place
May wander, and forget your voice and face.
Ah, let us say “Good-by!” I know one waits;
He paid his price, and for his purchase stays.

TO A CHILD.

I kiss you, dear, and very sweet is this,
To feel you are not tainted by my kiss;
Cling with your warm soft arms about me so,
Give me one small sweet kiss and murmur low,
In speech as sweet as broken music is.

How long shall God my Lily darling give
Untainted by the shrieking world to live? —
I cannot tell; but this my wish shall be,
Longer at least than God has given me.
Ah, sweet, be glad; as yet, you need not grieve.

There, see, I put the hair back from your face,
And if my lips in kissing should displace
Your sunny hair, you will but laugh, my child, —
A babbling silver laugh and undefiled:
God keep it so, through the all-ruling days.

But, I, who in the darkness sit alone,
With heart that, once rebellious, now has grown
Too weak to strive with foes that smite unseen,
Will only ask you once your head to lean
Upon this heart which grief has made his throne.

I will not tell you of the things I know;
I cannot bar the path that you must go;
God's bitter lesson must be learnt by all;
But, living, I will listen to your call,
And stretch to you a hand that you may know.

You feel the wind against you as you run,
And love its strength, and revel in the sun.
So once did I, and but for this last blow,
Of which none other knows, so might I now;
But now for me the light of life is done.

These little hands that lose themselves in mine,
May some day haply in a man's hair twine,
While 'neath their touch his heart shall palpitate;
Then will your soul with triumph be elate,
And mix sharp poison in a maddening wine?

But see you keep your lips from tasting sweet;
For it begets within us such a heat
As cooling waters never can allay.
We see, through mists of blood and tears, the day,
Until we sicken for the nightfall's feet.

There, there, you 're weary, and I let you go;
But this kiss, softer than a flake of snow,
I will remember when alone I stand.
I wonder will you ever understand
The reason why I loved and kissed you so.

BEFORE BATTLE.

Here in this place, where none can see,
Lean out your throat, and let us kiss;
Who knows? — to-morrow I may be
As far from any joy like this,
As is my own sea-beaten strand
From this fair land.

She put the hair back from her face,
And kissed him on his eager mouth;
Her kiss was warm, and long her gaze,
He felt the passion of his youth
Burn fierce through every thrilling vein
Till it was pain.

He filled for her a cup of wine,
The sparkling wine as red as blood;
She quickly drank, and for a sign
He kissed its edge, as saints the rood,
Before Death plucks their souls away,
Too faint to pray.

He said, “O love, the wine is sweet,
But, sweet, thy kiss is sweeter still!”
She flushed, with sudden joy and heat;
She said, “O love, then take thy fill
Of both these things, for both thine are,
Before the war.”

Another cup of wine he quaffed,
Then in his arms her form he pressed.
He murmured low; she sighed and laughed, —
And they clung fiercely breast to breast:
While all her hair fell round his face,
Her love to grace.

She thrilled with passion, till her lips
Could nothing do but kiss and cleave;
Their souls were like sea-driven ships.
He felt her swelling bosom heave;
His lips her lips with kisses flaked,
Till both lips ached.

His face above her fair, flushed face,
Now seemed a thing to wonder on;
Her soul was ravished by his gaze,
Her warm, wet eye-lids shook and shone,
Till, leaning back, for pure delight,
She laughed outright.

He wrung her long sweet fingers out;
He drained the passion of her mouth;
Her hair was all his face about, —
O life to life! O youth to youth!
O sea of joy, whose foam is fire!
O great desire!

But, suddenly, a sharp, shrill sound
Cut like a sword their dear delight.
Once more his arms about her wound;
They felt their pulses beat and smite.
At last he said, in accents low,
“The foe! the foe!”

Then quickly from her arms he sprang;
For all the night-black winding street
With clash of deadly weapons rang,
And sudden storm of passing feet.
She heard the thunder of the drum, —
Her lips grew dumb.

“O one night's love! Good-by!” he said,
And kissed her on the lips, and passed.
She heard his quick, departing tread;
She saw the torches glare at last;
She saw the street grow light as day,
And swooned away.

A long hour afterwards, or more,
With stormy music, loud and strong,
With light behind, and light before,
The men marched down, an armèd throng;
And as they passed, he saw her light
Still burning bright.

She from her chamber-window leant,
Deep down into the street to gaze;
Her head upon her hands was bent:
He looked, but could not see her face,
But still he thought, through sound and flame,
She cried his name.

She watched the torches fade away,
She listened till the street grew still,
Then back upon her bed she lay,
Of her own thoughts to drink her fill;
And afterwards, when others wept,
She only slept.

Next night she revelled in the dance,
She quaffed her wine, she sang her song;
While he, with soldier's eyes askance,
And heart with lust of slaying strong,
Leaped laughing into battle's hell,
And struck and fell!

UPON THE SHORE.

All, love, is as it was this time last year,
When we together stood as now we stand,
By the same sea, on the same curving strand;
And, as last year we heard, so now we hear
The rippling of the water cool and clear!

The old grief still goes with me near and far,
Like the sweet burden of a mournful air
Full of the sadness of unanswered prayer;
Not sad with discords strange that strike and jar,
But sad as early autumn twilights are.

And you? You know I do not blame you, sweet;
My lot was sore and had but little ease,
And his was smooth and soft, a path of peace, —
Ah, well it was, love, that the path was smooth
For your soft beauty and your untried youth.

Let us recall the past a little space, —
That night of summer storm, when on the shore
We heard athwart the sea the thunder roar,
And sound of rising wind, and saw the blaze
Of lightning all about the sea-girt place.

That night you leaned your head upon my breast,
As now upon another breast you lean.
O days gone by, O days that might have been!
To love is good, no doubt; but you love best
A calm safe life, with wealth and ease and rest.

Gifts he will bring you, dear, each mood to please;
And make life soft and pleasant for your feet;
But will he give you love like mine, O sweet,
From which my heart can never know release
Till death and darkness bring me perfect peace?

Nay, let us once take hands before we part;
You bore — half prized — my love a little while, —
'T was something that long summer to beguile!
There, see, I kiss the hand that cast the dart;
You gave me grief, and I gave you my heart!

WAITING.

When shall I see that land where I would tread;
That shrine where I would fain bow knee and head?
In autumn — ere the autumn pass, I said;
In winter — ere the winter-time is sped;
In spring — ere yet spring's fair sweet feet are fled;
In summer — ere the summer-time is shed, —
And now I say, perchance when I am dead.

IN PRAISE OF HER.

What thing is there on earth to which I can
My love compare?
So far she is beyond all praise of man,
That speech is bare
To say how fair
She is beyond comparison.

Her nature seems like some warm summer sea,
That bears alone
The utmost glory, and the majesty
Of all the sun,
Till day be done,
Then takes the stars for company.

As children who for cooling waters crave
On some hot day,
And in the ebb of the retreating wave,
Are glad to play,
And feel the spray
Their gleaming, panting bodies lave, —

So in the shallows of her nature we
Are glad to move:
I know not if on earth a man there be
Found strong enough
The depths thereof
To reach, in calm security.

Yea, all the music of a summer deep
Her tones possess;
Such melody as comes when light winds sleep,
And souls confess
Joy's keen excess
In tears that are most sweet to weep.

O deep, kind sea! O passionate, wild sea!
Thy strong tides flow
'Twixt God's vast life and our mortality;
Yet who shall know
Where thy waves go, —
Who say where the far strand may be?

IN GRIEF.

With thee so vanished, our life's light has flown;
A sudden night has fallen on the day, —
A cheerless, moonless night, with no white way
Of stars that lead to lands of men unknown;
A night wherein the winds of grief are loud;
A night made black with sorrow as a cloud;
A night that wraps its darkness as a shroud
Around a world now sad and cold and gray.

God fashioned thee and gave thy spirit birth,
To ease a little our sore load of pain;
More sweet to us thy love was than the rain
Is, after long hot days, to the parched earth.

Thou wert a refuge in a stormy deep;
From thee there flowed a peace like conscious sleep.
I will not sow sweet things, who may not reap;
I will not strive, who nothing here may gain.

As is, to one within his dungeon's gloom,
A sudden burst of music and of light,
Cleaving the darkness, trancing ear and sight, —
Making resplendent what is still his tomb, —
So, living, to my prisoned soul thou wert;
Now all once more is dark about my heart, —
No light, nor any sound its depth shall part,
And there shall be no daybreak to this night.

Now all is done; no more is left to do.
A space we stood together on life's shore
Waving weak hands to those who went before;
Thou knowest now if heavenly skies are blue;
Thou knowest if the after-world is sweet: —
Dost thou tread light or darkness 'neath thy feet?
When with weak hands upon the gate we beat,
Will it be opened, or closed evermore?

And shall we meet with lips that yearn to kiss, —
Meet soul to soul as face to face on earth?
And shall there be an end of death and dearth?
Yea, shall there be a harvest-time of bliss;
And shall we stand together side by side,
Never again to sorrow or divide?
And shall at length our hearts be satisfied,
Full of the wonder of the second birth?

Shall this life past be as a dream outdreamed,—
The ghastly fancy of a fevered brain?
Shall we at all remember the old pain,
So great it past all human bearing seemed?

If angels tell us of that mournful time,
Will it then sound but as an empty rhyme
Made by a boy in some forgotten clime?
Ah, shall we say we have not lived in vain?

Shall we stand up before the face of God,
Stand up and sing a loud, glad song of praise,
And bless him for the sorrow of our days,
And kiss with pure cold lips the burning rod
Wherewith he hath so stricken us, that we
Might fare at length within his home to be,
Traced in the light of his divinity,
And blinded by the glory of his face?

O strange and unseen land whereto we come,
Are thy shores shores of day, or shores of night?
As we draw near shall we indeed see light,
And shall we hear, through lessening wind and foam,
The voice of her we love sound from the land,
And, looking shorewards, shall we see her stand
Girt round with glory on a peaceful strand,
Smiling to see our dark skiff heave in sight?

I cannot know; there is no man who knows.
We are, and we are not, — and that is all
The knowledge which to any may befall;
We know not life's beginning, nor life's close, —
'Twixt dawn and twilight shine the sunny hours
Wherein some hands pluck thorns and some hands flowers;
'Twixt light and shade are shed the sudden showers;
Yet night shall cover earth as with a pall.

Sadder than all thou art, O song of mine,
Because thou callest vainly on her name;
Because thou fain wouldst rise, and sudden flame
Before God's face and her face most divine,

And tell her of the bitter grief we feel,
And pray her by some sweet sign to reveal
The land which God and darkness so conceal, —
Say where our sorrows lead and whence they came.

O saddest of sad songs by sad lips sung,
Fresh hopes may rise, fresh passions snake-like hiss,
Or fresh illusions find fresh rods to kiss;
But joy is fleet, and memory is long, —
And on the fair sweet reaches of the past,
Lovely and still, for evermore is cast
A sad and sacred light which shall outlast
The fierce and short-lived glare of summer bliss.

Alas, poor song, all singing is in vain;
What thing more sad is left for thee to say?
Oh, weary time of life, and weary way,
Can dead souls rise, or lost joys live again?
Now by the hand of sorrow are we led;
Though sweet things come, they come as joys born dead:
Let us arise, go hence, for all is said,
And we must bide the breaking of the day.

PAST AND FUTURE.

O Love, once more if we
Should meet, and once more stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea,

Should we speak of the past,
But two brief years gone by,
When, 'neath the summer sky,
Was born what shall not die
While life with me shall last!

Shall I recall that day,
My last of perfect peace,
When through the branching trees
The gusty summer breeze
Moved singing on its way,

And far off lay the main;
But we together stood
Within that well-loved wood:
Then life looked to me good,
It looks not so again!

Yes, far off lay the sea;
And, vaguely and half seen,
We caught its tender sheen
Of blue that mixed with green,
As I would mix with thee,

And hold thee for a space
Within my arms, O sweet,
Till heart to heart should beat,
And our glad lips should meet,
As in the dear gone days, —

A space wherein to sigh
With love, and bow my head
Down to thy face, and shed
My soul for thee to tread
Beneath thy feet, then die!

But strong is fate, O love,
Who makes, who mars, who ends,
Whose strength with weakness blends,
Who joy with sorrow sends, —
Just little joy enough

To mock us, crying — lo,
What might be, and what is!
Yea, often falls the kiss,
The long-desired bliss,
On lips that nothing know.

O love, what did we say?
I know thou canst not tell;
But I know, ah, too well,
Each little word that fell
From thy lips on that day!

Yea, I shall see till death
Thy face, thy deep blue eyes,
And hear the soft short sighs
That take, with sweet surprise
Of sound, the rapid breath!

Thy lot is sweet for thee;
Fair, flowery is thy way;
With thee 't is always May.
My life is cold and gray
As any winter sea!

Perchance thou mayst recall
That mute warm summer night,
When with the moon's clear light
The sea was calm and bright,
And no wind was at all!

And hardly could the deep
Get strength to kiss the strand, —
The sea-wet shining sand;
A spell lay on the land
As of great love and sleep!

Still, love, my sad sight sees,
As in the days that were,
Those eyes that would not spare,
That light of golden hair
As flame blown by a breeze!

Oh, sound of vanished feet,
Oh, sad remembering
In winter of the spring!
My lips now only sing
Sad songs, and no more sweet!

I shall live on, and see
Fresh people and fresh days;
But none the reason trace
Why one name of one place
Is more than tune to me!

But when I call the name,
The reason thou mayst find, —
O fair land left behind!
O sea of summer, blind
With light of summer flame!

Yea, love! no more may we
Together walk or stand
Upon the golden strand,
Between the sea and land,
The green land and the sea!

BALLAD.

“O mother, the wind wails wearily;
The twilight gathers round the shore
And on the sea;
Oh, loud he cries, ‘Love come to me,
And weep no more!’
Alas! my love, I am not free,
And my heart is sore.”

“Be still, my daughter, and have no fear,
'T is but your fancy's idle play,
No sound ye hear
Save winds and breakers roaring near
From the vexed bay;
Be still, my child, my daughter dear,
Wait for the day.”

“O Willie, the night is bleak and bare,
No moonlight shines upon the main.
In my gold hair,
And on my shoulders white and fair,
I feel the rain.
Willie, my love, where are you, where?
Do you call in pain?”

“Oh, ask me not too much, my love,
The starless night is like a pall
Your truth to prove;
Will you not come through bay and cove,
Love, when I call. —
Thro' waves that white and whirling move,
Each wave a wall?”

She girt her raiment to her knee;
She left the barren cliffs behind,
And to the sea
She set her face right silently.
“Love, I am blind,
Oh, guide me as I come to thee,
Clothed with the wind:

“Blind with the force of beaten foam;
Blind with the driven rain and sleet, —
O love, I come!
O love, await me in thy home;
Love guide my feet!”
She spake no more; her lips grew dumb, —
Red lips and sweet.

AFTER MANY DAYS.

In autumn's silent twilight, sad and sweet,
O love, no longer mine, alone I stand;
Listening, I seem to hear dear phantom feet
Pass by me down the golden wave-worn strand:
I think of things that were, and things that be;
I hear the soft low ripples of the sea
That to my thoughts responsive music beat.

My heart is very sad to-night and chill,
But hushed in awe, as his who turns and feels
A mournful rapture through his being thrill,
When music, sweet and slumb'rous, softly steals
Down the deep calm of some cathedral nave,
Then swells and throbs and breaks as does a wave,
And slowly ebbs, and all again is still.

And is it only five years since, O love,
That we in this old place stood side by side,
Where in the twilight once again I move?
Is this the same shore washed by the same tide?
My heart recalls the past a little space,
The sweet and the irrevocable days;
I knew not then how bitter life might prove.

I loved you then, and shall love till I die;
Your way of life is fair, it should be so,
And I am glad, though in dark years gone by
Hard thoughts of you I had; but now I know
A fairer and a softer path was meet
For treading of your dainty maiden feet:
Your life must blossom 'neath a summer sky.

The twilight, like a sleep, creeps on the day,
And like dark dreams the night creeps on that sleep;
If you should come again in the old way,
And look from pensive tender eyes and deep
Upon me, as you looked in days of old;
If my hand should again of yours take hold, —
How should I feel, and what things should I say?

Ah, sweet days flown shall never come again;
That happy summer-time shall not return,
When we two stood beside this peaceful main,
And saw at eve the rising billows yearn
With passion to the moon, and heard afar,
Across the waves, and 'neath the first warm star,
From ships at sea some sweet remembered strain.

I can recall the day when first we met,
And how the burning summer sunlight fell
Across the sea; nor, love, do I forget
How, underneath that summer noontide spell,

We saw afar the white-sailed vessels glide
As phantom ships upon a waveless tide,
Whose shining calm no breezes come to fret.

And shall I blame you, sweet, because you chose
A softer path of life than mine could be?
I keep our secret here, and no man knows
What passed five years ago 'twixt you and me, —
Two loves begotten at the self-same time,
When that gold summer tide was in its prime:
One love lives yet, and one died with the rose.

I work, and live, and take my part in things,
And so my life goes on from day to day;
Fruitless the summers, seedless all the springs,
To him who feels December one with May:
The night is not more dreary than the sun,
Not sadder is the twilight, dim and dun,
Than dawn that still returning shines and sings.

Fed with wet scent of hills, through growing shades,
To the white water's edge the wind moans down;
The lapping tide steals on, while daylight fades,
And fills the caves with shells and seaweed brown.
Ah, wild sea-beaten coast, more dear to me
Than fairest scenes of that fair land could be
Where warm Italian suns steep happy glades!

Farewell, familiar scene, for I ascend
The jagged path that led me to the shore;
Farewell to cliff, cave, inlet, — each a friend, —
My parting steps shall visit ye no more:
Dear are ye all where soft light steals through gloom.
Here had my joy its birth; here found its tomb.
Here love began; and here one love had end.

OUT OF EDEN.

Again the summer comes, and all is fair;
A sea of tender blue, the sky o'erhead
Stretches its peace; the roses white and red,
Through the deep silence of the trancèd air,
In a mute ecstasy of love declare
Their souls in perfume, while their leaves are fed
With dew and moonlight that fall softly, shed
Like slumber on pure eyelids unaware.

O wasted affluence of scent and light!
Each gust of fragrance smites me tauntingly;
Yon placid stars have rankling shafts for me;
My great despair, by its own fatal might,
Converts to pain the loveliness of night.
Ah, would I could from all this beauty flee,
And, 'neath some gray sky on a cheerless sea,
Let drift a life that cannot end aright.

Vain flower of fame from which is gone the scent,
Vain crown no longer glorious in mine eyes,
Vain hopes at which, years back, my joy would rise
Like melody within an instrument
When skilled hands touch the strings. All now is spent,
And what is gained? Lo, I have won my prize,
And here neglected at my feet it lies;
It meant so much, — ah, what was that it meant?

For thee, lost love, I shall not see again;
The pale sad beauty of thy tender face —
Once lamp and light of this now starless place —

Comes to me in my dreams, and I am fain
To hold thee in my arms, and so retain
Thy phantom form in one long wild embrace;
A flush illumes the features of dead days,
But fades before the lights in heaven wane.

I am as one who, in a festive hall
Ablaze with glow of flowers and cresset fires,
Hears from a hundred joy-begetting lyres
A storm of music roll from wall to wall,
Yet feels no joy upon his spirit fall;
For all the while his wandering heart desires
One small sweet waif of sound those pealing quires
May scorn, may drown, but never can recall.

Yea, seem I like that fabled king of old
Who gained his wish, and woke one morn — and lo!
With gold his bed and chamber were aglow,
And when his glad arms did his child enfold,
He clasped but to his heart a form of gold, —
Gold roses in her breast, no more of snow,
Gold hair upon her golden, polished brow,
Hard, bright the hands of which his hands took hold.

But from her trance of gold he saw her wake,
Saw life and bloom return to all the flowers;
Green grew again and fresh the wind-stirred bowers,
And from its golden frost was freed the lake;
But, though I drain my heart for my love's sake,
She will not come to make my waste of hours
Fruitful as earth beneath warm sun and showers,
Nor quick with scent my scentless roses make.

Dear soul, to-night our wedding-night had been;
And death has come to you, and fame to me.
The summer's breath makes music in the tree,
Its kiss with over-love has charred the green;
Through quivering boughs I catch night's starry sheen,

A sense of unborn music seems to be
In air and moonlight falling tenderly, —
And yet I draw no sweetness from the scene.

O love, sweet love, my first, my only love,
How can I find those flowering meadows sweet,
That feel no more the kisses of your feet!
O silent heart that grief no more can move,
O loved and loving lips, whereto mine clove
Till hope, long stanch, with thy heart's muffled beat
Furled his lorn flag and made his last retreat,
And all was void below, and dark above!

Pale shape, they should have clothed thee like a bride;
Have twined a bridal chaplet round thy head,
And decked thy cold grave as a marriage-bed;
For, though the envious darkness strive to hide,
I still shall find thee, sweet, and by thy side
Lie peaceful down, while hands and lips shall wed,
And winds, attuned to lays of love we said,
Float o'er the stillness where we twain abide.

But now the gulf between us, love, is deep:
I labor yet a little in the fight,
And bear the outrage of the joyous light, —
I toil by day, and in the night I sleep,
And then my heart gets ease, for I can weep;
But you, in starless, songless depths of night,
With dreamless slumber shed upon your sight,
Rest where none need to sow, or care to reap.

A GARDEN REVERIE.

I hear the sweeping fitful breeze
This early night in June;
I hear the rustling of the trees
That had no voice at noon.
Clouds brood, and rain will soon come down
To gladden all the panting town
With the cool melody that beats
Upon the busy dusty streets.

But in this space of narrow ground
We call a garden here —
Because less loudly falls the sound
Of traffic on the ear,
Because its faded grass-plot shows
One hawthorn tree, which each May blows,
Whereon the birds in early spring
At sun-dawn and at sun-down sing —

I muse alone. A rose-tree twines
About the brown brick wall,
Which strives, when Summer's glory shines,
To gladden at its festival,
Yet lets, upon the path beneath,
Such pale leaves drop as I would wreathe
Around a portrait that to me
Is all my soul's divinity:

A face in nowise proud or grand,
But strange, and sad and fair;
A maiden twining round her hand
A tress of golden hair,

While in her deep pathetic eyes
The light of coming trouble lies,
As on some silent sea and warm
The shadow of a coming storm.

From those still lips shall no more flow
The tones that, in excess
Of tremulous love, touched more on woe
Than quiet happiness,
When my arms strained her in a grasp
That sought her very soul to clasp;
When my hand pressed that hand most fair, —
I hold now but a tress of hair.

How look, this breezy summer night,
The places that we knew
When all the hills were flushed with light
And July seas were blue?
Does the wind eddy through our wood
As through this garden solitude?
Do the same trees their branches toss
The undulating wind across?

What feet tread paths that now no more
Our feet together tread?
How in the twilight looks the shore?
Is still the sea outspread
Beneath the sky, a silent plain
Of silver lights that wax and wane?
What ships go sailing by the strand
Of that fair consecrated land?

Alas! what voice shall now reply?
Not thine, arrested gale,
That 'neath the dark and pregnant sky
Subsidest to a wail.

On dusty city, silent plain,
And on thy village grave the rain
Comes down, while I to night shall jest,
And hide a secret in my breast.

“MY LOVE IS DEAD.”

'Tis Spring, the fresh green glints in the brook,
The primrose laughs from its shady nook,
Winter away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Spring, then — my love is dead!

The Summer is come with burning light;
The swallow wheels and dips in his flight;
The Spring away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Summer, my love is dead!

Autumn is come, with its gold-tressed trees,
Far through the wood sighs the dirge-like breeze;
Summer away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Autumn, my love is dead!

The Winter is come, with white, wan cheek,
The bare boughs toss, and the wild winds shriek;
Autumn away like a ghost has fled, —
Let it be Winter, my love is dead!

DEAD LOVE.

I see that you are weary with the dance;
Inside the air is faint with scent and light,
But here, where many-colored lanterns glance
Through trees whose branches quiver in the night, —
Here let us stand alone a little space,
As in the days departed, face to face.

Your hair is not less golden than of old,
Your eyes are not less subtly sweet to snare
The souls of men, and still your curled lips hold
The magic of a smile which was more fair,
Years back, to me than fairer things could be;
Yet now its charm with flameless eyes I see.

Oh, how your face thrilled through me, five years' since;
The touch of this small hand I hold in mine
Would warm my blood like fire, while lips would wince
To feel your kiss; and as a shaken vine
That bows its straining branches to the wind,
So then to me you yearned, with love made blind.

Then our lips clove, as if they ne'er would part,
Then hands were linked with hands, and eyes met eyes;
Thus quickly never beats again my heart
As in the days of that lost paradise;
For now as tunes played out, as poems said,
The music ceases, the closed book is read.

Then all the ways of life with bliss grew bright,
As when in spring the long-delaying sun
Breaks through the sky and floods the land with light,
And all the heaven's glory is begun;
Though yet before October ends, the skies
Shall look as sad as life-resigning eyes.

So shone our love which, ere late autumn-time,
Lay pale and dying with no breath for speech;
And now a withered rose, an empty rhyme, —
Ah, is this all that fate has left to each?
So tame love's fire, I gaze and snatch no kiss;
Alas! poor love, that it should come to this!

Let's sit beneath this lantern-fruited tree,
That dances in the wind with jewelled light;
Let our souls backward look till they can see
Some little glory of a gone delight:

Can you remember something of that time?
Or have you quite forgotten the old rhyme

I made, that day of days, when I and you
Stood by the sea whose stormy shallows roared
On wastes of shell-strewn sand? The sky was blue
As down the hot sun on the wet sand poured;
Up steamed the sea-scent warm and sharp and sweet;
We laughed to see the billows, thundering, meet.

None, save us twain, upon the shore was seen, —
The gull cried loud his short, hard, stormy cry,
The blown foam crested all the deep sea's green,
The summer sun burnt hot, the wind was high,
And, hissing, dashed the bright spray in our eyes
When a great wave broke with a great surprise.

But see how I have wandered from the verse
Which I remember, though I see you doubt.
Laugh not, songs counted better I 've deemed worse; —
A little love-sick song, and all about
Your face and voice, where still the old charm lies,
Sweet waifs of laughter and soft tender sighs.

It was a sad and happy time, you say,
Yet sweet as is an ever-changing tune;
Ah me, the close of that still July day,
When with the sun's excess earth seemed to swoon,
And we together wandered on the shore,
Half feeling we should wander there no more!

All round, the sea-wet shining nets were spread;
Gold shone the cliffs, and all the sea was bright
As through its glowing depths the sun had shed
His soul in one great ecstasy of light.
It faded; mutely we awhile did stand,
Then left forever that enchanted strand.

Your goal was Paris: there one eve we went,
Your mother with us. How she loved to see
Our love! That night the moon from heaven leant,
As leans some maiden from a balcony
Down looking to the lawn with eager eyes,
To see a loved form through the stillness rise.

Recall the jingling horse-bells, the whip's crack,
The still, lit villages where all was peace,
The hedges in the moonlight strange and black,
The voiceless cornfields and the fleeting trees,
The long hill, wild and steep, which, dashing down,
We saw the tree-girt, white-walled, shining town.

Rattling into its narrow streets we plunged,
And left the dim, still country far behind;
The coach-wheels strained and thundered, whirled and lunged;
At first the great light almost made us blind.
Ah, then, what laughs we laughed, what songs we sung,
While hands unseen, oft meeting, closed and clung.

As hot as ever Eastern desert was
Grew Paris 'neath the blaze of August heat;
The public gardens, sad with withered grass,
Seemed but to say: “Time was when we were sweet,
Before the south wind left us, and the west;
Oh, once more in some gray cloud's shade to rest!”

But life hates joy. The war-cloud burst at length;
The men of England girt themselves for strife,
Amongst them I: it tried my manhood's strength
To kiss you the last time, perchance, in life; —
That night of thunder I remember yet
And how we parted I cannot forget.

The earth with imminent tempest seemed oppressed;
The torpid air shook shuddering to the sound
Of thunder booming slowly from the west:
Long lurid light the vaporous grayness crowned,
And all things, with one stillness, ominously
Waited for that which was about to be.

The o'er-wrought heaven heaved and gasped in flame:
Below, black clouds hemmed in the fading light;
Incensed, the thunder cried aloud God's name,
As one who warns the world ere he shall smite;
When suddenly up sprang a gusty breeze
And spread a panic through the swaying trees.

Then fiercer lightnings clove the sky in twain;
Loud fell the thunder crashing through the sky;
A pause: then like redemption fell the rain,
And hissed against the cracking earth and dry,
Dark all around, save where the lightning's glow
Lit up the empty, tree-fringed court below.

Oh, the last kiss, the long last lingering look,
The touch and thrill of hands that intertwined!
But when at length the storm the sky forsook,
I heard your cry rise mixing with the wind, —
You say my voice was broken; so it was,
But yet did not your own in grief surpass.

Ah, think of how we looked, and what we said;
Laugh as I laugh, — your laugh is sweet to hear.
Love was our sovereign then, rose-garlanded;
He gave us pain and bliss and hope and fear;
Now he is dead; yet know we not how slain,
But this we know, — he shall not live again.

Out in the past, there let him lie and rot —
He had his time of birth and time of death;
Give him one thought now, then remember not
That ever his pale lips were warm with breath.
Oh, I am glad to-night, yea, gay enough
To dance a measure on the grave of love.

Nay, now at our past follies we can smile;
I wept hot tears who had not wept till then.
No second love shall thus our hearts beguile:
It happens to most women and most men
To know one love, which as a sudden fire
Burns and consumes their hearts with great desire.

Then all earth's fairness in one fair face lies;
Then all earth's music in one sweet voice is;
Then, 'neath the long rapt gaze of hungering eyes,
Love leaps to find its vent in one long kiss,
While cold and sad seems every other fate, —
But we can smile now, only saying — wait!

You wedded joys that spring from wealth alone;
I courted fame, — a bright and barren bride,
Whom from Death's arms I snatched to make my own,
When roared the red strife like a stormy tide.
Oh, very strange to-night this meeting is,
So much to feel, and yet one feeling miss:

That comes not back. Speak on, still — sweet, your voice,
Years back it hurt me with delicious pain;
Let us shake hands across our buried joys.
The waltz strikes up: you catch the well-known strain?
When last we heard it 't was that year in France.
Let us go in; your hand for the next dance.

University of Virginia Library

POEMS.

A CHRISTMAS VIGIL.