 | The Ballad of Babie Bell And Other Poems |  |
20
Swallow-Flights.
THE FADED VIOLET.
What thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled—
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:
Though scent and azure tint are fled—
O dry, mute lips! ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:
Of something wilted like thy leaves;
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim—
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim—
That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled as with drinking wine—
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine!
Was purpled as with drinking wine—
For love of her who love forgot,
I hold thy faded lips to mine!
That thou shouldst live when I am dead,
When hate is dead, for me, and wrong,
For this, I use my subtlest art,
For this, I fold thee in my song.
When hate is dead, for me, and wrong,
For this, I use my subtlest art,
For this, I fold thee in my song.
21
MY NORTH AND SOUTH
I am very, very fond
Of a blonde,
Mistress Maud, and so come here,
And yet, and yet, and yet
I like a gay brunette,
Therese, dear!
Of a blonde,
Mistress Maud, and so come here,
And yet, and yet, and yet
I like a gay brunette,
Therese, dear!
O what can a body do
With you two?—
Golden hair and rosy mouth!
Black hair and eyes of jet!
You blonde, and you brunette!
You North and South!
With you two?—
Golden hair and rosy mouth!
Black hair and eyes of jet!
You blonde, and you brunette!
You North and South!
Now, I love you, eyes and curls,
Little girls!
Give me each a dainty hand:
New England's hand shall lie
On my heart, and yours near by—
You understand?
Little girls!
Give me each a dainty hand:
New England's hand shall lie
On my heart, and yours near by—
You understand?
22
THE GHOST'S LADY.
I.
Under the night,In the white moonshine,
Look thou for me
By the graveyard tree,
Lady of mine,
While the nightingales are in tune,
And the quaint little snakes in the grass
Lift their silver heads to the moon.
2.
Blushing with love,In the white moonshine,
Lie in my arms,
So, safe from alarms,
Lady of mine,
While the nightingales are in tune,
And the quaint little snakes in the grass
Lift their silver heads to the moon.
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3.
Paler art thouThan the white moonshine:
Ho! thou art lost—
Thou lovest a Ghost,
Lady of mine!
While the nightingales are in tune,
And the quaint little snakes in the grass
Lift their silver heads to the moon.
26
A BALLAD.
1.
The blackbird sings in the hazel dell,And the squirrel sits on the tree;
And Maud she walks in the merry green-wood,
Down by the summer sea.
2.
The blackbird lies when he sings of love;And the squirrel, a rogue is he;
And Maud is an arrant flirt I trow,
And light as light can be!
3.
O, blackbird, die in the hazel dell!And, squirrel, starve on the tree!
And, Maud—you may walk in the merry greenwood,
You are nothing more to me!
27
LAST NIGHT AND TO-NIGHT.
Last night my soul was lapped
In shallow merriment:
The sweet bee, Music, buzzed about my ears!
Swan-throated women, under chandeliers,
Like odors came and went!
In shallow merriment:
The sweet bee, Music, buzzed about my ears!
Swan-throated women, under chandeliers,
Like odors came and went!
To night I hate them all:
It better suits my mind
To walk where ocean sobs on pitiless crags,
Bethinking me of foul sea-hags
In noisome caves confined.
It better suits my mind
To walk where ocean sobs on pitiless crags,
Bethinking me of foul sea-hags
In noisome caves confined.
30
THE BETROTHAL.
I have placed a golden
Ring upon the hand
Of the sweetest little
Lady in the land!
Ring upon the hand
Of the sweetest little
Lady in the land!
When the early roses
Scent the sunny air,
I shall gather white ones
To tremble in her hair!
Scent the sunny air,
I shall gather white ones
To tremble in her hair!
Hasten, happy roses,
Come to me by May—
In your folded petals
Lies my wedding day!
Come to me by May—
In your folded petals
Lies my wedding day!
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MADAM, AS YOU PASS US BY.
Madam, as you pass us by,
Dreaming of your loves and wine,
Do not brush your rich brocade
Against this little maid of mine,
Madam, as you pass us by.
Dreaming of your loves and wine,
Do not brush your rich brocade
Against this little maid of mine,
Madam, as you pass us by.
When in youth my blood was warm,
Wine was royal, life complete;
So I drained the flasks of wine,
So I sat at woman's feet,
When in youth my blood was warm.
Wine was royal, life complete;
So I drained the flasks of wine,
So I sat at woman's feet,
When in youth my blood was warm.
Time has taught me pleasant truths:
Lilies grow where thistles grew:
Ah, you loved me not. This maid
Loves me. There's an end of you!
Time has taught me pleasant truths.
Lilies grow where thistles grew:
Ah, you loved me not. This maid
Loves me. There's an end of you!
Time has taught me pleasant truths.
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I will speak no bitter words:
Too much passion made me blind;
You were subtle. Let it go!
For the sake of woman-kind
I will speak no bitter words.
Too much passion made me blind;
You were subtle. Let it go!
For the sake of woman-kind
I will speak no bitter words.
But, Madam, as you pass us by,
Dreaming of your loves and wine,
Do not brush your rich brocade
Against this little maid of mine,
Madam, as you pass us by.
Dreaming of your loves and wine,
Do not brush your rich brocade
Against this little maid of mine,
Madam, as you pass us by.
33
THE MERRY BELLS SHALL RING
1
The merry bells shall ring,Marguerite;
The little birds shall sing,
Marguerite—
You smile, but you shall wear
Orange blossoms in your hair,
Marguerite!
2
Ah me! the bells have rungMarguerite;
The little birds have sung,
Marguerite—
But cypress leaf and rue
Make a sorry wreath for you,
Marguerite!
34
MAY.
BY A POET IN CLOVER.
Hebe's here, May is here!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the fairy bees are busy
Making golden honey!
The air is fresh and sunny;
And the fairy bees are busy
Making golden honey!
See the knots of butter-cups,
And the double pansies—
Thick as these, within my brain,
Grow the quaintest fancies!
And the double pansies—
Thick as these, within my brain,
Grow the quaintest fancies!
Let me write my songs to-day,
Rhymes with dulcet closes—
Tiny epics one might hide
In the hearts of roses!
Rhymes with dulcet closes—
Tiny epics one might hide
In the hearts of roses!
What's the use of halcyon May,
Of air so fresh and sunny,
If such a busy bee as I
Can't make golden honey?
Of air so fresh and sunny,
If such a busy bee as I
Can't make golden honey?
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LITTLE MAUD.
O where is our dainty, our darling,
The daintiest darling of all?
O where is the voice on the stairway,
O where is the voice in the hall?
The little short steps in the entry,
The silvery laugh in the hall?
O where is our dainty, our darling,
The daintiest darling of all,
Little Maud?
The daintiest darling of all?
O where is the voice on the stairway,
O where is the voice in the hall?
The little short steps in the entry,
The silvery laugh in the hall?
O where is our dainty, our darling,
The daintiest darling of all,
Little Maud?
The peaches are ripe in the orchard,
The apricots ready to fall;
And the grapes are dripping their honey
All over the garden-wall—
But where are the lips, full and melting,
That looked up so pouting and red,
When we dangled the sun-purpled bunches
Of Isabells over her head?
O rosebud of women! where are you?
(She never replies to our call!)
O where is our dainty, our darling,
The daintiest darling of all,
Little Maud?
The apricots ready to fall;
And the grapes are dripping their honey
All over the garden-wall—
But where are the lips, full and melting,
That looked up so pouting and red,
When we dangled the sun-purpled bunches
Of Isabells over her head?
O rosebud of women! where are you?
(She never replies to our call!)
O where is our dainty, our darling,
The daintiest darling of all,
Little Maud?
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PERDITA.
1.
Poet, shape a song for meOf troubled love, of jealousy,
Of sick conceit;
But make its rhymes as sad and sweet
As parting kisses be!
2.
Sing me merry, when I'm gay;But touch a mournful string to-day;
The birds have flown,
Save one, the Wind, that maketh moan—
Perdita's gone away!
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THE MOORLAND.
The moorland lies a dreary waste;
The night is dark with drizzling rain;
In yonder yawning cave of cloud
The snaky lightning writhes with pain!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
The night is dark with drizzling rain;
In yonder yawning cave of cloud
The snaky lightning writhes with pain!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
O sobbing rain, outside my door!
O wailing phantoms, make your moan!
Go through the night in blind despair—
Your shadowy lips have touched my own!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
O wailing phantoms, make your moan!
Go through the night in blind despair—
Your shadowy lips have touched my own!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
No more the robin breaks its heart
Of music in the pathless woods!
The ravens croak for such as I,
The plovers screech above their broods.
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
Of music in the pathless woods!
The ravens croak for such as I,
The plovers screech above their broods.
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
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All mournful things are friends of mine,
(That weary sound of falling leaves!)
Ah, there is not a kindred soul
For me on earth, but moans and grieves!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
(That weary sound of falling leaves!)
Ah, there is not a kindred soul
For me on earth, but moans and grieves!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
I cannot sleep this lonesome night;
The ghostly rain goes by in haste,
And, further than the eye can reach,
The moorland lies a dreary waste!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
The ghostly rain goes by in haste,
And, further than the eye can reach,
The moorland lies a dreary waste!
And the Wind is wailing bitterly.
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AT THE DEAD-HOUSE.
“Drown'd! drown'd!”—
Hamlet.
Hamlet.
Here is where they bring the dead
When they rise from the river's bed,
Sinful women who have thrown
Away the life they would not own—
Life despised and trampled down!
When they rise from the river's bed,
Sinful women who have thrown
Away the life they would not own—
Life despised and trampled down!
Sad enough. Now, you who write
Plays that give the world delight,
Tell me if in this there be
Naught for your new tragedy?
Ha! you start, you turn from me
A face brimful of misery!
Do you know that woman there,
That icy image of Despair?
Have you heard her softly speak?
Have you kissed her, lips and cheek?
Faith! you do not kiss her now!
Poor young mouth, and pale young brow,
Drenchéd hair, and glassy eye—
Go, put that in your tragedy!
Plays that give the world delight,
Tell me if in this there be
Naught for your new tragedy?
Ha! you start, you turn from me
A face brimful of misery!
Do you know that woman there,
That icy image of Despair?
Have you heard her softly speak?
Have you kissed her, lips and cheek?
Faith! you do not kiss her now!
Poor young mouth, and pale young brow,
Drenchéd hair, and glassy eye—
Go, put that in your tragedy!
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SONG.
1.
Maiden Maud and MarianHave not passed me by—
Archéd foot and red-ripe mouth,
And bronze-brown eye!
2.
When my hair is gray,Then I shall be wise;
Then I shall not care
For bronze-brown eyes.
3.
Then let maiden MaudAnd Marian pass me by;
So they do not scorn me now
What care I?
43
I SAT BESIDE YOU WHILE YOU SLEPT.
I sat beside you while you slept,
And Christ! but it was woe
To see the long dark lashes rest
Upon your cheeks of snow,
To see you lie so happily,
And to think you did not know
What a weary, weary world is this,
While you were sleeping so!
And Christ! but it was woe
To see the long dark lashes rest
Upon your cheeks of snow,
To see you lie so happily,
And to think you did not know
What a weary, weary world is this,
While you were sleeping so!
You are dearer than my soul, love,
But in that hour of pain,
I wished that you might never lift
Those eyes to mine again,
Might never weep, but lie in sleep
While the long seasons roll—
I wished this, I who love you, love,
Better than my soul!
And then—I cannot tell what then,
But that I might not weep
I caught you in my arms, love,
And kissed you from your sleep.
But in that hour of pain,
I wished that you might never lift
Those eyes to mine again,
Might never weep, but lie in sleep
While the long seasons roll—
I wished this, I who love you, love,
Better than my soul!
And then—I cannot tell what then,
But that I might not weep
I caught you in my arms, love,
And kissed you from your sleep.
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DEAD.
I heard a sorrowful woman say,“Come in and look at our child!”
I saw an Angel at shut of day,
And it never spoke—but smiled!
I think of it in the city's streets,
I dream of it when I rest—
The violet eyes, the waxen hands,
And the one white rose on the breast!
45
IN THE WOODS.
The summer birds are in the summer sky:
I hear the music of the woods again,
The wild wind-symphonies that moan and die
On hemlock harps with such a sad refrain.
I hear the music of the woods again,
The wild wind-symphonies that moan and die
On hemlock harps with such a sad refrain.
I long for him who knew so well these tones;
He loved this greening world of scented vines,
This slumberous air that stirs the chestnut cones,
And wafts an odor from the gummy pines.
He loved this greening world of scented vines,
This slumberous air that stirs the chestnut cones,
And wafts an odor from the gummy pines.
Here do the slim imperial tulips blow,
And those ground-flowers that seem like clots of blood
On the green grass: and here do lilies grow—
The pale-faced Dryads of the summer wood!
And those ground-flowers that seem like clots of blood
On the green grass: and here do lilies grow—
The pale-faced Dryads of the summer wood!
All pleasant noises, all delicious smells,
All things whereof our poets' songs are born—
Alas! that painful Autumn through these dells
Should moaning come, and make the place forlorn.
All things whereof our poets' songs are born—
Alas! that painful Autumn through these dells
Should moaning come, and make the place forlorn.
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Autumn will come; the fretful winds will blow;
The rain will weep for summer in the grave;
Then Winter—building palaces of snow
With crystal vestibule and architrave.
The rain will weep for summer in the grave;
Then Winter—building palaces of snow
With crystal vestibule and architrave.
Shadow of sorrow, brood upon the place!
Here did I part with one who nevermore
Shall hunt for Spring's first violet, nor chase
The hungry fox when woods and fields are hoar.
Here did I part with one who nevermore
Shall hunt for Spring's first violet, nor chase
The hungry fox when woods and fields are hoar.
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AUTUMNALIA.
When marigolds heaped lie like ingots of gold,
And the snowy syringas their petals unfold,
I drink the warm sunshine, I dream in the grass,
I shout to the swallows that over me pass;
And thoughts of dull Winter go out of my mind,
For I lie in the lap of the Summer Wind,
Singing so cheerily,
Living so merrily.
And the snowy syringas their petals unfold,
I drink the warm sunshine, I dream in the grass,
I shout to the swallows that over me pass;
And thoughts of dull Winter go out of my mind,
For I lie in the lap of the Summer Wind,
Singing so cheerily,
Living so merrily.
But when I see stretched through the desolate night
The menacing hand of the weird Northern Light;
When the leaves have turned sere, and the tulips are dead,
And the beautiful sumacs are burning with red;
Then a Vision of Death comes over my mind,
And I shrink from the touch of the Autumn Wind,
Sighing so wearily,
Living so drearily.
The menacing hand of the weird Northern Light;
When the leaves have turned sere, and the tulips are dead,
And the beautiful sumacs are burning with red;
Then a Vision of Death comes over my mind,
And I shrink from the touch of the Autumn Wind,
Sighing so wearily,
Living so drearily.
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BARBARA.
Barbara hath a falcon's eye,
And a soft white hand hath Barbara;
Beware—for to make you wish to die,
To make you as pale as the moon or I,
Is a pet trick with Barbara!
And a soft white hand hath Barbara;
Beware—for to make you wish to die,
To make you as pale as the moon or I,
Is a pet trick with Barbara!
Merrily bloweth the summer wind,
But cold and cruel is Barbara!
And I, a Duke, stand here like a hind,
Too happy, i' faith, if I am struck blind
By the quick look of Barbara!
But cold and cruel is Barbara!
And I, a Duke, stand here like a hind,
Too happy, i' faith, if I am struck blind
By the quick look of Barbara!
Ay, Sweetmou', you are haughty now:
Time was, time was, my Barbara,
When I covered your lips and brow
And bosom with kisses—faith, 'tis snow
That was all fire then, Barbara!
Time was, time was, my Barbara,
When I covered your lips and brow
And bosom with kisses—faith, 'tis snow
That was all fire then, Barbara!
50
For whom shall you hold Agatha's ring?
Whom will you love next, Barbara?
Choose from the Court—your page or the King?
Or one of those sleek-limbed fellows who bring
Rose-colored notes ‘For Barbara?’
Whom will you love next, Barbara?
Choose from the Court—your page or the King?
Or one of those sleek-limbed fellows who bring
Rose-colored notes ‘For Barbara?’
Love the King, by all that is good!
Make eyes at him, sing to him, Barbara!
I think you might please his royal mood
For a month, and then—what then if he should
Fling you aside, Queen Barbara?
Make eyes at him, sing to him, Barbara!
I think you might please his royal mood
For a month, and then—what then if he should
Fling you aside, Queen Barbara?
You might die out there on the moor,
(Where Rouel died for you, Barbara!)
For the world, you know, sets little store
On beauty, and charity closes the door
On fallen divinity, Barbara!
(Where Rouel died for you, Barbara!)
For the world, you know, sets little store
On beauty, and charity closes the door
On fallen divinity, Barbara!
But if his Majesty grew so cold—
In the dead of night, my Barbara,
I'd go to his chamber, Hate is bold,
And strangle him there in his purple and gold,
And lay him beside you, Barbara!
In the dead of night, my Barbara,
I'd go to his chamber, Hate is bold,
And strangle him there in his purple and gold,
And lay him beside you, Barbara!
51
IT WAS A KNIGHT OF ARAGON.
[SPANISH.]
“Fuerte qual azero entre armas,
Y qual cera entre las damas”
Y qual cera entre las damas”
1.
It was a Knight of Aragon, and he was brave to see,His helmet and his hauberk, and the greaves upon his knee:
His escuderos rode in front, his cavaliers behind,
With stainéd plumes and gonfalons, and music in the wind.
2.
It was the maid Prudencia, the rose-bud of Madrid,Who watched him from her balcony, among the jasmines hid.
‘O, Virgin Mother!’ quoth the Knight, ‘is that the day-break there?’—
It was the saintly light that shone above the maiden's hair!
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3.
Then he who crossed the Pyrenees to fight the dogs of France,Grew pale with love for her whose look had pierced him like a lance;
And they will wed the morrow morn: beat softly, happy stars!—
And, mind you, gallant cavaliers, how Venus conquers Mars.
56
L'ENVOI.
Men turn to angels when dead.
A thought grows into a Song:
Every thing ripens with time,
Or I and my rhyme are wrong.
A thought grows into a Song:
Every thing ripens with time,
Or I and my rhyme are wrong.
The May-moon blossomed, and grew,
And withered, the flower full-blown;
But out of the ruined moon
The beautiful June has grown!
And withered, the flower full-blown;
But out of the ruined moon
The beautiful June has grown!
O ye Poets that sit i' the sun,
Your brows with the laurel moist,
When shall I sit and sing with you,
Sweet-thoughted and silver-voiced?
Your brows with the laurel moist,
When shall I sit and sing with you,
Sweet-thoughted and silver-voiced?
| The Ballad of Babie Bell And Other Poems | |