LOVERS

They sit within a woodland place, Trellised with rustling light and shade; So like a spirit is her face That he is half afraid To speak—lest she should fade.

Mysterious, beneath the boughs, Like two enchanted shapes, they are, Whom Love hath builded them a house Of little leaf and star, And the brown evening jar.

So lovely and so strange a thing Each is to each to look upon, They dare not hearken a bird sing, Or from the other one Take eyes—lest they be gone.

So still—the watching woodland peers And pecks about them, butterflies Light on her hand—a flower; eve hears Two questions, two replies— O love that never dies!

FOR A PICTURE BY ROSE CECIL O'NEIL

Kisses are long forgotten of this twain, Kisses and words—the sweet small prophecies That run before the Lord of Love: the fain Touch of the hand, and feasting of the eyes, All tendrilled sweets that blossom at the door Of the stern doom, whose ecstacy is this— The end of all small speech of word or kiss, And whose strange name is Love—and one name more.

One is this twain past power of speech to tell, Each lost in each, and each for ever found; Drained is the cup that holds both heaven and hell; Peace deep as peace of those divinely drowned In leagues of moonlit water wraps them round, And it is well with them—yea! it is well.

LOVE IN SPAIN

You shall not dare to drink this cup, Yet fear this other I hold up— Sings Love in Spain:

One brimming deep with woman's breath— This other moon-lit cup is Death; Drink one, drink twain.

No sippers we of ladies' lips, Toyers of amorous finger tips, Are we in Spain.

Terrible like a bright sweet sword, And little tender is the Lord Of Love in Spain.

His song a tiger-throated thing,— A crouch, a cry, a frightened string; Death the refrain.

Scarlet and lightning are its words, There is no room in it for birds And flowers in Spain.

A flash, and mouth is lost on mouth, And life on life; so in the South The cup we drain.

We do not dream and hesitate About its brim; we fear not Fate That love in Spain.

And ah! come hear the reason why— There are no girls beneath the sky Like those of Spain.

All other women scarcely seem More than pale women in a dream By ours of Spain.

Ah! who aright shall tell their praise,— Their subtle, soft, imperious ways, Their high disdain.

Golden as bars of Spanish gold, Hot as the sun, as the moon cold, The girls of Spain.

Their faces as magnolias white, Their hair the soul of summer night, Soft as soft rain;

And swift as the steel blade that flies Into a coward's heart their eyes, Then soft again.

Under their little languid feet, That carry such a world of sweet, My heart lies slain.

Girls North and South, and East and West, But fairer far than all the rest The girls of Spain.

THE EYES THAT COME FROM IRELAND

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland? The grey-blue eyes so strangely grey and blue, The fighting loving eyes, The eyes that tell no lies— Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland? The dreaming mocking eyes that see you through, The eyes that smile and smile, With the heart-break all the while,— Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland? The eyes that hate of England made so blue, The mystic eyes that see More than Saxon you and me— Don't you love the eyes that come from Ireland?

A BALLAD OF THE KIND LITTLE CREATURES

I had no where to go, I had no money to spend: "O come with me," the Beaver said, "I live at the world's end."

"Does the world ever end!" To the Beaver then said I: "O yes! the green world ends," he said, "Up there in the blue sky."

I walked along with him to home, At the edge of a singing stream— The little faces in the town Seemed made out of a dream.

I sat down in the little house, And ate with the kind things— Then suddenly a bird comes out Of the bushes, and he sings:

"Have you no home? O take my nest, It almost is the sky;" And then there came along the creek A purple dragon-fly.

"Have you no home?" he said; "O come along with me, Get on my wings—the moon's my home"— The dragon-fly said he.

The Bee was told by a young Bat A man had need of home; He flew away at once, and said "Come to my honeycomb!"

Even the butterfly, A painted hour; Said to the homeless one: "I know a flower."

The Ant came slowly, Late, of course, but still Bringing the tiny welcome Of his hill.

The tired turtle, Fumbling through the wood, Came, asking hospitably "If I would?"

Even a hornet came, With sheathed sting,— He never yet had seen So lost a thing!

There was his nest Up in the singing boughs, Among the pears, A fragrant humming house.

And even little Stupid things that crawl Among the reeds, deeming That that is all, Came a long weary way To bid me home.

A snake said: "In the world there is a place Where you can lie And dream of her white face."

The moss said: "Your blue eyes Need my green sleep"; The willow said: "Ah! when You weep I weep."

Wonderful earth Of little kindly things, That buzz and beam And flitter little wings!

Over the sexton's grave The growing grass Cried out: "Come home! I am alive, alas!"

ENVOI Ah! love, the world is fading, Flower by flower, Each has his little house, And each his hour.

The ship rocked long Across the weary sea, But at the last There is a port for me.

BLUE FLOWER

Blue flower waving in the wind, Say whose blue eyes Lift up your swaying fragile stem To the blue skies.

Is she a queen that lies asleep In a green hill, With all her silver ornaments Around her still?

Or is she but a simple girl, Whose boy was drowned, In some cold sea, some stormy morn, On some blue sound?

THE HEART UNSEEN

So many times the heart can break, So many ways, Yet beat along and beat along So many days.

A fluttering thing we never see, And only hear When some stern doctor to our side Presses his ear.

Strange hidden thing, that beats and beats We know not why, And makes us live, though we indeed Would rather die.

Mysterious, fighting, loving thing, So sad, so true— I would my laughing eyes some day Might look on you.

THE SHIMMER OF THE SOUND

In the long shimmer of the Sound May I some day be laughing found, Part of its restless to and fro, A humble worker of the tides That round the sleepless planet flow, And in the rock and drift of things—

(O how the sea-weed sways and swings! Is it her hair—has she been found In the long shimmer of the Sound!)

Do some small task I do not know— O maybe help the mussel grow, Or tint the shell-imprisoned pearl—

A mute companion of the waves That toss within their moonlit graves— Is it a king, or but a girl?

And, all the while, she sings and sings, And waves her wild white hands with glee, Mysterious sister of the world, That singing water called the sea.

(O tell me was this sea-weed found In the long shimmer of the Sound!)

A SONG OF SINGERS

Singers all along the street, Singing every kind of song— One man's song is honey-sweet, One man's song is hammer-strong; Yet, however sweet the singing, However strong the hammer-swinging,— All the bees are round that honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

Singers all along the street— One sings Love and one sings Death, Roses sings one and little feet, And one sings wine with fevered breath; Yet all the bees are round that honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

Singers singing down the street, I believe there is a song, Could you sing it, that would beat All the sweet and all the strong; Just a simple song of pity, 'Mid the iron of the city.

Singers all the street along, There is still another song All the world is waiting, breathless, Just to hear some poet singing, Song of something gay and deathless 'Mid the grinding dark endeavour That goes on and on for ever, Something more than mere words bringing,

Something more than butterflies, Or the sugared ancient lies, Something with the ring of truth, And the majesty of youth, Something singing "all is well" In the blackest pit of hell!

O we are so tired of birds, Of rainbows and the love-sick words! Sing us but some manly tune, (Leaving out the rising moon) Sing the song of Hope Eternal In the face of Facts Infernal, And make your singing somehow prove it— Faith so firm no doubt can move it— Then the bees will leave the honey Which the vulgar world calls money.

THE END

Tell me, strange heart, so mysteriously beating— Unto what end? Body and soul so mysteriously meeting, Strange friend and friend; Hand clasped in hand so mysteriously faring, Say what and why all this dreaming and daring, This sowing and reaping and laughing and weeping, That ends but in sleeping— Only one meaning, only—the End.

Ah! all the love, the gold glory, the singing,— Unto what end? Flowers of April immortally springing, Face of one's friend, Stars of the morning and moon in her quarters, Shining of suns and running of waters, Growing and blowing and snowing and flowing,— Ah! where are they going? All on one journey, all to—the End.