AN INTERLUDE

Crush these voluptuous grapes between your teeth, Your small, strong teeth! and let their purple pain Be offered in a sacrificial rain Of sun-warmed essence; while I twine a wreath Of all their leaves, and place it just beneath Your high-combed curls, to rest upon the plain Of your white temples: though the Nymphs disdain To grace our modern banquet, they bequeath A sylvan fancy to my wayward dream. This glint of candles on the silver round Is yellow moonlight, mirrored in lone stream, These flowers are springing from the sensuous ground, And we are Dryads, 'tis a fitting theme For you to sing; come—thrill the night with sound.

The shaded lamps that make the room seem dim Scarcely revealing pictures on the wall; Yet one so placed to let a halo fall Upon your hair; you smile! yes, it's a whim A Poet's fancy with a moonlit rim Perhaps—and yet a harmless wish withal. Don't quarrel with it, just sit there, those tall White lilies make a background for your slim Young body. Let the blinds be up, and night Gaze through the windows with her purple eyes, Dropping some ardent star from out its height For very eagerness of glad surprise At so much beauty, till your song's delight Shall waft it back into the listening skies!

Where shall I find a corner in this room Almost in darkness? Ah! that deep recess Of languid cushions, eager to caress My weary limbs! from out its dreaming gloom Made holy by the incense of perfume, All unobserved and happy I'll confess My senses to those roses, passionless, And listening in their bowl of silver doom. Sing, sing, sweet friend, but soft, though eagerly! With tender pauses in between the notes Filled up with little sighs, unconsciously— These rose-dropped petals, they are fairy boats Our souls may sail on lakes of melody Adown whose ripples youth eternal floats.

Oh! burning silence! when the very air Is warm with memories of sounds we love! You cease to sing, yet from below, above, Around me, in me, of me, everywhere, That Music's spirit, tremulously fair Flutters and flutters, like a wounded dove, And cannot fly beyond this earthly groove! Midway it pauses, hanging throbbing there. I will not speak, lest it should seem profane In such a presence; idle words of praise Ye are but mortal sounds, with no refrain That can endure beyond our passing days, And so be silent! silent with the pain Of all deep feeling, that can find no phrase.

Kiss me good night, sweet minstrel, on the stairs! I love your lips, they're neither pale nor red, But like an after-glow, when day lies dead Upon the mountains. Do they say soft prayers, Those languid lips? to God, a God who cares, And gathers such dear follies thread by thread As each is woven in your mind, and shed Like gold spun silk upon His field of tares? You're silent! let it pass; who knows but you, So strong in weakness, may compel God's ear To listen for the smallest drop of dew That all our thunders would disdain to hear: And so, Sweet, if you pray, repeat anew To God, that while you sang I wept a tear!

This morning while I light my cigarette In this dim study with its endless view Stretching away to hills whose eyes are blue With secret thoughts, my thoughts are all regret, Regret for broken interludes! and yet— If it were otherwise, who knows but you Might grow to pall, as things familiar do, While now it seems worth while to not forget! And so good-bye, my friend, drift out in smoke, Vague, and intangible, a fleeting joy That some stray match of fate in passing woke, To burn awhile, like this small soothing toy Between my lips: Time's galling iron yoke Is not for us, we made and we'll destroy.