 | Weeds by the Wall |  |
40
THE GOLDEN HOUR.
I.
She comes,—the dreamy daughterOf day and night,—a girl,
Who o'er the western water
Lifts up her moon of pearl:
Like some Rebecca at the well,
Who fills her jar of crystal shell,
Down ways of dew, o'er dale and dell,
Dusk comes with dreams of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with dreams of you.
II.
She comes, the serious sisterOf all the stars that strew
The deeps of God, and glister
Bright on the darkling blue:
Like some loved Ruth, who heaps her arm
With golden gleanings of the farm,
Down fields of stars, where shadows swarm,
Dusk comes with thoughts of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with thoughts of you.
III.
She comes, and soft winds greet her,And whispering odors woo;
She is the words and meter
They set their music to:
Like Israfel, a spirit fair,
Whose heart's a silvery dulcimer,
Down listening slopes of earth and air
Dusk comes with love of you,
Of you,
Dusk comes with love of you.
42
“THE YEARS WHEREIN I NEVER KNEW.”
The years, wherein I never knew
Such beauty as is yours,—so fraught
With truth and kindness looking through
Your loveliness,—I count them naught,
O girl, so like a lily wrought!
The years wherein I knew not you.
Such beauty as is yours,—so fraught
With truth and kindness looking through
Your loveliness,—I count them naught,
O girl, so like a lily wrought!
The years wherein I knew not you.
Ah, let me see you always so!—
A dream that haunts my memory's sight—
Your hair of moonlight, face of snow,
And eyes, blue stars of laughing light,
O girl, so like a lily white!
Through all the years that come and go.
A dream that haunts my memory's sight—
Your hair of moonlight, face of snow,
And eyes, blue stars of laughing light,
O girl, so like a lily white!
Through all the years that come and go.
True to you only, in my heart
I wear your spirit miniature,
Sincere in simpleness of art,
That makes my love to still endure,
O girl, so like a lily pure!
Through years that keep us still apart.
I wear your spirit miniature,
Sincere in simpleness of art,
That makes my love to still endure,
O girl, so like a lily pure!
Through years that keep us still apart.
43
QUI DOCET, DISCIT.
I.
When all the world was white with flowers,And Summer, in her sun-built towers,
Stood smiling 'mid her handmaid Hours,
Who robed her limbs for bridal;
Somewhere between the golden sands
And purple hills of Folly's lands,
Love, with a laugh, let go our hands,
And left our sides to idle.
II.
Now all the world is red with doom,And Autumn, in her frost-carved room,
Bends darkly o'er the gipsy loom
Of memories she weaves there;
Who knocks at night upon the door,
All travel-worn and pale and poor?—
Open! and let him in once more,
The Love that stands and grieves there.
45
A CAMEO.
Why speak of Giamschid rubies
Whence rosy starlight drips?
I know a richer crimson,—
The ruby of her lips.
Whence rosy starlight drips?
I know a richer crimson,—
The ruby of her lips.
Why speak of pearls of Oman
That shells of ocean sheathe?
I know a purer nacre,—
The white pearls of her teeth.
That shells of ocean sheathe?
I know a purer nacre,—
The white pearls of her teeth.
Why tell me of the sapphires
That Kings and Khalifs prize?
I know a lovelier azure,—
The sapphires of her eyes.
That Kings and Khalifs prize?
I know a lovelier azure,—
The sapphires of her eyes.
Go search the far Earth over,
Go search the farthest sea,
You will not find a cameo
Like her God carved for me.
Go search the farthest sea,
You will not find a cameo
Like her God carved for me.
48
MASKED.
Lying alone I dreamed a dream last night:
Methought that Joy had come to comfort me
For all the past, its suffering and slight,
Yet in my heart I felt this could not be.
Methought that Joy had come to comfort me
For all the past, its suffering and slight,
Yet in my heart I felt this could not be.
All that he said unreal seemed and strange,
Too beautiful to last beyond to-morrow;
Then suddenly his features seemed to change,—
The mask of joy dropped from the face of Sorrow.
Too beautiful to last beyond to-morrow;
Then suddenly his features seemed to change,—
The mask of joy dropped from the face of Sorrow.
64
SLEEP IS A SPIRIT.
Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits,Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits;
From out her form a pearly light is shed,
As from a lily, in a lily-bed,
A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone,
And languid as a cloud that drifts alone
In starry heav'n. And her diaphanous feet
Are easy as the dew or opaline heat
Of summer.
Lo! with ears—aurora pink
As Dawn's—she leans and listens on the brink
Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt,
Wherein vague lights and shadows move about,
And palpitations beat—like some huge heart
Of Earth—the surging pulse of which we're part.
One hand, that hollows her divining eyes,
Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies;
And with her gaze she fathoms life and death—
Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath
Of wind, goes wand'ring; whispering low of things,
The irremediable, where sorrow clings.
Around her limbs a veil of woven mist
Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst
To textured crystal; through which symboled bars
Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars
Of nebulous gold.
Shrouding her feet and hair,
Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere,
Dreams come and go; the instant images
Of things she sees and thinks; realities,
Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm
That in the veil take momentary form:
Now picturing heaven in celestial fire,
And now the hell of every soul's desire;
Hinting at worlds, God wraps in mystery,
Beyond the world we know and touch and see.
66
THE MAN IN GRAY.
Written for the Reunion of the Confederate Veterans at Louisville, Ky., May and June, 1900.
I.
Again, in dreams, the veteran hearsThe bugle and the drum;
Again the boom of battle nears,
Again the bullets hum:
Again he mounts, again he cheers,
Again his charge speeds home—
O memories of those long gone years!
O years that are to come!
We live in dreams as well as deeds, in thoughts as well as acts;
And life through things we feel, not know, is realized the most;
The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face of facts,
If they still feel their cause was just who fought for it and lost.
And life through things we feel, not know, is realized the most;
The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face of facts,
If they still feel their cause was just who fought for it and lost.
67
II.
Again, in thought, he hears at dawnThe far reveille die;
Again he marches stern and wan
Beneath a burning sky:
He bivouacs; the night comes on;
His comrades 'round him lie—
O memories of the years long gone!
O years that now go by!
The vintager of Earth is War, is War whose grapes are men;
Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steaming red:
The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a den,
Drunk with the must of Hell that spurts beneath his iron tread.
Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steaming red:
The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a den,
Drunk with the must of Hell that spurts beneath his iron tread.
III.
Again, in mind, he's lying whereThe trenches slay with heat;
Again his flag floats o'er him, fair
In charge or fierce retreat:
Again all's lost; again despair
Makes death seem three times sweet—
O years of tears that crowned his hair
With laurels of defeat!
There is reward for those who dare, for those who dare and do;
Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know no shame:
Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn they blew,—
Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a name.
Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know no shame:
Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn they blew,—
Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a name.
70
HER PRAYER.
She kneels with haggard eyes and hair
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
What is this thing she begs of him,
The gentle Christ upon the Cross?
Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.
The gentle Christ upon the Cross?
Her hands are clasped; her face is dim.
Is it forgiveness for her sin,
She asks of Christ upon the Cross?
And mercy for the soul within?
She asks of Christ upon the Cross?
And mercy for the soul within?
With anguished face, so sad and sweet,
She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:
Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.
She kneels to Christ upon the Cross:
Her arms embrace his nail-pierced feet.
Her tears run slowly down her face,
O piteous Christ upon the Cross!
And through her tears she sighs and says:—
O piteous Christ upon the Cross!
And through her tears she sighs and says:—
“The thing that I would crave of Thee,
O Christ upon the cruel Cross,
Is not a thing to comfort me.
O Christ upon the cruel Cross,
Is not a thing to comfort me.
“Thou, who hast taught us to forgive,
O tender Christ upon the Cross,
Help Thou my love for him to live.
O tender Christ upon the Cross,
Help Thou my love for him to live.
“Oh, let the love that was my fall,
O loving Christ upon the Cross,
Still to my life be all in all.
O loving Christ upon the Cross,
Still to my life be all in all.
“With love for him who loves no more,
O patient Christ upon the Cross,
Make Thou my punishment full sore.”
O patient Christ upon the Cross,
Make Thou my punishment full sore.”
She kneels with haggard eyes and hair
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
Unto the Christ upon the Cross:
Her gown is torn; her feet are bare.
90
HOODOO.
She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou—
The little green leaves are hushed on the trees—
An owl in an oak cries “Who-oh-who,”
And a fox barks back where the moon slants through
The moss that sways to a sudden breeze...
Or That she sees,
Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon.—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
The little green leaves are hushed on the trees—
An owl in an oak cries “Who-oh-who,”
And a fox barks back where the moon slants through
The moss that sways to a sudden breeze...
Or That she sees,
Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon.—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare—
The little green leaves are stirred on the trees—
A black bat brushes her unkempt hair,
And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there...
Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze,
Or That she sees,
Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
The little green leaves are stirred on the trees—
A black bat brushes her unkempt hair,
And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there...
Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze,
Or That she sees,
Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
She mutters and digs and buries it deep—
The little green leaves are wild on the trees—
And nearer and nearer the noises creep,
That gibber and maunder and whine and weep...
Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze,
Or That she sees,
Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
The little green leaves are wild on the trees—
And nearer and nearer the noises creep,
That gibber and maunder and whine and weep...
Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze,
Or That she sees,
Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear her croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
[OMITTED]
91
In the hut where the other girl sits with him—
The little green leaves hang limp on the trees—
All on a sudden the moon grows dim...
Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb,
Cast in the door by the moaning breeze?
Or That she sees,
Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear it croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
The little green leaves hang limp on the trees—
All on a sudden the moon grows dim...
Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb,
Cast in the door by the moaning breeze?
Or That she sees,
Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear it croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
It has entered in at the open door—
The little green leaves fall dead from the trees—
And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor,
And she in the woods has her lover once more...
And—is it the hoot of the dying breeze?
Or him who sees,
Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear him croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
The little green leaves fall dead from the trees—
And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor,
And she in the woods has her lover once more...
And—is it the hoot of the dying breeze?
Or him who sees,
Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:—
“Soon, oh, soon,” hear him croon,
“Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!”
THE OTHER WOMAN.
You have shut me out from your tears and grief
Over the man laid low and hoary.
Listen to me now: I am no thief!—
You have shut me out from your tears and grief,—
Listen to me, I will tell my story.
Over the man laid low and hoary.
Listen to me now: I am no thief!—
You have shut me out from your tears and grief,—
Listen to me, I will tell my story.
The love of a man is transitory.—
What do you know of his past? the years
He gave to another his manhood's glory?—
The love of a man is transitory.
Listen to me now: open your ears.
What do you know of his past? the years
He gave to another his manhood's glory?—
The love of a man is transitory.
Listen to me now: open your ears.
92
A Song for Labor
Over the dead have done with tears!
Over the man who loved to madness
Me the woman you met with sneers,—
Over the dead have done with tears!
Me the woman so sunk in badness.
Over the man who loved to madness
Me the woman you met with sneers,—
Over the dead have done with tears!
Me the woman so sunk in badness.
He loved me ever, and that is gladness!—
There by the dead now tell her so;
There by the dead where she bows in sadness.—
He loved me ever, and that is gladness!—
Mine the gladness and hers the woe.
There by the dead now tell her so;
There by the dead where she bows in sadness.—
He loved me ever, and that is gladness!—
Mine the gladness and hers the woe.
The best of his life was mine. Now go,
Tell her this that her pride may perish,
Her with his name, his wife, you know!
The best of his life was mine. Now go,
Tell her this so she cease to cherish.
Tell her this that her pride may perish,
Her with his name, his wife, you know!
The best of his life was mine. Now go,
Tell her this so she cease to cherish.
Bury him then with pomp and flourish!
Bury him now without my kiss!
Here is a thing for your hearts to nourish,—
Bury him then with pomp and flourish!
Bury him now I have told you this.
Bury him now without my kiss!
Here is a thing for your hearts to nourish,—
Bury him then with pomp and flourish!
Bury him now I have told you this.
| Weeds by the Wall | |