 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
96
MEMORY.
I am born of the early sweet shadows,
'Mid the bubbling of birds and of streams;
As morn breaks the mists from the meadows,
I move through the dark of your dreams.
Fair am I, as the feet of Aurora,
Yet pale, like the garments of eve;
I am Ceres, and I am Pandora,
To heal with my gifts or to grieve.
'Mid the bubbling of birds and of streams;
As morn breaks the mists from the meadows,
I move through the dark of your dreams.
Fair am I, as the feet of Aurora,
Yet pale, like the garments of eve;
I am Ceres, and I am Pandora,
To heal with my gifts or to grieve.
97
In the depth of primeval abysses,
Where the soul is not shapen to dwell,
I quicken the dark with vague blisses,
Strange visions of heaven or of hell:
As the cloud-veils slow-bright'ning surrender
Dawn's secret at last to the sea,
So pale out of night, and so tender
The faint far arising of me.
Where the soul is not shapen to dwell,
I quicken the dark with vague blisses,
Strange visions of heaven or of hell:
As the cloud-veils slow-bright'ning surrender
Dawn's secret at last to the sea,
So pale out of night, and so tender
The faint far arising of me.
As the moon, when the sun is departed,
Makes glorious the regions of gloam,
I am life to the desolate-hearted,
To the wanderers hope and a home;
I can cheer when all lovers forsake you,
I can poison your mirth with despair:
If ye mount up to heaven, I o'ertake you,
Or plunge down to hell, I am there.
Makes glorious the regions of gloam,
I am life to the desolate-hearted,
To the wanderers hope and a home;
I can cheer when all lovers forsake you,
I can poison your mirth with despair:
If ye mount up to heaven, I o'ertake you,
Or plunge down to hell, I am there.
98
As ye watch where, to sink and to sunder,
Time's billows break fast on the strand,
I reveal the bright floor-way thereunder,
Mesh'd curves of the sensitive sand:
Old foot-prints are plain—ye may trace them—
Strewn spilth of life's bountiful urn;
Ye may rue, but can never erase them,
And mourn, but ye shall not return.
Time's billows break fast on the strand,
I reveal the bright floor-way thereunder,
Mesh'd curves of the sensitive sand:
Old foot-prints are plain—ye may trace them—
Strewn spilth of life's bountiful urn;
Ye may rue, but can never erase them,
And mourn, but ye shall not return.
All the lore of past infinite ages—
Man's wisdom for ages to be—
I have writ on Earth's adamant pages,
My dark sayings in deeps of the sea.
Night and silence weave veils to enfold me,
But I pass to your spirit through these;
In the setting of suns ye behold me,
And hear in the sighing of trees.
Man's wisdom for ages to be—
I have writ on Earth's adamant pages,
My dark sayings in deeps of the sea.
Night and silence weave veils to enfold me,
But I pass to your spirit through these;
In the setting of suns ye behold me,
And hear in the sighing of trees.
99
Not of earth is the succour I send you,
Oh! ye creatures of transient breath!
As an angel of light I attend you
To the gloom of the gateway of Death:
But I pass from his shadowy portal,
To finish what first I began—
Making radiant with footsteps immortal
The path of ephemeral man.
Oh! ye creatures of transient breath!
As an angel of light I attend you
To the gloom of the gateway of Death:
But I pass from his shadowy portal,
To finish what first I began—
Making radiant with footsteps immortal
The path of ephemeral man.
| Poems by James Rhoades | |