OTHER POEMS. (continued 2)

AH, haughty hills, sardonic solitudes, What wizard touch hath, crowning you with gold, Cast Tyrian purple o'er broad-shouldered woods, And to your pride anointed empire sold For wan traditioned death, whose misty moods Shake each huge throne of quarried shadows cold? Now where the agate-foliaged forests sleep, Bleak briars are ruby-berried, and the brush Flames—when the winds armsful of motion heap In wincing gusts upon it—amber blush; The beech an inner beryle breaks from deep Encrusting topaz of a sullen flush. Dead gold, dead bronze, dull amethystine rose, Rose cameo, in day's gray, somber spar Of smoky quartz—intaglioed beauty—glows Luxuriance of color. Trunks that are Vast organs antheming the winds' wild woes A faded sun and pale night's paler star. Bulged from its cup the dark-brown acorn falls, And by its gnarly saucer in the streams Swells plumped; and here the spikey spruce-gum balls Rust maces of an ouphen host that dreams; Beneath the chestnut the split burry hulls Disgorge fat purses of sleek satin gleams. Burst silver white, nods an exploded husk Of snowy, woolly smoke the milk-weed's puff Along the orchard's fence, where in the dusk And ashen weeds,—as some grim Satyr's rough Red, breezy cheeks burn thro' his beard,—the brusque Crab apples laugh, wind-tumbled from above. Runs thro' the wasted leaves the crickets' click, Which saddest coignes of Melancholy cheers; One bird unto the sumach flits to pick Red, sour seeds; and thro' the woods one hears The drop of gummy walnuts; the railed rick Looms tawny in the field where low the steers. Some slim bud-bound Leimoniad hath flocked, The birds to Echo's shores, where flossy foams Boom low long cream-white cliffs.—Where once buzzed Unmillioned bees within unmillioned blooms, One hairy hummer cramps one bloom, frost mocked,—rocked A miser whose rich hives squeeze oozing combs. Twist some lithe maple and right suddenly A leafy storm of stars about you breaks— Some Hamadryad's tears: Unto her knee Wading the Naiad clears her brook that streaks Thro' wadded waifs: Hark! Pan for Helike Flutes melancholy by the minty creeks.

TEACH me the wisdom of thy beauty, pray, That, being thus wise, I may aspire to see What beauty is, whence, why, and in what way Immortal, yet how mortal utterly: For, shrinking loveliness, thy brow of day Pleads plaintive as a prayer, anemone. "Teach me wood-wisdom, I am petulant: Thou hast the wildness of a Dryad's eyes, The shyness of an Oread's, wild plant:— Behold the bashful goddess where she lies Distinctly delicate!—inhabitant Ambrosial-earthed, star-cousin of the skies. "Teach me thy wisdom, for, thro' knowing, yet, When I have drunk dull Lethe till each vein Thuds full oblivion, I shall not forget;— For beauty known is beauty; to sustain Glad memories with life, while mad regret And sorrow perish, being Lethe slain." "Teach thee my beauty being beautiful And beauty wise?—My slight perfections, whole As world, as man, in their creation full As old a Power's cogitation roll. Teach thee?—Presumption! thought is young and dull— Question thy God what God is, soul what soul."

THEE freckled August, dozing hot and blonde Oft 'neath a wheat-stack in the white-topped mead— In her full hair brown ox-eyed daisies wound— O water-gurgler, lends a sleepy heed: Half-lidded eyes a purple iron-weed Blows slimly o'er; beyond, a path-found pond Basks flint-bright, hedged with pink-plumed pepper-grasses, A coigne for vainest dragonflies, which glasses Their blue in diamond. Oft from some dusty locust, that thick weaves With crescent pulse-pods its thin foliage gray, Thou,—o'er the shambling lane, which past the sheaves Of sun-tanned oats winds, red with rutty clay, One league of rude rail-fence,—some panting day, When each parched meadow quivering vapor grieves, Nature's Astrologist, dost promise rain, In seeping language of the thirsty plain, Cool from the burning leaves. And, in good faith, aye! best of faith, art true; And welcome that rune-chuckled forecasting, When up the faded fierceness of scorched blue Strong water-carrier winds big buckets bring, Black with stored freshness: how their dippers ring And flash and rattle! lavishing large dew On tall, good-humored corn that, streaming wet, Laughs long; while woods and leas, shut in a net Of mist, dream vague in view. And thou, safe-houséd in some pawpaw bower Of close, broad, gold-green leaves, contented art In thy prediction, fall'n within the hour; While fuss the brown bees hiveward from the heart Of honey-filtering bloom; beneath the cart Droop pompous barnyard cocks damped by the shower: And deep-eyed August, bonnetless, a beech Hugs in disheveled beauty, safe from reach On starry moss and flower.

WHEN I fare forth to kiss the eyes of Spring, On ways, which arch gold sunbeams and pearl buds Embraced, two whispers we search—wandering By goblin forests and by girlish floods Deep in the hermit-holy solitudes— For stalwart Dryads romping in a ring; Firm limbs an oak-bark-brown, and hair—wild woods Have perfumed—loops of radiance; and they, Most coyly pleasant, as we linger by, Pout dimpled cheeks, more rose than rosiest sky, Honeyed; and us good-hearted laughter fling Like far-out reefs that flute melodious spray.

Then we surprise each Naiad ere she slips— Nude at her toilette—in her fountain's glass, With damp locks dewy, and large godlike hips Cool-glittering; but discovered, when—alas! From green, indented moss and plushy grass,— Her great eyes' pansy-black reproaching,—dips She white the cloven waters ere we pass: And a broad, orbing ripple makes to hide From our desirous gaze provoked what path She gleaming took; what haunt she bashful hath In minnowy freshness, where her murmurous lips Bubbling make merry 'neath the rocky tide.

Oft do we meet the Oread whose eyes Are dew-drops where twin heavens shine confessed; She, all the maiden modesty's surprise Blushing her temples,—to deep loins and breast Tempestuous, brown bewildering tresses pressed,— Stands one scared moment's moiety, in wise Of some delicious dream, then shrinks distressed, Like some weak wind that, haply heard, is gone, In rapport with shy Silence to make sound; So, like storm sunlight, bares clean limbs to bound A thistle's flashing to a woody rise, A graceful glimmer up the ferny lawn.

Hear Satyrs and Sylvanus in sad shades Of dozy dells pipe: Pan and Fauns hark dance With rattling hoofs dim in low, mottled glades: Hidden in spice-bush-bowered banks, perchance, Mark Slyness waiting with an animal glance The advent of some Innocence, who wades Thro' thigh-deep flowers, naked as Romance, In braided shadows, when two hairy arms Hug her unconscious beauty panting white; Till tearful terror, struggling into might, Beats the brute brow resisting; yields and fades, Exhausted, to the grim Lust her rich charms.

BARBICAN, bartizan, battlement, With the Abergavenny mountains blent, Look, from the Raglan tower of Gwent, My lord Hugh Clifford's ancient home Shows, clear morns of the Spring or Summer, Thrust out like thin flakes o' a silver foam From a climbing cloud, for the hills gloom glummer, Being shaggy with heath, yon.—I was his page; A favorite then; and he of that age When a man will love and be loved again, Or die in the wars or a monastery: Or toil till he stifle his heart's hard pain, Or drink, drug his hopes and his lost love bury. I was his page; and often we fared Thro' the Clare desmene in Autumn hawking— If the baron had known how he would have glared From their bushy brows eyes dark with mocking! —That of the Strongbows, Richard, I mean— Had growled to his yeomen, "A score! mount, Keene! Forth and spit me this Clifford, or hang With his crop-eared page to the closest oak!" For he and the Cliffords had ever a fang In the other's side,... but I see him choke And strangle with wrath when his hawker told— If he told!—how we met on that flowery wold His daughter, sweet Hortense of Clare, the day Her hooded tiercel its brails did burst To trail with its galling jesses away; An untrained haggard the falconer cursed, Vain whistled to lure; when the eyas sped Slant, low and heavily overhead By us; and Sir Hugh,—who had just then cast His peregrine fierce at a heron-quarry,— In his stirrups rising, thus—as it passed, By the jesses caught and to her did carry, Lingering slender and tall by a rose Whence she pulled the berries—But no two foes Her eyes and Sir Hugh's!—And I swear each felt A song in their hearts!—For I heard him quaver Somewhat and then—by Mary!—he knelt!— And the Lady herself in her words did waver And wonder with smiles. Then daintily took The hawk on her fist where it pruned and shook Its callowness ragged, as Hugh did seize Softly the other hand long and white,— Reached forth to him craving him rise from his knees,— And mouthed with moist kisses an hundred quite. Tho' she blushed up burning, no frowned "Beware!" But seemed so happy! when crushing thro'— Her sturdy retainer with swarthy stare— The underwoods burst; and her maiden crew Drew near them naming her name, and came With leaves and dim Autumn blossoms aflame.— "Their words?" I know not! for how should I?— I paged my master but was no spy. Nothings, I think, as all lovers', you know; Yet how should I hear such whispered low, Quick by the wasted woodland yellow? When up thro' the brush thrashed that burly fellow With his ale-coarse face, and so made a pause In the pulse of their words, there my lord Sir Hugh Stood with the soil on his knee: No cause Had he—but his hanger he halfway drew— Then paused, thrust it clap in its sheath again And bowed to the Lady and strode away; Up, vault, on his steed—and we rode amain Gay to his towers that merry day. He loved and was loved,—why, I knew!—for look, All other sports for the chase he forsook; To ride in the Raglan marches and hawk And to hunt and to wander. And found a lair, In the Strongbow forest, of bush and of rock, Of moss and thick ferns; where Hortense of Clare, How often I wis not, met him by chance— Perhaps!—Sweet sorceress out of romance, Those tomes of Geoffrey—for she was fair! Her large, warm eyes and hair,... ah, hair, How may one picture or liken it! With the golden gloss of its full brown, fit For the Viviane face of lovable white Beneath;—like a star that a cloud of night Stops over to threaten but never will drench Its tremulous beauty with mists that quench.— Heigho!—but they ceased, those meetings. I wot Watched of the baron, his menial crew; For she loved too well to have once forgot The place and the time of their trysting true. But she came not—ah! and again came not: "Why and when?" would question Sir Hugh In his labored scrawls a crevice of rock— The lovers' post—in its coigne would lock. Until near Yule Love gat them again A twilight tryst—by frowardness sure.— They met. And that day was gray with rain— Or snow, and the wind did ever endure A long, bleak moaning thorough the wood, Smarted the cheek and chapped i' the blood; And a burne in the forest cried "sob and sob," And whimpered forever a chopping throb Thro' the rope-taunt boughs like a thing pursued. —And there it was that he learned how she (My faith! how it makes me burn and quiver To think what a miserable despot he— Lord Richard Strongbow, aye and ever To his daughter was!) forsooth! must wed With an Eastern Earl—some Lovell: one whom (That God in His mercy had smote him dead!) Hortense of Clare—but in baby bloom— Never had mirrored with maiden eyes. Sealed over a baby to strengthen some ties— Of power or wealth—had been bartered then And sold and purchased, and now ... but when To her lover, the Clifford, she told this—there He had faced with his love the talons of Death— Only for her, who did stay with a stare Of reproach all his heat and say in a breath, "Is love, that thou sware to me aye and so often, To live too feeble or—how?—doth it soften And weaken away and—to die?—why die?— Live and be strong! and this is why."— Her words are glued here so!... I remember All as well as that sullen December, That blustered and bullied about them and Spat stiff its spiteful and cold-cutting snow Where they talked there dreamily hand in hand, While the rubbing boughs clashed rattling low. Her last words these, "By curfew sure On Christmas eve at the postern door." And we were there, and a void horse too: Armed: for a journey I hardly knew Whither, but why you well can guess. I could have uttered a certain name— Our comrade's sure—of what loveliness! Waited with love, impatience aflame. While Raglan bulged its baronial girth To roar to its battlements Yule and song; Retainers loud rollicked in wassail and mirth Where the mistletoe 'round the vast hearths hung, And holly beberried the elden wall Of curious oak in the banqueting hall. And the spits, I trow, by the scullions turned O'er the snoring logs, rich steamed and burned With flesh; where the whole wild-boar was roasted And the dun-deer flanks and the roebuck haunches; Fat tuns of ale, that the cellars boasted, Old casks of wine were broached for paunches Of the vassals that reveled in bower and stall; Pale pages who diced and bluff henchmen who quarr'led Or swore in their cups, while lean mastiffs all, O'er bones of the feast in their kennels snarled; For Hortense—drink! drink!—by the Virgin's leave, Were wed to this Lovell this Christmas Eve. "Was she long—Did she come?"... By that postern we Like shadows lurked. Said my lord Sir Hugh: "Yon tower, remember!—that casement, see!— When a stealthy light in its slit burns blue And signals thrice slowly, thus—'tis she." And about his person his gaberdine drew, For the wind it hugged and the snow beat thro'. Did she come?—We had watched for an hour or twain Ere that light burned there in the central pane And was flourished thrice and departed so. Then closer we packed to the postern portal Horses and all in the stinging snow. Stiff with the cold was I.—Immortal Minutes we waited breath-bated and listened Shuddering there in the gusty gale. Whizzing o'er parapets sifted and glistened Wild drift, thro' battlements hissed in a veil. Quoth my lord Sir Hugh, for his love was a-heat, "She feels for the spring in the hidden panel 'Neath the tapestry ... ah! thou hast pressed it, sweet! —How black gulps open the secret channel! Now cautiously step, and thy bridal garb Swirled warm with a mantle o' fur ... she plants One foot—then a pause—on the stair—So, Barb, So!—If the tempest that barks and pants Would throttle itself with its yelps! then I Might hear but one footstep echo and sing Down the ugly ... there! 'tis her fingers try The massy bolts which the rust makes cling." But ever some whim of the wind that shook The clanging ring of a creaking hook In the buttress or wall; and we waited so Till the East grew gray. Did she come?—ah, no! I must tell you why, and enough: 'Tis said On the eve of the marriage she fled the side Of the baron, the bridegroom too she fled, With a mischievous laugh, "I'll hide! I'll hide! Seek! and be sure to seek well!" and led A wild chase after her, but defied All search for—a score and ten more years, And the laughter of Yule was changed to tears. But they searched and the snow was bleared with the glare Of torches that hurried thro' chamber and stair; And tower and court re-echoed her name, But she laughed no answer and never came. So over the channel to France with his King And the Black Prince, sailed to the wars—to deaden The ache of the mystery—Hugh that Spring, And fell at Poitiers: for his loss lay leaden On hope, and his life was a weary sadness, So he flung it away with a very gladness. And the baron died—and the bridegroom, well,— Unlucky that bridegroom, sooth!—to tell Of him there is nothing. The baron died; The last of the Strongbows he, gramercy! And the Clare estate with its wealth and its pride Devolved to the Bloets, Walter or Percy. Ten years and a score thereafter. And they Ransacked the old castle and mark!—one day In a lonesome tower uprummaged a chest From Flanders, of sinister ebon, carved Sardonic with masks 'round an olden crest, Gargoyle faces distorted and starved: Fast fixed with a spring which they forced and lo! When they opened it—ha, Hortense!—or, no!— Fantastic a skeleton jeweled and wreathed With flowers of dust, and a minever About it hugged, which quaint richness sheathed Of a bridal raiment and lace with fur. —I'd have given such years of my life—yes, well!— As were left me then so her lover, Hugh, For such time breathed as it took one to tell How she forever, deemed false, was true! He'd have known how it was, "For, you see, in groping For the puny spring of that panel—hoping And fearing as nearer and nearer grew The boisterous scramble—why, out she blew Her windy taper and quick—in this chest Wary would lie for—a minute, mayhap, Till the hurry all passed; but the death-lock pressed —Ere her heart was aware—with a hungry snap."

YOU remember, the deep mist,— Climbing to the Devil's Den— Blue beneath us in the glen And above us amethyst, Throbbed and circled and away Thro' the wild-woods opposite, Torn and shattered, morning-lit, Scurried up a dewy gray. Vague as in Romance we saw From the fog one riven trunk, Its huge horny talons shrunk, Thrust a hungry dragon's claw. And we climbed two hours thro' The dawn-dripping Jellicoes, To that wooded rock that shows Undulating peaks of blue: The vast Cumberlands that sleep, Weighed with soaring forests, far To the concave welkin's bar, Leagues on leagues of purple sweep. Range exalted over range Billowed their enormous spines, And we heard the priestly pines Hum the wisdom of their change. We were sons of Nature then; She had taken us to her, Closer drawn by brier and burr, There on lonely Devil's Den. We were pupils of her moods: Taught the beauties of her loins In those bloom-anointed coignes,— Love in her eternal woods: How she bore or flower or bud; Pithed the wiry sapling-oak; In the long vine zeal awoke Aye to climb a leafy flood. Her waste fantasies of birth: Sponge-like exudations fair— Dainty fungi everywhere Bulging from the loamy earth. Coral-vegetable things; Crystals clamily exhaled; Bulbous, marble-ribbed and scaled, Vip'rous colored; then close rings Of the Indian Pipe that cleft Pink and white the woodland lax,— Blossoms of a natural wax The brown mountain-fairies left. We on that parched precipice, Stretched beneath the chestnuts' burrs, Breathed the balsam of the firs, Felt the blue sky like a kiss. Soft that heaven; stainless as The grand woodlands lunging on, Wound majestic in the sun, Or as our devotion was! Freedom sat there cragged we saw, Freedom whom hoarse forests sang; Heaven-browed her eyes, whence sprang Audience august with law. Wildernesses, from her hips Sprung the giant forests there, Tossed the cataracts from her hair, Thunders lightened from her lips. Oft some scavenger, with vane Motionless, above we knew Wheeled thro' altitudes of blue By his rapid shadow's stain. Or some cloud of sunny white,— Puffed a lazy drift of pearl,— Balmy breezes o'er would whirl Shot with coruscating light. So we dreamed an hour upon Those warm rocks, dry, lichen-scabbed. Lounged beneath long leaves that dabbed At us coins of shade and sun. Then arose and down some gorge Made a bowldered torrent broad The hurled pathway of our road Tumbled down the mountain large. At that farm-house, which you know, Where old-fashioned flowers spun Gay rag-carpets in the sun, By green apple-boughs built low, Rested from our hot descent; One deep draught of cider cool, Unctuous, our fierce veins to dull At old Hix's eloquent.... On Wolf Mountain died the light; A colossal blossom, rayed With rent petaled clouds that played 'Round a calyxed fury bright. Down the moist mint-scented vale To the mining camp we turned, Thro' the twilight faint discerned With its crowded cabins pale. Ah! those nights!—We wandered forth On some shadow-haunted path When the moon was late and rathe The large stars; sowed south and north, Clustered bursting heavens down: And the milky zodiac, Rolled athwart the belted black, Myriad-million-moted shone. And in dreams we sauntered till In the valley pale beneath, From a dew-drop's vapored breath To faint ghosts, there gathered still, Grave creations weird of mist: Then we knew the moonrise near, As with necromance the air Pulsed to pearl and amethyst. Shrilled the insects of the dusk, Grated, buzzed and strident sung Till each leaf seemed tuned and strung For high Pixy music brusque. Stealing steps and stealthy sighs As of near unhallowed things, Rustled hair or fluttered wings, Seemed about us; then the eyes Of plumed phantom warriors Burned mesmeric from some bush Mournful in the goblin hush, Then materialized to stars. Mantled mists like ambushed braves, Chiefed by some swart Blackfoot tall, Stole along each forest wall— Phosphorescent moony waves. Then the moon rose; from some cup Each hill's bowl,—magnetic shine, Mist and silence poured like wine,— Brimmed a monster goblet up. Ingot from lost orient mines, Delved by humpbacked gnomes of Night, Full her orb loomed, nacreous white, O'er Pine Mountain's druid pines. As thro' fragmentary fleece Her circumference polished broke, Orey-seamed, about us woke Myths of Italy and Greece. Then—a chanson serenade— You, rich-voiced, to your guitar To our goddess in that star Sang "Ne Tempo" from the glade.

AN agate black thy roguish eyes Claim no proud lineage of skies, No velvet blue, but of sweet Earth, Rude, reckless witchery and mirth. Looped in thy raven hair's repose, A hot aroma, one tame rose Dies envious of that beauty where,— By being near which,—it is fair. Thy ears,—two dainty bits of song Of unpretending charm, which wrong Would jewels rich, whose restless fire Courts coarse attention,—such inspire. Slim hands, that crumple listless lace About thy white breasts' swelling grace, And falter at thy samite throat, To such harmonious efforts float. Seven stars stop o'er thy balcony Cored in taunt heaven's canopy; No moon flows up the satin night In pearl-pierced raiment spun of light. From orange orchards dark in dew Vague, odorous lips the West wind blew, Or thou, a new Angelica From Ariosto, breath'd'st Cathay. Oh, stoop to me and speaking reach My soul like song, that learned low speech From some sad instrument, who knows? Or bloom,—a dulcimer or rose.

BROWS wan thro' blue-black tresses Wet with sharp rain and kisses; Locks loose the sea-wind scatters, Like torn wings fierce for flight; Cold brows, whose sadness flatters, One kiss and then—good-night.

Can this thy love undo me When in the heavy waves? Nay; it must make unto me Their groaning backs but slaves! For its magic doth indue me With strength o'er all their graves.

Weep not as heavy-hearted Before I go! For thou Wilt follow as we parted— A something hollow-hearted, Dark eyes whence cold tears started, Gray, ghostly arms out-darted To take me, even as now, To drag me, their weak lover, To caves where sirens hover, Deep caves the dark waves cover, Down! throat and hair and brow.

But in thy sleep shalt follow— Thy bosom fierce to mine, Long arms wound warm and hollow,— In sleep, in sleep shalt follow,— To save me from the brine; Dim eyes on mine divine; Deep breath at mine like wine; Sweet thou, with dream-soft kisses To dream me onward home, White in white foam that hisses, Love's creature safe in foam.

What, Hero, else for weeping Than long, lost hours of sleeping And vestal-vestured Dreams, Where thy Leander stooping Sighs; no dead eyelids drooping; No harsh, hard looks accusing; No curls with ocean oozing; But then as now he seems, Sweet-favored as can make him Thy smile, which is a might, A hope, a god to take him Thro' all this hell of night.

Then where thy breasts are hollow One kiss! one kiss! I go! Sweet soul! a kiss to follow Up whence thy breasts bud hollow, Cheeks than wood-blossoms whiter, Eyes than dark waters brighter Wherein the far stars glow. Look lovely when I leave thee!— I go, my love, I go! Look lovely, love, nor grieve thee, That I must leave thee so.

FOR the mountains' hoarse greetings came hollow From stormy wind-chasms and caves, And I heard their wild cataracts wallow Huge bulks in long spasms of waves, And that Demon said, "Lo! you must follow! And our path is o'er myriads of graves." Then I felt that the black earth was porous And rotten with worms and with bones; And I knew that the ground that now bore us Was cadaverous with Death's skeletons; And I saw horrid eyes, heard sonorous And dolorous gnashings and groans. But the night of the tempest and thunder, The might of the terrible skies, And the fire of Hell that,—coiled under The hollow Earth,—smoulders and sighs, And the laughter of stars and their wonder Mingled and mixed in its eyes. And we clomb—and the moon old and sterile Clomb with us o'er torrent and scar! And I yearned towards her oceans of beryl, Wan mountains and cities of spar— "'Tis not well," that one said, "you're in peril Of falling and failing your star." And we clomb—through a murmur of pinions, Thin rattle of talons and plumes; And a sense as of Boreal dominions Clove down to the abysms and tombs; And the Night's naked, Ethiope minions Swarmed on us in legions of glooms. And we clomb—till we stood at the portal Of the uttermost point of the peak, And it led with a step more than mortal Far upward some presence to seek; And I felt that this love was immortal, This love which had made me so weak. We had clomb till the limbo of spirits Of darkness and crime deep below Swung nebular; nor could we hear its Lost wailings and moanings of woe,— For we stood in a realm that inherits A vanquishing virgin of snow.

COULD I divine how her gray eyes Gat such cold haughtiness of skies; How, some wood-flower's shadow brown, Dimmed her fair forehead's wrath a frown; How, rippled sunshine blown thro' air, Tossed scorn her eloquence of hair; How to a folded bud again She drew her blossomed lips' disdain; Naught deigning save eyes' utterance, Star-words, which quicker reach the sense; Then, afterwards, how melted there The austere woman to one tear; Then were I wise to know how grew This star-stained miracle of blue, How God makes wild flowers out of dew.

MY heart is high, is high, my dear, And the warm wind sunnily blows; My heart is high with a mood that's cheer, And burns like a sun-blown rose. My heart is high, is high, my dear, And the Heaven's deep skies are blue; My heart is high as the passionate year, And smiles like a bud in dew. My heart, my heart is high, my sweet, For wild is the smell o' the wood, That gusts in the breeze with a pulse o' heat, Mad heat that beats like a blood. My heart, my heart is high, my sweet, And the sense of summer is full; A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat, Full forests and waters cool. My heart is high, is high, my heart, As the bee's that groans and swinks In the dabbled flowers that dart and part To his woolly bulk when he drinks. My heart is high, is high, my heart,— Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird, That I may get that lilt by heart, And fit each note with a word. God's saints! I tread the air, my dear! Flow one with the running wind; And the stars that stare I swear, my dear, Right soon in my hair I'll find. To live high up a life of mist With the white things in white skies, With their limbs of pearl and of amethyst, Who laugh blue humorous eyes! Or to creep and to suck like an elfin thing To the aching heart of a rose; In the harebell's ear to cling and swing And whisper what no one knows! To live on wild honey as fresh as thin As the rain that's left in a flower, And roll forth golden from feet to chin In the god-flower's Danaë shower! Or free, full-throated curve back the throat With a vigorous look at the blue, And sing right staunch with a lusty note Like the hawk hurled where he flew! God's life! the blood of the Earth is mine! And the mood of the Earth I'll take, And brim my soul with her wonderful wine, And sing till my heart doth break!

LONG vollies of wind and of rain And the rain on the drizzled pane, And the eve falls chill and murk; But on yesterday's eve I know How a horned moon's thorn-like bow Stabbed rosy thro' gold and thro' glow, Like a rich barbaric dirk.

Now thick throats of the snapdragons,— Who hold in their hues cool dawns, Which a healthy yellow paints,— Are filled with a sweet rain fine Of a jaunty, jubilant shine, A faery vat of rare wine, Which the honey thinly taints.

Now dabble the poppies shrink, And the coxcomb and the pink; While the candytuft's damp crown Droops dribbled, low bowed i' the wet; And long spikes o' the mignonette Little musk-sacks open set, Which the dripping o' dew drags down.

Stretched taunt on the blades of grass, Like a gossamer-fibered glass, Which the garden-spider spun, The web, where the round rain clings In its middle sagging, swings;— A hammock for Elfin things When the stars succeed the sun.

And mark, where the pale gourd grows Up high as the clambering rose, How that tiger-moth is pressed To the wide leaf's underside.— And I know where the red wasps hide, And the wild bees,—who defied The first strong gusts,—distressed.

Yet I feel that the gray will blow Aside for an afterglow; And a breeze on a sudden toss Drenched boughs to a pattering show'r Athwart the red dusk in a glow'r, Big drops heard hard on each flow'r On the grass and the flowering moss.

And then for a minute, may be,— A pearl—hollow worn—of the sea,— A glimmer of moon will smile; Cool stars rinsed clean on the dusk, A freshness of gathering musk O'er the showery lawns, as brusk As spice from an Indian isle.

LA Gitanilla! tall dragoons In Andalusian afternoons, With ogling eye and compliment Smiled on you, as along you went Some sleepy street of old Seville; Twirled with a military skill Moustaches; buttoned uniforms Of Spanish yellow bowed your charms. Proud, wicked head and hair blue-black! Whence your mantilla, half thrown back, Discovered shoulders and bold breast Bohemian brown: and you were dressed— In some short skirt of gipsy red Of smuggled stuff; thence stockings dead White silk exposed with many a hole Thro' which your plump legs roguish stole A fleshly look; and tiny toes In red morocco shoes with bows Of scarlet ribbons. Daintily You walked by me and I did see Your oblique eyes, your sensuous lip, That gnawed the rose you once did flip At bashful Jose's nose while loud Laughed the guant guards among the crowd. And, in your brazen chemise thrust, Heaved with the swelling of your bust, That bunch of white acacia blooms Whiffed past my nostrils hot perfumes. As in a cool neveria I ate an ice with Mérimée, Dark Carmencita, you passed gay, All holiday bedizenéd, A new mantilla on your head; A crimson dress bespangled fierce; And crescent gold, hung in your ears, Shone wrought Morisco; and each shoe Cordovan leather, spangled blue, Glanced merriment; and from large arms To well-turned ancles all your charms Blew flutterings and glitterings Of satin bands and beaded strings; And 'round each arm's fair thigh one fold, And graceful wrists, a twisted gold Coiled serpents, tails fixed in the head, Convulsive-jeweled glossy red. In flowers and trimmings to the jar Of mandolin and low guitar You in the grated patio Danced; the curled coxcombs' flirting row Rang pleased applause. I saw you dance, With wily motion and glad glance Voluptuous, the wild romalis, Where every movement was a kiss Of elegance delicious, wound In your Basque tambourine's dull sound. Or as the ebon castanets Clucked out dry time in unctuous jets, Saw angry Jose thro' the grate Glare on us a pale face of hate, When some indecent colonel there Presumed too lewdly for his ear. Some still night in Seville; the street, Candilejo; two shadows meet— Flash sabres; crossed within the moon,— Clash rapidly—a dead dragoon.

HUSH! She is dead! Tread gently as the light Foots dim the weary room. Thou shalt behold. Look:—In death's ermine pomp of awful white, Pale passion of pulseless slumber virgin cold: Bold, beautiful youth proud as heroic Might— Death! and how death hath made it vastly old. Old earth she is now: energy of birth Glad wings hath fledged and tried them suddenly; The eyes that held have freed their narrow mirth; Their sparks of spirit, which made this to be, Shine fixed in rarer jewels not of earth, Far Fairylands beyond some silent sea. A sod is this whence what were once those eyes Will grow blue wild-flowers in what happy air; Some weed with flossy blossoms will surprise, Haply, what summer with her affluent hair; Blush roses bask those cheeks; and the wise skies Will know her dryad to what young oak fair. The chastity of death hath touched her so, No dreams of life can reach her in such rest;— No dreams the mind exhausted here below, Sleep built within the romance of her breast. How she will sleep! like musick quickening slow Dark the dead germs, to golden life caressed. Low musick, thin as winds that lyre the grass, Smiting thro' red roots harpings; and the sound Of elfin revels when the wild dews glass Globes of concentric beauty on the ground; For showery clouds o'er tepid nights that pass The prayer in harebells and faint foxgloves crowned. So, if she's dead, thou know'st she is not dead. Disturb her not; she lies so lost in sleep: The too-contracted soul its shell hath fled: Her presence drifts about us and the deep Is yet unvoyaged and she smiles o'erhead:— Weep not nor sigh—thou wouldst not have her weep? To principles of passion and of pride, To trophied circumstance and specious law, Stale saws of life, with scorn now flung aside, From Mercy's throne and Justice would'st thou draw Her, Hope in Hope, and Chastity's pale bride, In holiest love of holy, without flaw? The anguish of the living merciless,— Mad, bitter cruelty unto the grave,— Wrings the dear dead with tenfold heart's distress, Earth chaining love, bound by the lips that rave. If thou hast sorrow let thy sorrow bless That power of death, of death our selfless slave. "Unjust?"—He is not! for hast thou not all, All that thou ever hadst when this dull clay So heartless, blasted now, flushed spiritual, A restless vassal of Earth's night and day? This hath been thine and is; the cosmic call Hath disenchanted that which might not stay. Thou unjust!—bar not from its high estate,— Won with what toil thro' devastating cares: What bootless battling with the violent Fate; What mailed endeavor with resistless years;— That soul:—whole-hearted granted once thy mate, Heaven only loaned, return it not with tears!

CAST on sleep there came to me Three Urgandas; and the sea In lost lands of Briogne Sounded moaning, moaning: Cloudy clad in awful white; And each face a lucid light Rayed and blossomed out of night,— And a wind was groaning. In my sleep I saw them rest, Each a long hand at her breast, A soft flame that lulls the West;— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Hair like hoarded ingots rolled Down white shoulders glossy gold, Streaks of molten moonlight cold,— And a wind was groaning. Rosy 'round each high brow bent Four-fold starry gold that sent Barbs of fire redolent;— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— 'Neath their burning crowns their eyes Burned like southern stars the skies Rock in shattered storm that flies,— And a wind was groaning. Wisdom's eyes of lurid dark; And each red mouth like a spark Flashed and laughed off care and cark,— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Mouths for song and lips to kiss; Lips for hate and mouths to hiss; Lips that fashioned hell or bliss,— And the wind was groaning. Tall as stately virgins dead, Tapers lit at feet and head, 'Round whom Latin prayers are said,— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Or as vampire women, who, Buried beauties, rise and woo Youths whose blood they suck like dew,— And a wind was groaning. Then the west one said to me: "Thou hast slept thus holily While seven sands ran secretly."— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— "Earth hath served thee like a slave, Serving us who found thee brave, Fearless of or life or grave."— And a wind was groaning. "Know!"—she smote my brow; a pain, Riddling arrows, rent my brain, Ceased and earth fell, some vast strain;— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Then I understood all thought; What was life the spirit fraught; Love and hate; how worlds were wrought:— And a wind was groaning. Then the east one said to me: "Thou hast wandered wearily By what mist-enveloped sea!"— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— "Know the things thou hast not seen; Life and law, and love and teen; Things that be and have not been."— And the wind was groaning. "See!" her voice sung like a lyre Throbs of thunderous desire; Then the iron sight like fire— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Burst; the inner eyelids, which Husked clairvoyance, with a twitch Rose—and I with light was rich;— And a wind was groaning. Then I saw the eyes of Sleep; Nerves of Life and veins that leap; Laws of entity; the deep:— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— Orbs and eons; springs of Power; Circumstance—blown like a flower;— Time—the second of an hour:— And the wind was groaning. To the central third one's full Balanced being beautiful Heart, to hearken, made a lull,— And the sea was moaning, moaning;— As she sternly stooped to me: "Thou dost know and thou canst see; What thou art arise and be!"— And the wind was groaning. To my mouth hot lips she pressed; And my famished soul, thrice blessed, Quaffed her radiance and caressed:— And vague seas were moaning, moaning:— Mounted; star-vibrating fled; Soared to love, with her who said: "Thou dost live and thou art dead."— Far off winds were groaning.

ERE wild haws, looming in the glooms, Build bolted drifts of breezy blooms; And in the whistling hollow there The red-bud bends as brown and bare As buxom Roxy's up-stripped arm; From some slick hickory or larch, Sighed o'er the sodden meads of March, The sad heart thrills and reddens warm To hear thee braving the rough storm, Frail courier of green-gathering powers,— Rebelling sap in trunks and flowers; Love's minister come heralding; O sweet saint-voice among bleak bowers!— Thou brown-red pursuivant of Spring!

"Moan" sob the woodland cascades still Down bloomless ledges of the hill; And gray, gaunt clouds like harpies hang In harpy heavens, and swoop and clang Sharp beaks and talons of the wind: Black scowl the forests, and unkind The far fields as the near; while song Seems murdered and all passion, wrong. One wild frog only in the thaw Of spawny pools wakes cold and raw, Expires a melancholy bass And stops as if bewildered; then Along the frowning wood again, Flung in the thin wind's fangy face, Thou, in red, woolly tassels proud Of bannered maples, flutest loud: "Her Grace! her Grace! her Grace!"

"Her Grace! her Grace! her Grace!" Climbs beautiful and sunny-browed Up, up the kindling hills and wakes Blue berries in the berry brakes; With fragrant flakes, that blow and bleach, Deep powders smothered quince and peach; Eyes dogwoods with a thousand eyes; Teaches each sod how to be wise With twenty wild-flowers for one weed; And kisses germs that they may seed. In purest purple and sweet white Treads up the happier hills of light; Bloom, cloudy-borne, song in her hair, Long dew-drops her pale fingers fair: Big wind-retainers, and the rains Her yeomen strong that flash the plains; While scarlet mists at dawn,—and gold At eve,—her panoply enfold.— Her herald tabarded behold!— Awake to greet! prepare to sing! She comes, the darling Duchess, Spring!"

SLEEP while I sing to thee, Dulcinea,— How like a shower of moonlight-crusted beams Of textile form compact, whose veins run stars,— Discovered goddess of what naked loves!— Maiden of dreams and aromatic sleep, Thou liest. Thy long instrument against Thy god-voluptuous sensuousness of hip Pure iridescent pearl of ocean slopes: Tempestuous silent color-melodies Pulse glimmering from it beaten by the moon,— Soft songs the white hands of white shadows touch.— Magnetic star set slumberous over night, Watch with me this superior star of Earth Good Heaven was kind to grant me: Trembler, Like some soft bird, dream, while I sing to thee— Dream, languid ardor, my Dulcinea, dream.

FLOATS a wild chant of morning from the hills; Bursts a broad song of sunlight on the sea; High Heaven throbs strung with rays of chords and thrills, Life's resonant pæans to Earth's minstrelsy. Bind thou swift sandals on of youth, My love, and harp to me of truth In lands of joy or ruth. Now sheer o'er solitudes of noon the strife Of chariot fierce by chariot scintillant Flames, and the blade-bare charioteers for life, O'er-bent, close-curled, goad their hot yokes that pant. Haste not, my love, but from the beam Beside this olive-frosty stream Sing while I rest and dream. What swart Penthesilea, Amazon, Hath, smitten, hurled her shield, that crescent there; To wrench the barbéd arrow leaned,—voiced one Defiant shout, breathed her red life in air.— Tho' life be close to sunset, lo, Into the sunset let us go Still lyring joy not woe. How swims the Night thro' the deep-oceaned sky! How at pale lips blown stars like bubbles break, Burn, streamed from showery locks she tosses high!— A stronger swimmer, Death, glares in her wake.— Cast, love, ah cast thy harp away! Aweary am I of thy lay— Kneel down by me and pray.

WHEN love delays, when love delays and Joy Steals a strange shadow o'er the happy hills, And Hope smiles from To-morrow, nor fulfills One promise of To-day, thy sight would cloy This soul with loved despair By seeing thee so fair. When love delays, when love delays and song Aches at wild lips regretful, as the sound Of a whole sea strives in the shell-mouth bound, Tho' Hope smiles still to-morrowed, all this wrong Would, at one little word, Leap forth for thee a sword. When love delays, when love delays and sleep Nests in dark eyeballs, like a song of home Heard 'mid familiar flowers o'er the foam, Tho' Hope smiles still to-morrowed, thou wouldst steep This hurt heart overmuch In balm with one true touch. When love delays, when love delays and Sorrow Drinks her own tears that fever her soul's thirst, And song, and sleep, and memory seem accurst, For Hope smiles still to-morrowed, I would borrow One smile from thee to cheer The weary, weary year. When love delays, when love delays and Death Hath sealed dim lips and mocked young eyes with night, To love or hate locked calm, indifferent quite,— Hope's star-eyed acolyte,—what kisses' breath, What joys can slay regret Or teach thee to forget!

THOU hast not loved her, hast not as thou shouldst, O narrow heart, that could not grasp so wide! And tho' thy oaths seemed oaths yet they have lied, And thy caresses, kisses were—denied— Thou hast not loved her, hast not as thou couldst. Thou hast not loved her, hast not as thou shouldst; O shallow eyes, that could not image deep!— Enough! what boots it tho' ye weep and weep? Her sleep is deep, too deep! so let her sleep— Thou hast not loved her, hast not as thou couldst. Thou hast not loved her, hast not as thou shouldst; For hadst thou, that confluent night and day Had in oblivion currents borne away Not one alone—but coward! thou didst stay— Thou hast not loved her, hast not as thou couldst!

OH Life, thou hast no power left to strive, Life, who, upon wild mountains of Surprise, Behold'st Love's citadelled, tall towers rise,— Shafts of clear, Paphian waters poured that live. O Hope, who sought'st fulfillment of deep dreams Beyond those Caucasus of Faith and Truth,— Twixt silver realms of eld and golden youth Rolled,—cloudward clustered; whose sonorous streams, Urned in the palms of Death, gush to his feet: Unlovely beauty of sad, stirless sight Mixed in them with eternity of night;— O Hope, how sad the journey once so sweet! Dreams crowned with thorns have passed thee on the way; And Beauties with bare limbs red-bruised and torn; Tall, holy Hours their eyes dull, wan and worn, Slaves manacled whom lashed the brutal Day. And Sorrow sat beside a sea so wide, That shoreless Heaven unto one little star Upon the brink of night seems not so far, And on her feet the frail foams tossing sighed. She, her rent hair, dressed like a siren's, full Of weedy waifs and strays of moaning shells, Streaked with the glimmering sands and foamy bells, Loomed a pale utterance most beautiful. "And thou shall love me, Sorrow!" I; but she Turned her vast eyes upon me and no more; Their melancholy language clove the core Of my fast heart; and in mine ears the sea Along gaunt crags yearned iron-husky grief; Groaned the hard headlands with the wings of Storm, Huge thunder shook the foot-hills and Alarm Gnashed her thin fangs from hissing reef to reef. So to the hills aweary I did turn.— Beyond, a reach of sunlight and slim flowers; Where Hope, an amaranth, and tearless Hours, Long lilies, lived, whose hearts stiff gold did burn. And there curled Joy clinked their chaste chalices; Distilled at dusk, poured bubbling dewy wine, Divine elixir! off his lips divine Tossed the fleet rapture to the golden lees, And so lolled dazed with pleasure. And I said, "Yield me the lily thou hast drained that I This hollow thirst may kill and so not die?" To me he laughed, "I yield it!"—but 'twas dead. And each blown reach and eminence of blooms Flushed long, low, gurgling murmurs like a sea, And laughed bright lips that flashed white teeth of glee In pearly flower on flower; pure perfumes Gasped the rolled fields; and o'er the eminence I journeyed joyless thro' a blossom-fire That, budding kisses curled with blown desire, Clasped me and claimed me tho' I spurned it hence. Then came unto a land of thorns and weeds, And dust and thirst o'er which a songless sky, Hoarse with lean vultures, scowled a scoffing lie, Where cold snakes hissed among dead, rattling reeds. And there I saw the bony brow of Hate; Vile, vicious sneers, the eyes of shriveled Scorn Among the writhing briers; each a thorn Of cavernous hunger barbed with burning fate. They, thro' her face-drawn locks of raveled dark, Stung a stark horror; and I felt my heart Freeze, wedged with ice, to dullness part by part, And knew Hate coiled toward me yet stood stark— Fell; seeing on the happy, happy hills, Above that den of dust and thorny thirst, The bastioned walls of Love in glory burst, Built by sweet glades of Poesy and rills. O Life, I had not life enough to strive! O Hope, I had not hope enough to dream! Death drew me to him and to sigh did seem, "Love? Love?—thou canst not reach her and yet live! "For sorrow, joy, and hate, and scorn are bound About thee, girdling so, thy lips are dumb; And Fame, ah Fame! her towers are but a tomb— Star-set on dwindling heights of starry ground. "And thou art done and being done must die, Endeavor being dead and energy Slain, a wild bird that beat bars to be free, Despairing perished, finding life a lie."

IF thou wouldst know the Beautiful that breathes Consanguined with young Earth, go seek!—but seek No sighing Shadows with dead hemlock-wreaths, No sleepy Sorrows whose wan eyes are weak With vanished vigils, Melancholy made, Forlorn, in lands of sin and saddening shade; No tearful Angers torn of truthless Love, Who stab their own hearts to dull daggers' hilts For vengeance sweet; no miser Moods that fade In owlet towers. Such it springs above, And buds on morning meads no flower that wilts. If thou dost seek the Beautiful, beware! Lest thou discover her, nor know 'tis she; And she enslave thee evermore, and there Reward thee with but kingliest beggary: Make thine the robust red her cheek that stings; The kiss-sweet odor, thine, her wild breath brings; Make thine the broad bloom of her crownéd brow; The hearts of light that ardor her proud eyes; That melody,—which is herself,—that sings The poem of her presence and the vow, That stars exalts and mortals deifies. Lone art thou then, lone as the lone first star Kindling pale beauty o'er the mournful wave; Lost to all happiness save searching far Thro' lands of Life where Death hath delved no grave: Lost,—even as I,—a devotee to her, Poor in world-blessedness her bliss to share, But rich in passion.—For her hermitage Hope no Hydaspes' splendor, for it lies Mossy by woody waters hidden, where She, priestess pure, wise o'er all Wisdom sage, Shrines artists' hearts for godliest sacrifice.

THEN up the orient heights to the zenith that balanced a crescent,— Up and far up and over,—a warm erubescence liquescent Rioted roses and rubies; eruptions of opaline gems, Flung and wide sown, blushed crushed, and crumbled from diadems Wealth of the kings of the Sylphs; whence, old alchemist, Earth— Dewed down—by chemistry occult fashions petrified waters of worth.— Then out of the stain and rash furor, the passionate pulver of stone, The trembling suffusion that dazzled and awfully shone, Chamelion-convulsion of color, hilarious ranges of glare— Like a god who for vengeance ires, nodding battle from every hair, Fares forth with majesty girdled and clangs with hot heroes for life, Till the brazen gates boom bursten hells and the walls roar bristling strife,— Athwart with a stab of glittering fire, in-plunged like a knife, Cut billowing gold, in bullion rolled, and an army driven, Routed, the stars fled shriveled; and the white moon riven, Puffed,—like a foam-feather forth of a Triton's conch when sounded,— Clung, vague as a web, on heaven; then weak as a face that is wounded Died on the withering clouds and sorrowed with them and mingled. While up and up with a steadiness and triumph of sparkle that tingled, Wrestled the tempest of Dawn, that hurricaned heaven with spangle, And halcyon bloom like mercy,—a shatter, a scatter, a tangle Of labyrinthed glory.—O God! with manifold mirth The hallelujah of Heaven, hosanna of Earth.

And I in my vision imprisoned was restless and wan With a yearning for vigor to gird and be gone Out of false dreams to the true—realities noble of dawn.

VANISHING visions, whose lineaments steal into slumbers, Loosened the lids of the sight the night that encumbers; Secretly, sweetly with fingers of fog that were slow, Slow as a song that mysterious Passions the soul, till delirious, Wrapped in mad melody mastering the uttermost woe, Deep to the innermost deep it is shaken Ruffled and rippled and tossed, Tantalized, terrorized, cursed with a thirst that, unslaken, Debauches with eyes that burn stolid, yet only shall waken With infinite scorn of the cost If no note of the rhapsody's lost.

Oh, for the music of moonbeams that master and sweep Chords of the resonant deep! Smiting loud lyres of Night, sonorous as fire, Leap fluttering fingers of vanquishing flash and of flake Fain at each firmament-universe-instrument star-strung. Vibrating-vestured in garments of woven desire, Stoop to me, breathe on me, smile on me, waver, "Awake! From waking to sleeping, to silence from manifold clamor, To revelous regions of multiform glamour!" Murmur and whisper "Awake!" Oh, necromance banquets by fountains of fairy, the spar-sprung! Oh, sorcerous beauties and wonders of wizards! oh take The millions of morning-spun gleams, All glitters of galloping streams, The glimmer the gasp the clutch and the grasp, That colorless crystals and virtuous jewels As spasmodic fuels Cuddle and huddle and clasp: The wrinkle and crinkle of scintillant heat in white metals; The quiver of terrible gold and the pearly Lithe brilliance of soft, holy petals, Of slender, sad blossoms, tumultuous tossed crispy and curly In shadowy reaches of violet dark; The burn of the stars and the spark Fragile of foams that are fluted, to make One cordial of dreams To drink and to sink Deep, deep into dreams nor awake.

AS to a Nymph in the ripple-ribbed body of ocean, Down, down thro' vast stories of water, a hiss and devour Electrify altitudes orbed,—pulses violent motion Of Thunder, who treads the brute neck of the seas in his power, Till their spine writhes lumped into waves,—the Nymph in her bower, Rubbing moist sleep from her eyes, arises,— Loosens the loops of her locks, Loosens, and suddenly darts on the storm and surprises The boisterous bands of the rocks, That hoot to the riddling arrows of rain and of seas, Mountainous these;— Swirling and whirling, She of the huge exultation beheld, with long tresses, Dotted with bells of the hollow, hard foam, flung streaming, Dives, bounds to the whirlwind embracing; then mockingly presses Hair to wild face and wild throat, drifts desolate dreaming; With scorn then laughing and screaming, Discovers full beauty of nakedness leaping and gleaming; And showering the rain from her hair, Pouts blown, curdled foam from her lips, And eddying slips, From the ravenous eyes of the Thunder that glare, Away, away, To the arms of her lover the Spray. So I,— At swift thoughts that were spoken, that came As if winds had fashioned a speech—was a flame That dwindled, was kindled, then mounted and, Marvelling why,— Stemming all thought, a gleam out of gleams Was born into dreams.

Beautiful-bosomed, O Night! with thy moon, Move in majesty slowly to majesty lightly! Silent as sleep, who is lulled by a delicate tune, O'er-stroke thou the air with a languor of moonlight brightly! Thin ice, in sockets of turquoise fastened, the stars Gash golden the bosom of heaven with fiery scars. Swoon down, O shadowy hosts, O multitude ghosts, Of the moonlight and starlight begotten!—Then swept Whispers that sighed to me, sorrows that stealthily hovered, Laughters with lips that were mist. And murmurings crept On toward me feet that were glow; and faces uncovered, Radiant and crystalline clear, In tortuous, sinuous swirl of vapory pearl, Waned near and more near. Flashed faster a spiral of shapes and of shadows still faster, On in a whirl of unutterable beauties by music expired, That lived and desired,— Born births of the brain of a rhapsody-reveling master; And mine eyes, with their beauties infired, Smiled scorn on dark Death and Disaster.

AH! now the orchard's leaves are sear, Drip not with starlight-litten dew; Green-drowned no moon-bright fruit hangs here; Dead, dead your long, white lilies too— And you, Allita, where are you!" Then comes her dim touch, faintly warm; Cool hair sense on my feverish cheek; Dim eyes at mine deep with some charm,— So gray! so gray! and I am weak Weak with wild tears and can not speak. I am as one who walks with dreams: Sees as in youth his father's home; Hears from his native mountain-streams Far music of continual foam.

I wot well o' his going To think in flowers fair;— His a right kind heart, my dear, To give the grass such hair.

I wot well o' his lying Such nights out in the cold,— To list the cricket's crick, my sweet, To see the glow-worm's gold.

An mine eyes be laughterful, Well may they laugh, I trow,— Since two dead eyes a yesternight Gazed in them sad enow.

An my heart make moan and ache, Well may it dree, I'm sure;— He is dead and gone, my love, And it is beggar poor.

IN samite sark yclad was she; And that fair glimmerish band of gold Which crowned long, savage locks of hair In the moon brent cold. She with big eyeballs gloomed and glowered, And lightly hummed some Elfin's song, And one could naught save on her stare And fare along. Yea; sad and lute-like was that song And softly said its mystery; Which quaintly sang in elden verse "Thy love I'll be." And oft it said: "I love thee true, Sir Ewain, champion of the fair." And never wist he what a witch Was that one there. And never wist he that a witch Had bound him with her wily hair, Eke with dark art had ta'en his heart To slay him there. And all his soul did wax amort To stars, to hills, to slades, to streams, And it but held that sorceress fair As one of dreams. And now he kens some castle gray Wild turrets ivied, in the moon, Old, where through woodlands foaming on A torrent shone.... In its high hall full twenty knights With visors barred all sternly stand; The following of some gracious brave, Lord of the land. And lo! when that dim damosel Moved down the hall, they louted low; And she was queen of all that band, That dame of snow. Now on that knight she stared eftsoons, And cried on high unto her crew, "Behold! Sir Knights, the dastard brave Your king that slew." And all those heathen knights wox wild Attonce; and all against him drave; Long battle blades and daggers bright Aloft did wave. The press on him puissant bare And smote him to the rush-strown earth;— Tall, tall o'er all that Fairy rose Aloud with mirth.

WHAT deity for dozing laziness Devised the lounging coziness of this Enchanted nook?—and how!—did I distress His musing ease that fled but now, or his Laughed frolic with some forest-sister, fair As those wild hill-carnations are and rare? Too true, alas!—Feel! the wild moss is warm And moist with late reclining, as the palm Of what hot Hamadryad, who, a-nap, Props her hale cheek upon it, while her arm Weak wind-flowers bury; in her hair the balm Of a whole Spring of blossoms and of sap?

See, how the dented moss, that pads the hump Of these distorted roots, elastic springs From that god's late departure; lump by lump, Pale tufts impressed twitch loose in nervous rings, As crowding stars qualm thro' gray evening skies. Indulgence grant thou my profane surprise, Pray!—then to dream where thou didst dream before, Benevolent! ... here where the veiny leaves Bask broad the fuzzy bosoms of their hands O'er wistful waters: 'neath this sycamore, Smooth, giraffe-brindled, where each ripple weaves A twinkling quiver as of marching bands

Of Elfin chivalry, that, helmed with gold, Split spilled the scaley sunbeams wrinkled off. What brought thee here?—This wind that steals the old Weird legends from the forests, with a scoff To laugh them thro' their beards? Or, in those weeds, The hermit brook so busy with his beads?— How many Aves, Paters doth he say In one droned minute on his rosary Of bubbles—wot'st thou?—Pucker-eyed didst mark Yon lank hag-tapers, yellow by yon way, A haggard company of seven?—See How dry swim by such curled brown bits of bark?

Didst mark the ghostly gold of this grave, still, Conceited minnow thro' these twisted roots, Thrust o'er the smoky topaz of this rill, Dull-slumbering here? Or did those insect flutes— Sleepy with sunshine—buzz thee that forlorn Tale of Tithonus and the bashful Morn? Until two tears gleamed in the stealing stream Trembling its polish o'er the winking grail?— Nay! didst perplex thee with some poet plan To drug this air with beauty to make dream,— Ah, discreet Cunning, watching in yon vale!— Me, wildwood-wandered from the marts of Man!