Part 1 — RONDEAUS·RONDELS·& TRIOLET·

BEYOND the verge of night dost sigh To watch the glow of reddening sky, While sleep the worldlings wrapt in grey Of mist and dreams that round them play In semblance of reality? Thought’s craggy cliff is steep to try, That walls the future, yet Hope’s eye Doth catch the breaking beacon ray Beyond the verge. Now gleam and glance in gold array Bright vanes on towers that meet half-way Like spears and torches held on high, And flashing as the wind sweeps by— The herald’s fleet of that new day Beyond the verge.

THE Old and New together meet, Around the world, across the street, As neighbours, side by side, that grew; As friends, or foes, as false or true, Whose tale the heedless hours repeat. Two stems entwined to part and greet, From one root springing, bitter-sweet With flower and fruitage, seed to strew, The Old and New. Since, serpent-twined, their knowledge knew The heart of man, between the two, With clinging hands and winged feet He stands the sport of Time’s deceit, The parti-coloured shield in view— The Old and New.

ACROSS the fields like swallows fly Sweet thoughts and sad of days gone by, From Life’s broad highway turned away, Like children thought and memory play, Nor heed Time’s scythe though grass be high. Beneath the blue and shoreless sky, Time is but told when seedlings dry By love’s light breath are blown like spray Across the fields. Now comes the scent of fallen hay, And flowers bestrew the foot-worn clay, While summer breathes a passing sigh, As westward rolls the day’s gold eye, And Time with Labour ends his day Across the fields.

IN love’s disport, gay bubbles blown, On summer’s winds, light-freighted, flown;— A child intent upon delight The painted spheres would keep in sight— Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown. Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown Fair shapes, as frail, with jewelled zone Clear globes which fate might read aright In love’s disport. O frail as fair! Though in the white Of flameful heat with force to fight, Art thou by careless hands cast down Or killed—when frozen hearts disown The children born of love of light In love’s disport.

WHAT makes the world for you and I? A space of lawn a strip of sky, The bread and wine of fellowship, The cup of life for love to sip, A glass of dreams in Hope’s blue eye. So let the days and hours still fly, Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny, With feathered heel shall fancy trip— What makes the world? The wealth that never in the grip Of blighting greed shall heedless slip— When bought and sold is liberty: With worth of life and love gone by, What makes the world?

THE field is wide, broadcast the seed Of human hope and human need, As, to and fro, from end to end, The furrows of the world ye wend Its legioned hungry mouths to feed. Though lowering o’er the landscape bend The brows of winter, rains descend, And tempest sowings whirlwinds breed, The field is wide. Sowing, ye shall reap indeed Golden grain, or grisly weed, Or dragon’s teeth, that in the end, Perchance, in golden ears depend, Sunward, as our path doth lead, The field is wide.

A SEAT for three, where host and guest May side by side pass toast or jest; And be their number two or three With elbow-room and liberty, What need to wander east or west? A book for thought, a nook for rest, And meet for fasting or for fest, In fair and equal parts to be A seat for three. Then give you pleasant company, For youth or eld a shady tree; A roof for council or sequest, A corner in a homely nest, Free, equal, and fraternally, A seat for three.

WHEN Time, upon the wing, A swallow heedless flies, Love-birds forget to sing Beneath the lucent skies: For now belated spring With her last blossom hies, When time, upon the wing, A swallow heedless flies. What summer hope shall bring To wistful dreaming eyes? What fateful forecast fling Before life’s last surprise When Time upon the wing, A swallow heedless flies?

THIS Book of Hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold, Each page with art and thought And colours manifold. His calendar he taught To youths and virgins cold— This Book of Hours Love wrought With letters burnished gold. Love’s priceless book is bought With sighs and tears untold Of votaries who sought His countenance of old— This Book of Hours Love wrought With letters burnished gold.

IN the light, in the shade, This is Time and Life’s measure; With a heart unafraid, In the light, in the shade, Hope is born and not made, And the heart finds its treasure In the light, in the shade— This is Time and Life’s measure.