PART V WINTER (continued 2)

The rhododendrons bloom and shake Their petals wide and gleam and sway Among palmettoes, by the lake, Beyond the bay. Shores where we watched the eve reveal Her cloudy sanctuaries, while The bay lay lavaed into steel For mile on mile. We watched the purple coast confuse Soft outlines with the graying light; And towards the gulf a vessel lose Itself in night. We saw the sea-gulls dip and soar; The wild-fowl gather past the pier; And from rich skies, as from God’s door, Gold far and near. Two foreign seamen passed and we Heard mellow Spanish; like twin stars, Where they lounged smoking, we could see Their faint cigars. Night; and the heavens stained and strewn With stars the waters idealized, Until their light the rising moon Epitomized. Morn; and the pine-wood balms awake; Winds roll the dew-drop from the rose; The wide lake burns; and, on the lake, The ripple glows. Far coasts detach deep purple from The blue horizon, and the day Beholds the sunburnt sailor come And sail away. The bird that slept at dusk, at dawn Awakes again within the thorn.— Sweet was the night to it, now gone; And sweet is morn.

Through halls of columned scarlet, Like some dark queen, the Dusk Trails skirts of myrrh and musk, Hung in each ear, a starlet Gleams,—gems the clouds’ gaunt Jinn Guard; and, beneath her chin, The moon, an opal tusk. There lies a ghostly glory Upon the sea and sand; A gleam, as of a hand, Stretched from the realms of story, Of rosy golden ray; Pointing the world the way To some far Fairyland. As fades the west’s vermilion Above the distant coasts, The stars come out in hosts; Within the night’s pavilion, As flower speaks to flower, Dim hour calls to hour, Pale with the past’s sweet ghosts.

Music that melts through moonlight, Faint on the summer breeze; Fireflies, moonlight, and foaming Susurrus of the seas. Music that drifts like perfume, And touches like a hand; Dreams and stars and the ocean, And we alone on the sand. Glimmers and vague reflections, And the white swirl of the foam; Pale on the purple a vessel, And a light that beckons home. And I seem to see the music, On a moonbeam bar that floats, For the music is moonlight magic, And the flies are its golden notes. And I seem to hear one singing Of a brown old coast and sea, Of lives that were filled with passion, And old-world tragedy. And I hear the harsh reef’s calling For a noble ship at sea, And the winds of the ocean singing A dirge for the dead to be. Till it seems that I am the pilot, And you are the mermaidén, Who lures him on to the wrecking And into her arms again.

Over the hills where the winds are waking All is lone as the soul of me; Over the hills where the stars are shaking, Breton hills by the sea. These were with me to tell me often How she pined in her Croisic home, Winds that sing and the stars that soften Over the miles of foam. Fishers’ nets and the sailor faces; Sad salt marshes and granite piers; Brown, loud coast where the long foam races— And a parting full of tears. A gray sail’s ghost where the autumn lies on Wraiths of the mist and the squall-blown rain; Her dark girl eyes that search the horizon, Grave with a haunting pain. Stars may burn and the wild winds whistle Over the rocks where the sea-gulls rave— My heart is bleak as the wind-worn thistle on her seaside grave.

Sad as sad eyes that ache with tears The stars of night shine through the leaves; And shadowy as the Fates’ dim shears The weft that twilight weaves. The summer sunset marched long hosts Of gold adown one golden peak, That flamed and fell; and now gray ghosts Of mist the far west streak. They seem the shades of things that weep, Wan things the heavens would conceal; Blood-stained; that bear within them, deep, Red wounds that will not heal. Night comes, and with it storm, that slips Wild angles of the jagged light:— I feel the wild rain on my lips,— A wild girl is the Night. A moaning tremor sweeps the trees; And all the stars are packed with death:— She holds me by the neck and knees, I feel her wild, wet breath. Hell and its hags drive on the rain:— Night holds me by the hair and pleads; Her kisses fall like blows again; My brow is dewed with beads. The thunder plants wild beacons on Each volleying height.—My soul seems blown Far out to sea. The world is gone, And night and I alone. Tampa, Florida, February, 1893.

The night had passed. The day had come, Bright-born, into a cloudless sky: We heard the rolling of the drum, And saw the war-flags fly. And noon had crowded upon morn Ere Conflict shook her red locks far, And blew her brazen battle-horn Upon the hills of War. Noon darkened into dusk—one blot Of nightmare lit with hell-born suns;— We heard the scream of shell and shot And booming of the guns. On batteries of belching grape We saw the thundering cavalry Hurl headlong,—iron shape on shape,— With shout and bugle-cry. When dusk had moaned and died, and night Came on, wind-swept and wild with rain, We slept, ’mid many a bivouac light, And vast fields heaped with slain.

Wounded to death he lay and dreamed The drums of battle beat afar, And round the roaring trenches screamed The hell of war. Then woke; and, weeping, spoke one word To the kind nurse who bent above; Then in the whitewashed ward was heard A song of love. The song she sang him when she gave The portrait that he kissed; then sighed, “Lay it beside me in the grave!” And smiled and died.

A brown wing beat the apple leaves and shook Some blossoms on her hair. Then, note on note, The bird’s wild music bubbled. In her book, Her old romance, she seemed to read. No look Betrayed the tumult in her trembling throat. The thrush sang on. A dreamy wind came down From one white cloud of afternoon and fanned The dropping petals on her book and gown, And touched her hair, whose braids of quiet brown Gently she smoothed with one white jeweled hand. Then, with her soul, it seemed, from feet to brow She felt him coming: ’t was his heart, his breath That stirred the blossom on the apple bough; His step the wood-thrush warbled to. And now Her cheek went crimson, now as white as death. Then on the dappled page his shadow—yes, Not unexpected, yet her haste assumed Fright’s startle; and low laughter did confess His presence there, soft with his soul’s caress And happy manhood, where the rambo bloomed. Quickly she rose and all her gladness sent Wild welcome to him. Her his unhurt arm Drew unresisted; and the soldier leant Fond lips to hers. She wept. And so they went Deep in the orchard towards the old brick farm.

A day of drought, foreboding rain and wind, As if stern heaven, feeling earth had sinned, Frowned all its hatred. When the evening came, Along the west, from bank on bank unthinned Of clouds, the storm unfurled its oriflamme. Then lightning signaled, and the thunder woke Its monster drums, and all God’s torrents broke.— She saw the wild night when the dark pane flashed; Heard, where she stood, the disemboweled oak Roar into fragments when the welkin crashed. Long had she waited for a word. And, lo! Anticipation still would not say “No:” He has not written; he will come to her; At dawn!—to-night!—Her heart hath told her so; And so expectancy and love aver. She seems to hear his fingers on the pane— The glass is blurred, she can not see for rain: Is that his horse?—the wind is never still: And that his cloak?—ah, surely that is plain!— A torn vine tossing at the window-sill. She hurries forth to meet him; pale and wet, She sees his face; the war-soiled epaulet; A sabre-scar that bleeds from brow to cheek; And now he smiles, and now their lips have met, And now ... Dear heart, he fell at Cedar Creek!

It was in August that they brought her news Of his bad wounds; the leg that he must lose. And August passed, and when October raised Red rebel standards on the hills that blazed, They brought a haggard wreck; she scarce knew whose, Until they told her, standing stunned and dazed. A shattered shadow of the stalwart lad, The five-months husband, whom his country had Enlisted, strong for war; returning this, Whose broken countenance she feared to kiss, While health’s remembrance stood beside him sad, And grieved for that which was no longer his. They brought him on a litter; and the day Was bright and beautiful. It seemed that May In woodland rambles had forgot her path Of season, and, disrobing for a bath, By the autumnal waters of some bay, With her white nakedness had conquered Wrath. Far otherwise she wished it: wind and rain; The sky, one gray commiserative pain; Sleet, and the stormy drift of frantic leaves; To match the misery that each perceives Aches in her hand-clutched bosom, and is plain In eyes and mouth and all her form that grieves. Theirs, a mute meeting of the lips; she stooped And kissed him once: one long, dark side-lock drooped And brushed against the bandage of his breast; With feeble hands he held it and caressed; Then all his happiness in one look grouped, Saying, “Now I am home, I crave but rest.” Once it was love! but then the battle killed All that sweet nonsense of his youth, and filled His heart with sterner passion.—Ah, well! peace Must balm its pain with patience; whose surcease Means reconcilement; e’en as God hath willed, With war or peace who shapes His ends at ease.— What else for these but, where their mortal lot Of weak existence drags rent ends, to knot The frail unravel up!—while love (afraid Time will increase the burthen on it laid), Seeks consolation, that consoleth not, In toil and prayer, waiting what none evade.

Long shadows toward the east: and in the west A blaze of garnet sunset, wherein rolled One cloud like some great gnarly log of gold; Each gabled casement of the farm seemed dressed In ghosts of roses blossoming manifest. And she had brought his letter there to read, There on the porch, that faced the locust glade; To watch the summer sunset burn and fade, And breathe the twilight scent of wood and weed, Forget all care and her soul’s hunger feed. And on his face her fancy mused a while: “Dark hair, dark eyes.—And now he has a beard Dark as his hair.”—She smiled; yet almost feared It changed him so she could not reconcile Her heart to that which hid his lips and smile. Then tried to feature, but could only see The beardless man who bent to her and kissed Her and their child and left them to enlist: She heard his horse grind in the gravel: he Waved them adieu and rode to fight with Lee. Now all around her drowsed the hushful hum Of evening insects. And his letter spoke Of love and longings to her: nor awoke One echo of the bugle and the drum, But all their future in one kiss did sum. The stars were thick now; and the western blush Drained into darkness. With a dreamy sigh She rocked her chair.—It must have been the cry Of infancy that made her rise and rush To where their child slept, and to hug and hush. Then she returned. But now her ease was gone. She knew not what, she felt an unknown fear Press, tightening, at her heart-strings; then a tear Scalded her eyelids, and her cheeks grew wan As helpless sorrow’s, and her white lips drawn. With stony eyes she grieved against the skies, A slow, dull, aching agony that knew Few tears, and saw no answer shining to Her silent questions in the stars’ still eyes “Where Peace delays and where her soldier lies.” They could have told her. Peace was far away, Beyond the field that belched black batteries All the red day. ’Mid picket silences, On woodland mosses, in a suit of gray, Shot through the heart, he by his rifle lay.

The storm-red sun, through wrecks of wind and rain, And dead leaves driven from the frantic boughs, Where, on the hill-top, stood a gaunt, gray house, Flashed wildest ruby on each rainy pane. Then woods grew darker than unburdened grief; And, crimson through the woodland’s ruin, streamed The sunset’s glare—a furious eye, which seemed Watching the moon rise like a yellow leaf. The rising moon, against which, like despair, High on the hill, a woman, darkly drawn, The wild leaves round her, stood; with features wan, And tattered dress and wind-distracted hair. As still as death, and looking, not through tears, For the young face of one she knows is lost, While in her heart the melancholy frost Gathers of all the unforgotten years. What if she heard to-night a hurrying hoof, Wild as the whirling of the withered leaf, Bring her a more immedicable grief, A shattered shape to live beneath her roof! The shadow of him who claimed her once as wife; Her lover!—no!—the wreck of all their past Brought back from battle!—Better to the last A broken heart than heartbreak all her life!

Down Loudon lanes, with swinging reins, And clash of spur and sabre, And bugling of the battle-horn, Six score and eight we rode that morn, Six score and eight of Southern born, All tried in war’s hot labor. Full in the sun, at Hamilton, We met the South’s invaders; Who, over fifteen hundred strong, ’Mid blazing homes had marched along All night, with Northern shout and song, To crush the rebel raiders. Down Loudon lanes, with streaming manes, We spurred in wild March weather; And all along our war-scarred way The graves of Southern heroes lay— Our guide-posts to revenge that day, As we rode grim together. Old tales still tell some miracle Of Saints in holy writing— But who shall say why hundreds fled Before the few that Mosby led, Unless it was that even the dead Fought with us then when fighting. While Yankee cheers still stunned our ears, Of troops at Harper’s Ferry; While Sheridan led on his Huns, And Richmond rocked to roaring guns, We felt the South still had some sons She would not scorn to bury.

Rocks, trees and rocks; and down a mossy stone The murmuring ooze and trickle of a stream Through brambles, where the mountain spring lies lone,— A gleaming cairngorm where the shadows dream,— And one wild road winds like a saffron seam. Here sang the thrush, whose pure, mellifluous note Dropped golden sweetness on the fragrant June; Here cat-and blue-bird and wood-sparrow wrote Their presence on the silence with a tune; And here the fox drank ’neath the mountain moon. Frail ferns and dewy mosses and dark brush,— Impenetrable briers, deep and dense, And wiry bushes;—brush, that seemed to crush The struggling saplings with its tangle, whence Sprawled out the ramble of an old rail-fence. A wasp buzzed by; and then a butterfly In orange and amber, like a floating flame; And then a man, hard-eyed and very sly, Gaunt-cheeked and haggard and a little lame, With an old rifle, down the mountain came. He listened, drinking from a flask he took Out of the ragged pocket of his coat; Then all around him cast a stealthy look; Lay down; and watched an eagle soar and float, His fingers twitching at his hairy throat. The shades grew longer; and each Cumberland height Loomed, framed in splendors of the dolphin dusk. Around the road a horseman rode in sight; Young, tall, blond-bearded. Silent, grim, and brusque, He in the thicket aimed—Quick, harsh, then husk, The echoes barked among the hills and made Repeated instants of the shot’s distress.— Then silence—and the trampled bushes swayed:— Then silence, packed with murder and the press Of distant hoofs that galloped riderless.

At the moon’s down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree. The red-rock road of the underbrush, Where the woman came through the summer hush. The sumac high and the elder thick, Where we found the stone and the ragged stick. The trampled road of the thicket, full Of footprints down to the quarry pool. The rocks that ooze with the hue of lead, Where we found her lying stark and dead. The scraggy wood; the negro hut, With its doors and windows locked and shut. A secret signal; a foot’s rough tramp; A knock at the door; a lifted lamp. An oath; a scuffle; a ring of masks; A voice that answers a voice that asks. A group of shadows; the moon’s red fleck; A running noose and a man’s bared neck. A word, a curse, and a shape that swings; The lonely night and a bat’s black wings. At the moon’s down-going, let it be On the quarry hill with its one gnarled tree.

He rode adown the autumn wood, A man dark-eyed and brown; A mountain girl before him stood Clad in a homespun gown. “To ride this road is death for you! My father waits you there; My father and my brother, too— You know the oath they swear.” He holds her by one berry-brown wrist, And by one berry-brown hand; And he hath laughed at her and kissed Her cheek the sun hath tanned. “The feud is to the death, sweetheart: But forward must I ride.”— “And if you ride to death, sweetheart, My place is by your side.” Low hath he laughed again and kissed And helped her with his hand; And they have galloped into the mist That belts the autumn land. And they had passed by Devil’s Den, And come to Dead Man’s Run, When in the brush rose up two men, Each with a levelled gun. “Down! down! my sister!” cries the one;— She gives the reins a twirl.— The other shouts, “He shot my son! And now he steals my girl!” The rifles crack: she will not wail: He will not cease to ride: But, oh! her face is pale, is pale, And the red blood stains her side. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The road is rough to ride!”— The road is rough by gulch and bluff, And her hair blows wild and wide. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The bank is steep to ride!”— The bank is steep for a strong man’s leap, And her eyes are staring wide. “Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart! The Run is swift to ride!”— The Run is swift with mountain drift, And she sways from side to side. Is it a wash of the yellow moss, Or drift of the autumn’s gold, The mountain torrent foams across For the dead pine’s roots to hold? Is it the bark of the sycamore, Or peel of the white birch-tree, The mountaineer on the other shore Hath followed and still can see? No mountain moss or leaves, wild rolled, No bark of birchen-gray!— Young hair of gold and a face death-cold The wild stream sweeps away.

Far in the forest, where the rude road winds Through twisted briers and weeds, stamped down and caked With mountain mire, the clashing boughs are raked Again with rain whose sobbing frenzy blinds. There is a noise of winds; a gasp and gulp Of swollen torrents; and the sodden smell Of woodland soil, dead trees—that long since fell Among the moss—red-rotted into pulp. Fogged by the rain, far up the mountain glen, Deep in a cave, an elfish wisp of light; And stealthy shadows stealing through the night With strong, set faces of determined men.

’Twixt fog and fire, in pomps of chrysoprase, Above vague peaks, the morning hesitates Ere, o’er the threshold of her golden gates, Speeds the wild splendor of her chariot’s rays. A gleaming glimmer in the sun-speared mist, A cataract, reverberating, falls: Upon a pine a gray hawk sits and calls, Then soars away no bigger than a fist. Along the wild path, through the oaks and firs,— Rocks, where the rattler coils himself and suns,— Big-booted, belted, and with twinkling guns, The posse marches with its moonshiners.

Not far from here, it lies beyond That low-hilled belt of woods. We ’ll take This unused lane where brambles make A wall of twilight, and the blond Brier-roses pelt the path and flake The margin waters of a pond. This is its fence—or that which was Its fence once—now, rock rolled from rock, One tangle of the vine and dock, Where bloom the wild petunias; And this its gate, the ragweeds block, Hot with the insects’ dusty buzz. Two wooden posts, wherefrom has peeled The weather-blistered paint, still rise; Gaunt things—that groan when some one tries The gate whose hinges, rust-congealed, Snarl open:—on each post still lies Its carven panther with a shield. We enter; and between great rows Of locusts winds a grass-grown road; And at its glimmering end,—o’erflowed With quiet light,—the white front shows Of an old mansion, grand and broad, With grave, Colonial porticoes. Grown thick around it, dark and deep, The locust trees make one vast hush; Their brawny branches crowd and crush Its very casements, and o’ersweep Its rotting roofs: their tranquil rush Haunts all its spacious rooms with sleep. Still is it called The Locusts; though None lives here now. A tale ’s to tell Of some dark thing that here befell; A crime that happened years ago, When past its walls, with shot and shell, The war swept on and left it so. For one black night, within it, shame Made revel, while, all here about, With prayer or curse or battle-shout, Men died and homesteads leapt in flame: Then passed the conquering Northern rout, And left it silent and the same. Why should I speak of what has been? Or what dark part I played in all? Why ruin sits in porch and hall Where pride and gladness once were seen; And why beneath this lichened wall The grave of Margaret is green. Heart-broken Margaret! whose fate Was sadder far than his who won Her hand—my brother Hamilton— Or mine, who learned to know too late; Who learned to know, when all was done, And naught I did could expiate. To expiate is still my lot!— And, like the Ancient Mariner, To show to others how things were, And what I am, still helps me blot A little from that crime’s red blur, That on my life is branded hot. He was my only brother. She A sister of my brother’s friend. They met, and married in the end. And I remember well when he Brought her rejoicing home, the trend Of war moved towards us sullenly. And scarce a year of wedlock when Its red arms tore him from his bride. With lips by hers thrice sanctified He left to ride with Morgan’s men. And I—I never could decide— Remained behind. It happened then. Long days went by. And, oft delayed, A letter came of loving word Scrawled by some camp-fire, sabre-stirred, Or by a pine-knot’s fitful aid, When in the saddle, armed and spurred And booted for some hurried raid. Then weeks went by. I do not know How long it was before there came, Blown from the North, the clarion fame Of Morgan, who, with blow on blow, Had drawn a line of blood and flame From Tennessee to Ohio. Then letters ceased; and days went on. No word from him. The war rolled back, And in its turgid crimson track A rumor grew, like some wild dawn, All ominous and red and black, With news of our lost Hamilton. News hinting death or capture. Yet No word was sure; till one day,—fed By us,—some men rode up who said They’d been with Morgan and had met Disaster, and that he was dead, My brother.—I and Margaret Believed them. Grief was ours too: But mine was more for her than him: Grief, that her eyes with tears were dim: Grief, that became the avenue For love, who crowned the sombre brim Of death’s dark cup with rose-red hue. In sympathy,—unconsciously Though it be given,—I hold, doth dwell The germ of love that time shall swell To blossom. Sooner then in me— When close relations so befell— That love should spring from sympathy. Our similar tastes and mutual bents Combined to make us intimates From our first meeting. Different states Of interest then our temperaments Begot. Then friendship, that abates No love, whose soul it represents. These led to talks and dreams: how oft We sat at some wide window while The sun sank o’er the hills’ far file, Serene; and of the cloud aloft Made one vast rose; and mile on mile Of firmament grew sad and soft. And all in harmony with these Dim clemencies of dusk, afar Our talks and dreams went; while the star Of evening brightened through the trees: We spoke of home; the end of war; We dreamed of life and love and peace. How on our walks, in listening lanes Or confidences of the wood, We paused to hear the dove that cooed; Or gathered wildflowers, taking pains To find the fairest; or her hood Filled with wild fruit that left deep stains. No echo of the drum or fife, No hint of conflict entered in Our thoughts then. Will you call it sin— Indifference to a nation’s strife? What side might lose, what side might win, Both immaterial to our life. Into the past we did not look: Beyond what was we did not dream; While onward rolled the thunderous stream Of war, that, in its torrent, took One of our own. No crimson gleam Of its wild course around us shook. At last we knew. And when we learned How he had fallen, Margaret Wept; and, albeit my eyes were wet, Within my soul I half discerned A joy that mingled with regret, A grief that to relief was turned. As time went on and confidence Drew us more strongly each to each, Why did no intimation reach Its warning hand into the dense Soul-silence, and confuse the speech Of love’s unbroken eloquence! But, no! no hint to turn the poise, Or check the impulse of our youth; To chill it with the living truth As with the awe of God’s own voice; No hint, to make our hope uncouth; No word, to warn us from our choice. To me a wall seemed overthrown That social law had raised between; And o’er its ruin, broad and green A path went, I possessed alone; The sky above seemed all serene; The land around seemed all my own. What shall I say of Margaret To justify her part in this? That her young heart was never his? But had been mine since first we met? So would you say!—Enough it is That when he left she loved him yet. So passed the spring, and summer sped; And early autumn brought the day When she her hand in mine should lay, And I should take her hand and wed: And still no hint that might gainsay, No warning word of quick or dead. The day arrived; and with it born, A battle, sullying the East With boom of cannon, that increased, And throb of musket and of horn: Until at last, towards dusk, it ceased; And men with faces wild and worn, In fierce retreat, swept past; now groups; Now one by one: now sternly white, Or blood-stained; now with looks whose fright Said all was lost: then sullen troops That, beaten, still kept up the fight.— Then came the victors: shadowy loops Of men and horse, that left a crowd Of officers in hall and porch.... While through the land, around, the torch Circled, and many a fiery cloud Marked out the army’s iron march In furrows red that pillage plowed, Here were we wedded.... Ask the years How such could be, while over us A sword of wrath swung ominous, And on our cheeks its breath struck fierce!— All I remember is—’t was thus; And Margaret’s eyes were wet with tears. No other cause my memory sees Save this, that night was set; and when I found my home filled with armed men With whom were all my sympathies Of Union—why postpone it then? So argued conscience into peace. And then it was, when night had passed, There came to me an orderly With word of a Confederate spy Just taken; who, with head downcast, Had asked one favor, this: “That I Would see him ere he breathed his last.” I stand alone here. Heavily My thoughts go back. Had I not gone, The dead had still been dead! (for none Had yet believed his story) he, My dead-deemed brother, Hamilton, Who in the spy confronted me. O you who never have been tried, How can you judge me!—In my place I saw him standing,—who can trace My heart-thoughts then!—I turned aside, A son of some unnatural race, And did not speak: and so he died.... In hospital or prison, when It was he lay; what had forbid His home return so long: amid What hardships he had suffered, then I dared not ask; and when I did, Long afterwards, inquire of men, No thing I learned. But this I feel— He who had so returned to life Was not a spy. Through stress and strife,— This makes my conscience hard to heal!— He had escaped: he sought his wife; He sought his home that should conceal. And Margaret! Oh, pity her! A criminal I sought her side, Still thinking love was justified In all for her—whatever were The price: a brother thrice denied, Or thrice a brothers murderer. Since then long years have passed away. And through those years, perhaps, you ’ll ask How to the world I wore my mask Of honesty?—I can but say Beyond my powers it was a task; Before my time it turned me gray. And when at last the ceaseless hiss Of conscience drove, and I betrayed All to her, she knelt down and prayed: Then rose: and ’twixt us an abyss Was opened; and she seemed to fade Out of my life: I came to miss The sweet attentions of a bride: For each appealing heart’s caress In me her heart assumed a dress Of dull indifference; till denied To me was all responsiveness; And then I knew her love had died. Ah, had she loaded me, perchance, With wild reproach or even hate, Such would have helped me hope and wait Forgiveness and returned romance: But ’twixt our souls, instead, a gate She closed of silent tolerance. Yet, ’t was for love of her I lent My soul to crime.... I question me Often, if less entirely I’d loved her, then, in that event She had been justified to see The deed alone stand prominent. The deed alone! But love records In his own heart, I will aver, No depth I did not feel for her Beyond the plummet-reach of words: And though there may be worthier, No truer love this world affords Than mine was, though it could not rise Above itself. And so ’t was best, Perhaps, that she saw manifest The crime, so I,—as saw her eyes,— Might see; and so, in soul confessed, Some life atonement might devise. Sadly my heart one comfort keeps, That, towards her end, she took my hands And said,—as one who understands,— “Had I but seen!—But love that weeps Sees only as its loss commands.” And sighed.—Beneath this stone she sleeps. Yes; I have suffered for that sin: Yet in no instance would I shun What I should suffer. Many a one, Who heard my tale, has tried to win Me to believe that Hamilton It was not; and, though proven kin, This had not saved him. Still the stain Of the intention—had I erred And ’t was not he—had writ the word Red on my soul that branded Cain: For still my error had incurred The fact of guilt that would remain.

Ah, love at best is insecure, And lives with doubt and vain regret; And hope and faith, with faces set Upon the past, are never sure; And through their fever, grief, and fret The heart may fail that should endure. For in ourselves, however blend The passions that make heaven and hell, Is evil not accountable For most the good we comprehend? And through these two,—or ill, or well,— Man must evolve his spiritual end. It is with deeds that we must ask Forgiveness: for, upon this earth, Life walks alone from very birth With death, hope tells us is a mask For life beyond of vaster worth, Where sin no more sets love a task.

Would I could sing of joy I only Remember as without alloy: Of life full-filled, that once was lonely: Of love a treasure, not a toy: Of grief, regret but makes the keener, Of aspiration, failure mars— These would I sing, and sit serener. Than song among the stars. Would I could sing of faith unbroken; Of heart-kept vows, and not of tears: Of promised faith and vows love-spoken, That have been kept through many years: Of truth, the false but leaves the truer; Of trust, the doubt makes doubly sure— These would I sing, the noble doer Whose dauntless heart is pure. I would not sing of time made hateful; Of hope that only clings to hate: Of charity, that grows ungrateful; And pride that will not stand and wait.— Of humbleness, care hath imparted; Of resignation, born of ills, These would I sing, and stand high-hearted As hope upon the hills. Once on a throne of gold and scarlet I touched a harp and felt it break; I dreamed I was a king—a varlet, A slave, who only slept to wake!— Still on that harp my memory lingers, While on a tomb I lean and read, “Dust are our songs, and dust we singers, And dust are all who heed.”

What though I dreamed of mountain heights, Of peaks, the barriers of the world, Around whose tops the Northern Lights And tempests are unfurled! Mine are the footpaths leading through Life’s lowly fields and woods,—with rifts, Above, of heaven’s Eden blue,— By which the violet lifts Its shy appeal; and, holding up Its chaliced gold, like some wild wine, Along the hillside, cup on cup, Blooms bright the celandine. Where soft upon each flowering stock The butterfly spreads damask wings; And under grassy loam and rock The cottage cricket sings. Where overhead eve blooms with fire, In which the new moon bends her bow, And, arrow-like, one white star by her Burns through the afterglow. I care not, so the sesame I find; the magic flower there, Whose touch unseals each mystery In water, earth, and air. That in the oak tree lets me hear Its heart’s deep speech, its soul’s dim words; And to my mind makes crystal clear The messages of birds. Why should I care, who live aloof Beyond the din of life and dust, While dreams still share my humble roof, And love makes sweet my crust.

When first I gazed on Gertrude’s face, Beheld her loveliness and grace; Her brave gray eyes, her raven hair, Her ways, more winsome than the spring’s; Her smile, like some sweet flower, that flings Its fragrance on the summer air; And when, like some wild-bird that sings, I heard her voice,—I did declare,— And still declare!—there is no one, No girl beneath the moon or sun, So beautiful to look upon! And to my heart, as I know well, Nothing seems more desirable,— Not Ophir gold, nor Orient pearls— Than seems this jewel-girl of girls.

For him, who loves, each mounting morn Breathes melody more sweet than birds’; And every wind-stirred flower and thorn Whispers melodious words:— Would you believe that everything Through her loved voice is made to sing? For her, the faultless skies of day Grow nearer in eternal blue, Where God is felt as wind and ray, And seen as fire and dew:— Would you believe that all the skies Are Heaven only through his eyes? For them, the dreams that haunt the night With mystic beauty and romance, Are presences of starry light, And moony radiance:— Would you believe this love of theirs Could make for them a universe?

Here where the season turns the land to gold, Among the fields our feet have known of old,— When we were children who would laugh and run, Glad little playmates of the wind and sun,— Before came toil and care and years went ill, And one forgot and one remembered still; Heart of my heart, among the old fields here, Give me your hands and let me draw you near, Heart of my heart.

Stars are not truer than your soul is true; What need I more of heaven then than you? Flowers are not sweeter than your face is sweet— What need I more to make my world complete? O woman nature, love that still endures, What strength hath ours that is not born of yours? Heart of my heart, to you, whatever come, To you the lead, whose love hath led me home. Heart of my heart.

We have no castles, We have no vassals, We have no riches, no gems and no gold: Nothing to ponder; Nothing to squander— Let us go wander As minstrels of old.

You with your lute, love; I with my flute, love, Let us make music by mountain and sea: You with your glances, I with my dances, Singing romances Of old chivalry.

“Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither! and hearken where happiness is! Never go borrow Care of to-morrow, Never go sorrow While life hath a kiss!”

Let the day gladden, Or the night sadden, We will be merry in sunshine or snow: You with your rhyme, love, I with my chime, love, We will make Time, love, Dance as we go.

Nothing is ours; Only the flowers, Meadows, and stars, and the heavens above: Nothing to lie for, Nothing to sigh for, Nothing to die for While still we have love.

“Derry down derry! Good folk, be merry! Hither! and hearken a word that is sooth:— Care ye not any, If ye have many, Or not a penny, If still ye have youth!”

In some dim way I know thereof: A garden glows down in my heart, Wherein I meet and often part With many an ancient tale of love. A Romeo garden, banked with bloom, And trellised with the eglantine; In which a rose climbs to a room, A balcony one mass of vine, Dim, haunted of perfume. A balcony, whereon she gleams, The soft Desire of all Dreams, And smiles and bends like Juliet, Year after year, While to her side, all dewy wet, A rose stuck in his ear, Love climbs to draw her near.

And in another way I know, Down in my soul a graveyard lies, Wherein I meet, in ghostly wise, With many an ancient tale of woe. A graveyard of the Capulets, Deep-vaulted with ancestral gloom, Through whose dark yews the moonlight jets On many a wildly carven tomb, That mossy mildew frets. A graveyard where the Soul’s Desire Sleeps, pale-entombed; and, kneeling by her, Love, like that hapless Montague, Year after year, Weary and worn and wild of hue, Within her sepulchre, Falls bleeding on her bier.

At dusk there fell a shower: The leaves were dripping yet: Each fern and rain-weighed flower Around was gleaming wet, When, through the evening glower, His feet towards her were set. The dust’s damp odor sifted Around him, cool with rain, Mixed with the musk that drifted From woodland and from plain, Where white her garden lifted Its pickets down the lane. And there she stood! ’mid scattered Clove-pink and pea and whorl Of honeysuckle,—flattered To sweetness wild,—a girl, O’er whom the clouds hung shattered In moonlit peaks of pearl. She made the night completer For him; and earth and air, In that small spot, far sweeter Than heaven or anywhere.— Swift were his lips to greet her, Her lips love lifted there.

Your heart ’s a-tune with April and mine a-tune with June, So let us go a-roving beneath the summer moon. Oh, was it in the sunlight, or was it in the rain, We met among the blossoms within the locust lane? All that I can remember ’s the bird that sang aboon, And with its music in our hearts we ’ll rove beneath the moon. A love-word of the wind, dear, of which we ’ll read the rune, While we two go a-roving beneath the summer moon. A love-word of the water we ’ll often stop to hear— The echoed words and whispers of our own hearts, my dear. And all our paths shall blossom with wild-rose sweets that swoon, And with their fragrance in our hearts we ’ll rove beneath the moon. It will not be forever; yet merry goes the tune While we two still are rovers beneath the summer moon. A cabin, in the clearing, of flickering firelight, When old-time lanes we strolled in the winter snows make white: Where we can dream together above the logs and croon The songs we sang when roving beneath the summer moon.

It will not be to-day and yet I think and dream it will; and let The slow uncertainty devise So many sweet excuses, met With the old doubt in hope’s disguise. The panes were sweated with the dawn; Yet through their dimness, shriveled drawn, The aigret of one princess-feather, One monk’s-hood tuft with oilets wan, I glimpsed, dead in the slaying weather. This morning when my window’s chintz I drew, how gray the day was!—Since I saw him, yea, all days are gray!— I gazed out on my dripping quince, Defruited, torn; then turned away To weep, but did not weep: but felt A colder anguish than did melt About the tearful-visaged Year!— Then flung the lattice wide and smelt The autumn sorrow. Rotting near The rain-drenched sunflowers bent and bleached, Up which the frost-nipped gourd-vines reached And morning-glories, seeded o’er With ashen aiglets; whence beseeched One last bloom, frozen to the core. The podded hollyhocks—that Fall Had stripped of finery—by the wall Rustled their tatters; dripped and dripped, The fog thick on them: near them, all The tarnished, hag-like zinnias tipped. I felt the death and loved it: yea, To have it nearer, sought the gray, Chill, fading garth. Yet could not weep, But wandered in an aimless way, And yearned with weariness to sleep. Mine were the fog, the frosty stalks, The weak lights on the leafy walks, The shadows shivering with the cold; The breaking heart; the lonely talks; The last, dim, ruined marigold. But when, to-night, the moon swings low— A great marsh-marigold of glow— And all my garden with the sea Moans, then, through moon and mist, I know His ghost will come to comfort me.

I loved her madly. For—so wrought Young Love, divining Isles of Truth Large in the central seas of Youth— “Love will win love,” I thought. Once when I brought a rare wild pink To place among her plants, the wise, Soft lifting of her speaking eyes Said more than thanks, I think.... She loved another.—Yes, I know All you would say of woman. You, Like other men, would comfort too.... But then I loved her so. She loved another.—Ah! too well I know the story of her soul!— A weary tale the weary whole Of how she loved and fell. I loved her so!... Remembering now My mad grief then, I wonder why Grief never kills.... I could not die.— She died—I know not how. Strange, is it not? For she was dear To me as life once.—A regret She is now; just to make eyes wet And bring a fullness here. Yet, had she lived as dead in shame As now in death, Love would have used Pride’s pitying pencil and abused The memory of her name. This helps me thank my God, who led My broken life in sunlight of This pure affection, that my love Lives through her being dead.

When fall drowns morns in mist, it seems In soul I am a part of it; A portion of its humid beams, A form of fog, I seem to flit From dreams to dreams. An old chateau sleeps ’mid the hills Of France: an avenue of sorbs Conceals it: drifts of daffodils Bloom by a ’scutcheoned gate with barbs Like iron bills. I pass the gate unquestioned, yet, I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make Dark pools of restless violet. Between high bramble banks a lake,— As in a net. The tangled scales twist silver,—shines ... Gray, mossy turrets swell above A sea of leaves. And where the pines Shade ivied walls, there lies my love, My heart divines. I know her window, dimly seen From distant lanes with hawthorn hedged: Her garden, with the nectarine Espaliered, and the peach-tree, wedged ’Twixt walls of green. Cool-babbling a fountain falls From gryphons’ mouths in porphyry; Carp haunt its waters; and white balls Of lilies dip it that the bee Sucks in and drawls. And butterflies, each with a face Of faëry on its wings, that seem Beheaded pansies, softly chase Each other down the gloom and gleam Trees interspace. And roses! roses, soft as vair, Round sylvan statues and the old Stone dial—Pompadours that wear Their royalty of purple and gold With queenly air.... Her scarf, her lute, whose ribbons breathe The perfume of her touch; her gloves, Modeling the daintiness they sheathe; Her fan, a Watteau, gay with loves, Lie there beneath A bank of eglantines that heaps A rose-strewn shadow.—Naïve-eyed, With lips as suave as they, she sleeps; The romance by her, open wide, O’er which she weeps.

Young Harry leapt over the stile and kissed her, Over the stile when the sun was sinking; ’T was only Carrie; just Mary’s sister!— And love hath a way of thinking. “Thy pail, sweetheart, I will take and carry.” Over the stile one star hung yellow.— “Just to the spring, my dearest Harry.”— And Love is a heartless fellow. “Thou saidst me ‘yea’ in an April shower Under this tree with leaves a-quiver.”— “I say thee nay now the cherry ’s in flower, And love is taker and giver.” “O false! thou art false to me, sweetheart!”— The light in her eyes grew trist and trister: “To thee, the stars, and myself, sweetheart, I never was aught but Mary’s sister. “Sweet Mary’s sister! just little Carrie!— But what avail my words or weeping?— Next month, perhaps, you two will marry— And I in my grave be sleeping.” Alone she stands ’mid the meadow millet, Wan as the petals the wind is strewing: Some tears in her pail as she stoops to fill it— And love hath a way of doing.

And you and I have met but thrice!— Three times enough to make me love!— I praised your hair once; then your glove; Your eyes; your gown—you were like ice. And yet this might suffice, my love, And yet this might suffice. I know now what it is I’ll do: I’ll search and find the ferns that grow, The fern-seed that the fairies know, And sprinkle fern-seed in my shoe, And haunt the steps of you, my dear, And haunt the steps of you. You ’ll see the poppy-pods dip here, The blow-ball of the thistle slip, And no wind breathing—but my lip Next to your anxious cheek and ear, To tell you I am near, my love, To tell you I am near. On wood-ways I will tread your gown— You ’ll know it is no brier!—then I’ll whisper words of love again, And smile to see your quick face frown; And then I ’ll kiss it down, my dear, And then I ’ll kiss it down. You ’ll sit at home and read or knit, When suddenly the page is blotted— My hands!—or all your needles knotted: And in your rage you ’ll cry a bit: But I—I ’ll laugh at it, my love, But I—I ’ll laugh at it. The secrets which you say at prayer I too will hear; or, when you sing, I too will sing, and whispering Bend down and kiss your eyes and hair, And you will know me there, my dear, And you will know me there. Would it were true what people say!— Would I could find that faëry seed! Then would I win your love, indeed, By being near you night and day:— There is no other way, my love, There is no other way.

Was it when Kriemhild was queen That we rode by ways forgotten Through the Rhineland, dimly seen ’Neath a low moon white as cotton? I, a knight? or troubadour? Thou, a princess?—or a poor Damsel of the Royal Closes?— For, I met thee—somewhere sure!... Was it ’mid Kriemhilda’s roses?

Or in Venice, by the sea?— What romance grew up between us? Thou, a doge’s daughter?—She, Titian painted once as Venus?— I, a gondolier whose barque Glided past thy palace dark?— Near St. Mark’s? or Casa d’Oro?— From thy casement didst thou hark To my barcarolle’s “Te oro”?

Klaia wast, of Egypt: yea, Languid as its sacred lily. Didst with me a year and day Love upon the Isle of Philæ? I, a priest of Isis?—Sweet, ’Neath the date-palms did we meet By a temple’s pillared marble? While, from its star-still retreat, Sank the nightingale’s wild warble?

Have I dreamed that I, thy slave, From thy lattice, my sultana, Beckoning, thy white hand did wave, Dropped me once a rose? sweet manna Of thy kiss warm in its heart? That, through my Chaldæan art, With thy Khalif’s bags of treasure, From Damascus we did start, Fled to some far land of pleasure?

Was I one? another thou?— Let it be. What of it, dearest?— Haply ’tis the memory now Of these passions dead thou fearest?— Nay! those loves are portions of, Evolutions of this love, Present love, where thou appearest To combine them all and prove.

Now listen! ’tis time that you knew it.— Like the prince in the Asian tale, I wandered on deserts that panted With noon to a castle enchanted, That Afrits had built in a vale; A vale where the sunlight lay pale As moonlight. And round it and through it I searched and I searched. Like the tale,

No eunuch, black-browed as a Marid, Prevented me. Shadows it seemed Were the slaves there, with kohl and with henné In eyes and on fingers; and many The phantoms of beauty, that dreamed Where censers of ambergris steamed. And I came on a colonnade, quarried From silvery marble it seemed.

And here, in a court, wide, estraded, Rich tulips, like carbuncles, bloomed, And jonquils and roses:—and lories, And cockatoos, brilliant in glories Of plumes, like great blossoms illumed, Winged, splashed in a fountain perfumed: Kept captive by network of braided, Spun gold where stone galleries gloomed.

From nipples of back-bending Peris Of gold, glowing auburn, in rays The odorous fountain sprang calling: I heard through the white water’s falling,— As soft as the zephyr that plays With moonlight on bloom-haunted ways,— A music; a sound, as if fairies Touched wind-harps whose chords were of rays.

I followed: through corridors paneled With sandal; through doorways deep-draped With stuffs of Chosroës, rich-garded With Indian gold; up the corded Stone stairway, bronze-dragoned, wing-shaped: Through moon-spangled hangings escaped— ’Twixt pillars of juniper channeled— To a room constellated and draped.

As in legends of witchcraft: a vassal Of visions beholds naught yet hears Sweet voices that call and he follows,— So me, like the fragrance of aloes, That chamber with song, it appears, Surrounded; the song of the spheres ... My soul found your soul such a castle— Your love is the music it hears.

Last night you told me, where we, parting, waited, Of love somehow I’d known before you told.— Long, long ago, perhaps, this love was fated, For why was it made suddenly so old? Is it because the love we have and cherish Born with us seems, and as ourselves shall last? Part of our lives, we can not let it perish Out of our present’s future or its past? Yet, all was changed; and, still, I did not wonder That, robed in vaster splendor, broke the dawn: Nor marvel that, beside my feet and under, Each flower seemed fairer than the flower gone. The wild bird’s silvery warble seemed completer; A whiter magic filled the morn and noon, And night—each night!—seemed holier grown and sweeter With Babylonian witchcraft of the moon.— Is love an emanation? whose ideal Communicates its beauty?—Is it moved Through some strange means to consecrate the real? Making the world the worthier to be loved?

Is it not sweet to know?— The moon hath told me so— That in some lost romance, love, Long lost to us below, A knight with casque and lance, love, A thousand years ago, I kissed you from a trance, love?— The moon hath told me so.

Or were it strange to wis?— The stars have told me this— That once a nightingale, love, Sang on an Isle of Greece; From whose melodious wail, love, Its song’s wild harmonies, Was born a spirit-woman— Yourself! whom I, a human, Made mine!... So goes the tale, love!— The stars have told me this.

Is it not quaint to tell?— The flowers remember well— How once a wild-rose blew, love, Dim in a haunted dell; To which a bee was true, love. The bee, so it befell, Was I: the rose was you, love!... The flowers remember well.

To moon and flower and star We are not what we are.— Sometimes, from o’er that sea, love, Whose golden sands are far,— From shores of Destiny, love,— The dreams that know no bar, Will waft a truth that glistens To Memory who listens, Reminding you and me, love, We are not what we are.

The pied pinks tilt in the wind that worries— Sing, Oh, the wind and the red o’ her cheek!— And the slow sun creeps on the rye nor hurries— And what shall a lover speak? The toad-flax brightens the flaxen hollows— Sing, Ay, the bloom and her yellow hair!— And the greenwood brook a wood-way follows— And what shall a lover dare? The deep woods gleam that the sunlight sprinkles— Sing, Hey, the day and her laughing eye!— And a brown bird pipes and a wild fall tinkles— And what may a maid reply? Hey, the hills when the evening settles! Oh, the heavens within her eyes! What will he ask ’mid the dropping petals? And what will she say with sighs?— “Look, where the west is a blur of roses!”— “There’s naught like the rose o’ the cheeks I see!”— “Look, where the first star’s eye uncloses!”— “But what of your eyes, my destiny?”

Blow, winds, and waken her! You, who have taken her, Never forsaken her, Filled her with spring! My mad and merriest Part of the veriest Season and cheeriest: Blow, winds! and sing, Birds of the spring! that taught her Airs of the woods; this daughter Wild of the winds, that waft her Into my heart with laughter, Wild as a wildwood thing.

She, who is fraught with it, Thrilled with it, brought with it, Spring!—like a thought, with it Beautiful too! Now like a dream of it; Filled with the gleam of it; Now a bright beam of it, Piercing me through, Sweet, with her eyes that are often Laughter and languor; that soften Dreamily, drowsily, slowly, Then, on a sudden, are wholly Dancing as dew.

Face,—like the sweetest of Perfumes,—completest of Flowers God’s fleetest of Months ever bear!— Listen, O lisper wind,— Lighter and crisper wind,— Have you a whisper, wind, Soft as her hair? Night and the stars did spin it; Darkness and brightness are in it: Let but a ray of it bind me, Wrap it around me and wind me, Blind as the blind are and blinder, Yet through my heart would I find her, Lost though I were.

Not redder than her lips This weather! Not rosier two rose-hips Together! As she comes carolling Down wildwood ways, where sing The birds, and flowers swing In many a feather. Of her belovéd cheeks October Makes flame-flushed leaves, and speaks,— Now sober, Now wild,—its happiness In gold, and on her dress Lays many a bright caress As if to robe her. The wild-birds praise her eyes Each hour; Above her bend the skies And shower Around her, there and here, Strays of the passing year, Azure and gold and sere Of weed and flower. The wood-winds kiss her hair And wonder What flower blossoms there: And, under Its deeps of acorn-brown, Her glory and her crown, The sunbeams lay them down, And dream and ponder. And I—I take her hands, Her lover; And kiss her where she stands; And over Our heads the soft winds call, And heav’n smiles down; and all The golden dreams of Fall Around us hover.

O you, who know our Mays that blow The bluets by the ways; The Indian-pink,—whose bloom you ’d think Was blood for some wild bee to drink,— How—can you say—in their wise way Is it you ’re like our Mays?— In gleam and gloom and wild perfume Of moods that run from shade to sun:— While in you seems the light that dreams In thoughts of other days.

Meseems some song, for which I long, From you to me takes wing Each time you speak; a bird, whose beak Is in my heart; whose wildwood art Makes every beat say “Sweet, sweet, sweet,” And all its pulses sing. And when I gaze upon your face, I seem to look into a brook, That laughs through buds and leafing woods, Reflecting all the spring.

You spoke but now—and, lo! I vow, From haunts of hart and hind I seemed to hear Romance draw near, White hand in hand with Song, and stand, In some green aisle of wood, and smile, Beguiling soul and mind: You laugh—and, lo! I seem to go In Mirth’s young train; and bird-songs rain Around, above; and Joy and Love Come dancing down the wind.

You say I do not love you!—Tell me why, When I have gazed a little on your face, And then gone forth into the world of men, A beauty, neither of the earth nor sky, A glamour, that transforms each common place, Attends my spirit then?

You say I do not love you!—Yet, I know, When I have heard you speak and dwelt upon Your words a while, my heart has gone away Filled with strange music, very soft and low, A dim companion, touching with sweet tone The discords of the day.

You say I do not love you!—Yet, it seems, When I have kissed your hand and said farewell, A fragrance, wilder than the wood’s wild bloom, Companions dim my soul and fills, with dreams, The sad and sordid streets where people dwell, Dreams of spring’s wild perfume.

My love’s adorable and wise As heaven and the winds of spring: Go thou and gaze into her eyes— Such scholars of the starry skies! —Canst marvel at the thing? My love is like a bud that blows With fragrant honey in its heart: Go, watch her smile—Wouldst not suppose She from some warm, white, serious rose Had learned the happy art? The thoughts she speaks are pearls unstrung That strew her fancy’s golden floor: Go listen—For, the woods among, She met with Pan, when very young, Who taught her all his lore.

Lora is her name that slips Soft as love between the lips: You must know she is so wise All she does is lift her eyes,— Larkspur-blue as April skies,— At her name—and that replies— She ’s so wise, is Lora. Lora is her name whose sound Hedges all my heart around With the gold of happiness: When she speaks, you will confess, Music’s self her words express, Every vowel a caress— She ’s so kind, is Lora. Lora is her name that brings Thoughts to me of morning things: Songs of birds; of bees that creep In the rumpled bluebells deep; Butterflies, that, half asleep, On some rose their vigil keep— She ’s so young, is Lora. Lora, lean to mine your face; So; and round you let me lace One firm arm, and gently woo Your small mouth, as fresh as dew, Till it says your heart is true, True to me as mine to you, Sunny-hearted Lora!

What the May-apple or Woodland anemone— Star-perfect as a star— Says to the honey-bee: Or to the winds that woo, Filling their hearts with dew: What says the bluet’s blue To the sun’s ray—do you Know or do I?—

Listen, and you may hear What the oxalis says Into the downy ear Of the pale moth that sways There on its heart and drinks: Or what the forest-pinks Say to the dew that winks, Butterfly-wing that blinks— Glimmering by.

They say: “When April trod By in a blowing blush,— Wise as a word of God Holding all Heaven a-hush,— Singing a song of love, We, as she passed above, Sprang from the notes thereof, Filling with joy each grove, Beauty and mystery.”

Beyond lost seas of summer she Dwelt on an island of the sea, Last scion of that dynasty, Queen of a race forgotten long,— With eyes of light and lips of song, From seaward groves of blowing lemon, She called me in her native tongue, Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.

I was a king. Three moons we drove Across green gulfs, the crimson clove And cassia spiced, to claim her love. Packed was my barque with gums and gold; Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,— Than her white breasts less white and cold;— And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.

From Bassora I came. We saw Her condor castle on a claw Of soaring precipice, o’erawe The surge and thunder of the spray: Like some great opal, far away It shone, with battlement and spire, Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.

Lamenting caverns, dark and deep, That catacombed the haunted steep, Led upward to her castle-keep ... Fair as the moon, whose light is shed In Ramadan, was she, who led My love unto her island bowers, To find her ... lying young and dead Among her maidens and her flowers.

She stood waist-deep among the briers: Above, in twisted lengths, were rolled The sunset’s tangled whorls of gold, Blown from the west’s cloud-pillared fires. And in the hush, no sound did mar, You almost heard, o’er hill and dell, Deep, bubbling over, star on star, The night’s blue cisterns slowly well. A crane, a shadowy crescent, crossed The sunset, winging ’thwart the west; While up the east her silver breast Of light the moon brought, white as frost. So have I painted her, you see, The tollman’s daughter.—What an arm And throat were hers! and what a form! —Art dreams of such divinity. What braids of night to smooth and kiss!— There is no pigment anywhere A man might use to picture this— The splendor of her raven hair. A face as beautiful and bright, As rosy fair as twilight skies, Lit with the stars of hazel eyes And eyebrowed black with penciled night. For her, I know, where’er she trod Each dewdrop raised a looking-glass, To catch her image, from the grass; That wildflowers bloomed along the sod, And whispered perfume when she smiled; The wood-bird hushed to hear her song, Or, heart-enamoured, tame though wild, Before her feet flew fluttering long: The brook went mad with melody, Eddied in laughter when she kissed With naked feet its amethyst— And I—she was my world, ah me!

Under moss-draped oak and pine, Murmuring, falls the fountained stream; In its pool the lilies shine, Silvery, each a glimmering gleam. Roses bloom and roses die In the warm rose-scented dark, Where the firefly, like an eye, Winks and glows, a golden spark. Amber-belted through the night Drifts the alabaster moon, Like a big magnolia white On the fragrant heart of June. With a broken syrinx there, With bignonia overgrown, Is it Pan in hoof and hair?— Or his image carved from stone? See! her casement’s jessamines part;— Through their stars and swooning scent Like the moon she leans. O heart, ’T is another firmament!

The dim verbena drugs the dusk With lemon odors; everywhere Wan heliotropes breathe drowsy musk Into the jasmine-heavy air; The moss-rose bursts its dewy husk And spills its attar there. The orange at thy casement flings Star-censers oozing rich perfumes; The clematis, long-petaled, swings Deep clusters of dark purple blooms; With flowers, like moons or sylphide wings, Magnolias light the glooms. Awake, awake from sleep! Thy balmy hair, Unbounden, deep on deep, Like blossoms there,— That dew and fragrance weep,— Will fill the night with prayer. Awake, awake from sleep! And dreaming here it seems to me A dryad’s bosom grows confessed, Nude in the dark magnolia tree, That rustles with the murmurous West— Or is it but some bloom I see, White as thy virgin breast? Through Southern heavens above are rolled A million feverish stars, that burst, Like gems, from out the caskets old Of night, with fires that throb and thirst: An oleander, showering gold, The heav’n seems, star-immersed. Unseal, unseal thine eyes!— Too long her rod Queen Mab sways o’er their skies In realms of Nod!— Their starry majesties Will fill the night with God. Unseal, unseal thine eyes!

How I have thought of her, Her I have never seen!— Now from a raying air She, like the Magdalene, Flowers—a face serene, Radiant with raven hair. Now in a balsam scent Laughs from the stars that gleam; Naked and redolent, Bends to me breasts of beam, Eyes that were made to dream, Throat that the dimples dent. Would she were real, ah me! Would she were real and here! And no “impossible she”! But one to draw me near, Hold me and name me dear!— But, that can never be! “Living, each learns to know Life is not worth its pain; Loving, each finds a woe Or, at the end, a chain: Fardled of hope we strain Whither no hope may know. “Life is too credulous Of time that beckons on. Memory still serves us thus— Gauging each coming dawn By a day dead and gone, Day that ’s a part of us.” So says my soul, that ’s mocked Here of the flesh and held; Ever rebellion rocked, Fighting, forever quelled; Titan-like, fate-compelled, Yearning to rise, but locked Supine where torrents pour Hellward; on crags that, high, Scarred of the thunder, gore Heaven.... The vulture’s eye Swims, and the harpies’ cry Clangs through the ocean’s roar.... Then, like æolian light, Calling, it hears her lips: Scorched by her burning white Splendor of arms and hips, Slimy each horror slips Back to its native night.... Rul’st thou some brighter star? Inviolable queen Of what the destinies are? Thou, with thy light unseen Filling my life with sheen, Leading my soul afar! Thou, who oft leav’st thy skies, Comest in dreams to me, With amaranthine eyes, Asphodel shadowy Hair, and mysteriously Say’st to my heart, “Arise! “Be not afraid to dare All of life’s tyranny! I will reward thee there! There, where my love shall be Thine to eternity!— Only be brave and bear!”

Before I found her I had found Within my heart, as in a brook, Reflections of her: now a sound Of imaged beauty, now a look. So when I found her, gazing in Those Bibles of her eyes, above All earth, I saw no word of sin; Their holy chapters all were love. I read them through. I read and saw The soul impatient of the sod— Her soul, that through her eyes did draw Mine—to the higher love of God.

Can I forget how Love once led the ways Of our two lives together, joining them; How every hour was his anadem, And every day a tablet in his praise! Can I forget how, in his garden’s place, Among the purple roses, stem to stem, We heard the rumor of his robe’s bright hem, And saw the aureate radiance of his face!— Though I beheld my soul’s high dreams down-hurled, And Falsehood sit where Truth once towered white, And in Love’s place usurping Lust and Shame, Though flowers be dead within the winter world, Are flowers not there? and starless though the night, Are stars not there, eternal and the same?

There was a rose in Eden once: it grows On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows More loveliness than old seraglios Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: More purity than ever yet had room In soul of nun or saint.—O human rose!— Who art initial and sweet period of My heart’s divinest sentence; where I read Love, first and last, and in the pauses, love; Who art the dear ideal of each deed Through which my life is strong to attain its goal,— Set in the mystic garden of my soul!

Dear heart and love! what happiness is it To watch the firelight’s varying shade and shine On thy young face; and through those eyes of thine— As through clear windows—to behold them flit, In sumptuous chambers of thy mind’s chaste wit, Thy soul’s fair fancies! then to take in mine Thy hand, whose pressure brims my heart’s divine Hushed rapture as with music exquisite! When I remember how thy look and touch Sway, like the moon, my blood with ecstasy, I dare not think to what fierce heaven might lead Thy soft embrace; or in thy kiss how much Sweet hell,—beyond all help of me,—might be, Where I were lost, where I were lost indeed!

Hotly burns the amaryllis, Starred with ruby red: Coolly stand the snowy lilies In the lily-bed: Emerald gleams the wild May-apple, ’Neath its parasol, And where gold the sunbeams dapple Woods, and thrushes call, Marion strolls with Moll, Singing, “Fol-de-rol; Fol-de, fol-de-rol.

“March was but a blustering liar; April, sad as night: May, a milkmaid from the byre, Full of love but light. June, sweet June!—ah! she’s My Lady, Fair and fine and tall, Strolling down the woodways shady— June is best of all! She is like my Moll! Fol-de-rol-de-rol! She is like sweet Moll!”

Beyond the barley meads and hay, What was the light that beckoned there? That made her young lips smile and say: “Oh, busk me in a gown of May, And knot red poppies in my hair.” Over the meadow and the wood What was the voice that filled her ears? That sent into pale cheeks the blood, Until each seemed a wild-brier bud Mowed down by mowing harvesters?... Beyond the orchard, down the hill, The water flows, the water swirls; And there they found her past all ill, Her pale dead face, sweet, smiling still, The cresses caught among her curls. At twilight in the willow glen What sound is that the silence hears, When deep the dusk is hushed again, And homeward from the fields strong men And women go, the harvesters? One seeks the place where she is laid, Where violets bloom from year to year— “O sunny head! O bird-like maid! The orchard blossoms fall and fade And I am lonely, lonely here.” Two stars look down upon the vale; They seem to him the eyes of Ruth: The low moon rises very pale As if she, too, had heard the tale, All heartbreak, of a maid and youth.

The pink rose drops its petals on The moonlit lawn, the moonlit lawn; The moon, like some wide rose of white, Drops down the summer night. No rose there is As sweet as this— Thy mouth, that greets me with a kiss. The lattice of thy casement twines With jasmine vines, with jasmine vines; The stars, like jasmine blossoms, lie About the glimmering sky. No jasmine tress Can so caress Like thy white arms’ soft loveliness. About thy door magnolia blooms Make sweet the glooms, make sweet the glooms; A moon-magnolia is the dusk Closed in a dewy husk. However much, No bloom gives such Soft fragrance as thy bosom’s touch. The flowers blooming now will pass, And strew the grass, and strew the grass; The night, like some frail flower, dawn Will soon make gray and wan. Still, still above, The flower of True love shall live forever, Love.

If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The gate that leads to her door; Over the meadows, To wait, ’mid the shadows, The shadows that circle her door, For the heart of my heart and more. And there in the clover Close by her, Over and over I’d sigh her: “Your eyes are as brown As the Night’s, looking down On waters that sleep With the moon in their deep” ... If I were her lover to sigh her.

If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The lane that leads to her door; I’d wait, ’mid the thickets, Or there by the pickets, White pickets that fence in her door, For the life of my life and more. I’d lean in the clover— The crisper For the dews that are over— And whisper: “Your lips are as rare As the dewberries there, As ripe and as red, On the honey-dew fed” ... If I were her lover to whisper.

If I were her lover, I’d wade through the clover Over the fields before The pathway that leads to her door; And watch, in the twinkle Of stars that sprinkle The paradise over her door, For the soul of my soul and more. And there in the clover I’d reach her; And over and over I’d teach her— A love without sighs, Of laughterful eyes, That reckoned each second The pause of a kiss, A kiss and ... that is If I were her lover to teach her.

Noëra, when sad fall Has grayed the fallow, Leaf-cramped the wood-brook’s brawl In pool and shallow; When, by the wood-side, tall Stands sere the mallow: Noëra, when gray gold And golden gray The crackling hollows fold By every way, Shall I thy face behold, Dear bit of May? When webs are cribs for dew, And gossamers Streak past you, silver-blue; When silence stirs One leaf, of rusty hue, Among the burrs: Noëra, thro’ the wood, Or thro’ the grain, Come, with the hoiden mood Of wind and rain Fresh in thy sunny blood, Sweetheart, again! Noëra, when the corn, Heaped on the fields, The asters’ stars adorn— And purple shields Of ironweeds lie torn Among the wealds: Noëra, haply then, Thou being with me, Each ruined greenwood glen Will bud and be Spring’s with the spring again, The spring in thee. Thou of the breezy tread, Feet of the breeze: Thou of the sunbeam head, Heart like a bee’s: Face like a woodland-bred Anemone’s. Thou to October bring An April part! Come, make the wild-birds sing, The blossoms start! Noëra, with the spring Wild in thy heart! Come with our golden year; Come as its gold: With the same laughing, clear, Loved voice of old: In thy cool hair one dear Wild marigold.

“I know, I know; The way doth go Athwart a greenwood glade, oh! White bloom the wild-plums in that glade, White as the bosom of the maid Who, stooping, sits, and milks and sings Among the dew-dashed clover rings, When fades the flush, the henna blush, The orange-glow of sunset low, And all the winds are laid, oh!”

“I wot, I wot.— And is it not Right o’er the viney hill?—” “Yea: where the wild-grapes mat and make Penthouses of each bramble-brake, And dangle plumes of fragrant blooms: Where threads of sunbeams string the glooms With beaded gold; and flowers unfold Their eyes of blue;—and all night through Sings, wildly shrill, one whippoorwill.”

“I ween, I ween, The path is green ’Neath beechen boughs that let Soft glimpses of the sapphire sky Gleam downward like a wood-nymph’s eye: At night one far and lambent star Shines o’er it, like a watching Lar, ’Mid branching buds a tangled bud Among the acres of the wood, Where blooms the wet wild violet And only we have, trysting, met.”

I can not tell what I would tell thee, What I would say, what thou shouldst hear; Words of the soul that should compel thee, Words of the heart to draw thee near. For when thou smilest, thou, who fillest My life with joy, and I would speak, ’Tis then my lips and tongue are stillest, Knowing all language is too weak. Look in my eyes: read there confession: The truest love hath least of art: Nor needs it words for its expression When soul speaks soul and heart speaks heart.

Wail! wail! and smite your lyres’ sonorous gold, And beckon naked beauty; luring me With arms and breasts and hips of godly mold, Dark, wind-wild locks seen through the surf-blown sea! Vain all your magic! dull in unclosed ears! Beside one voice sweet-calling o’er the foam, That, in my heart, like some strong hand appears To gently, firmly draw my vessel home.

Why are the bright stars brighter after rain? Why is strong love the stronger after pain? Reply, reply! Why sings the wild swan heavenliest when it dies? Why is fair love the fairest when it flies? Oh why! Oh why! Why are sweet kisses sweetest when they’re dead? Why is love loveliest when ’tis buriéd? Reply, reply!

A disc of violet blue, Rimmed with a thorn of fire, The new moon hangs in a sky of dew; And under the vines, where the sunset’s hue Is blent with blooms, first one, then two, Begins the crickets’ choir. Bright blurs of golden white, With points of pearly glimmer, The first stars wink in the web of night; And through the flowers the moths take flight, In the honeysuckle-colored light, Where the shadowy shrubs grow dimmer. Soft through the dim and dying eve, Sweet through the dusk and dew, Come, while the hours their witchcraft weave, Dim in the House of the Soul’s-sweet-leave, Here in the pale and perfumed eve, Here where I wait for you. A great, dark, radiant rose, Dripping with starry glower, Is the night, whose bosom overflows With the balsam musk of the breeze that blows Into the heart, as each one knows, Of every nodding flower. A voice that sighs and sighs, Then whispers like a spirit, Is the wind, that kisses the drowsy eyes Of the primrose open, and, rocking, lies In the lily’s cradle, and soft unties The rose-bud’s crimson near it. Sweet through the deep and dreaming night, Soft through the dark and dew, Come, where the moments their magic write, Deep in the Book of the Heart’s-delight, Here in the hushed and haunted night, Here where I wait for you.

Before Love’s lofty goddess—Life hath toiled To mold from burning dew and dewy fire— Who kneel and worship with a heart sin-soiled, Within the secret Temple of Desire; Their curse is such: that, even while they pray,— They shall not see, nor shall they know thereof!— Their Deity is changed from fire to clay— Lust! fashioned in the very form of Love.

The rosy hills of her high breasts, Whereon, like misty morning, rests The breathing lace; her auburn hair, Wherein, a star-point sparkling there, One jewel burns: her eyes, that keep Recorded dreams of love and sleep: Her mouth, with whose comparison The richest rose were poor and wan: Her throat, her form—what masterpiece Of man can picture half of these!— She comes! a classic from the hand Of God! wherethrough I understand What Nature means and Art and Love, And all the immortal myths thereof.

There is no flower of wood or lea, No April flower, as fair as she: O white anemone, who hast The wind’s wild grace, Know her a cousin of thy race, Into whose face A presence like the wind’s hath passed. There is no flower of wood or lea, No May-day flower, as fair as she: O bluebell, tender with the blue Of sapphire skies, Thy lineage hath kindred ties In her, whose eyes The heaven’s own qualities imbue. There is no flower of wood or lea, No June-time flower, as fair as she: Rose,—odorous with beauty of Her lips that pressed,— Behold thy sister here confessed! Whose maiden breast Is fragrant with the dreams of love.

She is so much to me, to me, And, oh, I love her so, I look into my soul and see How comfort keeps me company In hopes she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know. So dear she is to me, so dear, And, oh, I love her so, I listen in my heart and hear The voice of gladness singing near In thoughts she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know. So much she is to me, so much, And, oh, I love her so, In heart and soul I feel the touch Of angel callers, that are such Dreams as she, too, may know. I love her, I love her, I love her, This I know.

In her dark eyes dreams poetize; The soul sits lost in love: There is no thing in all the skies, To gladden all the world I prize, Like the deep love in her dark eyes, Or one sweet dream thereof. In her dark eyes, where thoughts arise, Her soul’s soft moods I see: Of hope and faith, that make life wise; And charity, whose food is sighs— Not truer than her own true eyes Is truth’s divinity. In her dark eyes the knowledge lies Of an immortal sod, Her soul once trod in angel guise, Nor can forget its heavenly ties, Since, there in Heaven, upon her eyes Once gazed the eyes of God.

The wind, that gives the rose a kiss, With murmured music of the south, Hath kissed a sweeter thing than this;— The wind, that gives the rose a kiss,— Hath kissed the red rose of her mouth. The brook, that mirrors skies and trees, And echoes in a grottoed place, Hath held a fairer thing than these;— The brook, that mirrors skies and trees, Hath held the image of her face. O happy wind! O happy brook! What message from her do you bear?— “We bear from her her kiss and look—” O happy wind! O happy brook!— “That blessed us unaware.”

While sunset burns and stars are few, And roses scent the fading light; And, like a slim urn, dripping dew, A spirit carries through the night, The pearl-pale moon hangs new,— I think of you, of you.

While waters flow, and soft winds woo The golden-hearted bud with sighs; And, like a flower an angel threw, Out of the momentary skies A star falls, burning blue,— I dream of you, of you.

While love believes and hearts are true, So let me think, so let me dream; The thought and dream so wedded to Your face, that, far apart, I seem To see each thing you do, And be with you, with you.

I know not if she be unkind; If she have faults, I do not care. Search through the world—where will you find A face like hers, a form, a mind?— I love her to despair! If she be cruel, cruelty Is a great virtue, I will swear: If she be proud, then pride must be Better than all humility.— I love her to despair! Why speak to me of that or this? All you may say weighs not a hair! To me, naught but perfection is In her, whose lips I may not kiss!— I love her to despair!

Sweet lips, where kisses sleep, Soft eyes, so filled with dreams, Waken, oh waken! Open your blossoms deep, Sweet lips, where kisses sleep: Unfold your brightest beams, Soft eyes, so filled with dreams: Waken, oh, waken!

Sweet lips, that give perfume, Soft eyes, that kindle light, Come, let me kiss you!— To every flower in bloom, Sweet lips, you lend perfume! In every star at night, Soft eyes, you kindle light!— Come, let me kiss you!

Who would not love to rest? Who would not love to lie? Who would not love them? Of such sweet flowers caressed, Who would not love to rest? With such stars in their sky, Who would not love to lie? Who would not love them?

When spring is here and Margery Goes walking in the woods with me, She is so white, she is so shy, The little leaves clap hands and cry— “Perdie; So white is she, so shy is she, Ah me! The maiden May hath just passed by!”

When summer ’s here and Margery Goes walking in the fields with me, She is so pure, she is so fair, The wildflowers eye her and declare— “Perdie! So pure is she, so fair is she, Just see, Where our sweet cousin takes the air!”

Why is it that my Margery Hears nothing that these say to me? She is so good, she is so true, My heart it maketh such ado, Perdie! So good is she, so true is she, You see, She can not hear the other two.

Beyond the orchard, in the lane, The crested red-bird sings again— O bird, whose song says, “Have no care,” Should I not care when Constance there,— My Constance with the bashful gaze, Pink-gowned like some sweet hollyhock,— If I declare my love, just says Some careless thing as if in mock? Like—“Past the orchard, in the lane, Hark! how the red-bird sings again!” There, while the red-bird sings his best, His listening mate sits on the nest— O bird, whose patience says, “All ’s well,” How can it be with me, come, tell? When Constance, with averted eyes,— Soft-bonneted as some sweet-pea,— If I talk marriage, just replies With some such quaint irrelevancy, As, “While the red-bird sings his best, His loving mate sits on the nest.” What shall I say? what can I do? Would such replies mean aught to you, O birds, whose music says, “Be glad”? Have I not reason to be sad When Constance, with demurest glance, Her face all poppied with distress, If I reproach her, pouts, perchance, And answers thus in waywardness?— “What shall I say? what can I do? My meaning should be plain to you!”

When Autumn’s here and days are short, Let Lydia laugh and, hey! Straightway ’t is May-day in my heart, And blossoms strew the way. When Summer ’s here and days are long, Let Lydia sigh and, ho! December’s fields I walk among, And shiver in the snow. No matter what the seasons are, My Lydia is so dear, My heart admits no calendar Of Earth when she is near.

Heaped in raven loops and masses Over temples smooth and fair, Have you marked it, as she passes, Night and starlight mingled there,— Braided strands of midnight air,— Helen’s hair? Deep with dreams and moony mazes Of the thought that in them lies, Have you seen them, as she raises Them in question or surprise,— Two gray gleams of daybreak skies,— Helen’s eyes? Fresh as dew and honied wafters Of a music sweet that slips, Have you marked them, brimmed with laughter’s Song and sunshine to their tips,— Blossoms whence the perfume drips,— Helen’s lips? He who sees her needs must love her: But, beware, whoe’er thou art! Lest like me thou shouldst discover Nature overlooked one part, In this masterpiece of art— Helen’s heart.

Oh, Mignon’s mouth is like a rose, A red, red rose, that half uncurls Sweet petals o’er a crimson bee: Or like a shell, that, opening, shows Within its rosy curve white pearls, White rows of pearls, Is Mignon’s mouth that smiles at me. Oh, Mignon’s eyes are like blue gems, Two azure gems that gleam and glow, Soft sapphires set in ivory: Or like twin violets, whose stems Bloom blue beneath the covering snow, The lidded snow, Are Mignon’s eyes that laugh at me. O mouth of Mignon, Mignon’s eyes! O eyes of violet, mouth of fire!— Within which lies all ecstasy Of tears and kisses and of sighs:— O mouth, O eyes, and O desire, O love’s desire, Have mercy on the soul of me!

A sunbeam and a drop of dew Lay on a red rose in the South: God took the three and made her mouth, Her sweet, small mouth, So red of hue,— The burning baptism of His kiss Still fills my heart with heavenly bliss.

A dream of truth and love come true Slept on a star in daybreak skies: God mingled these and made her eyes, Her dear, clear eyes, So gray of hue,— The high communion of His gaze Still fills my soul with deep amaze.

In girandoles of gladioles The day had kindled flame; And Heaven a door of gold and pearl Unclosed, whence Morning,—like a girl, A red rose twisted in a curl,— Down sapphire stairways came. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All on a summer’s morning?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo. If she be milking, follow, O! And in the clover hollow, O! While through the dew the bells clang clear, Just whisper it into her ear, All on a summer’s morning.”

Of honey and heat and weed and wheat The day had made perfume; And Heaven a tower of turquoise raised, Whence Noon, like some pale woman, gazed— A sunflower withering at her waist— Within a crystal room. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All in the summer nooning?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo. If she be ’mid the rakers, O! Among the harvest acres, O! While every breeze brings scents of hay, Just hold her hand and not take ‘nay,’ All in the summer nooning.”

With song and sigh and cricket cry The day had mingled rest; And Heaven a casement opened wide Of opal, whence, like some young bride, The Twilight leaned, all starry eyed, A moonflower on her breast. Said I to Love: “What must I do? What shall I do? what can I do?” Said I to Love: “What must I do, All in the summer gloaming?” Said Love to me: “Go woo, go woo.” Said Love to me: “Go woo, Go meet her at the trysting, O! And ’spite of her resisting, O! Beneath the stars and afterglow, Just clasp her close and kiss her—so, All in the summer gloaming.”

Between the rose’s and the canna’s crimson, Beneath thy window in the night I stand; The jeweled dew hangs little stars, in rims, on The white moonflowers; each a spirit hand That points the path to mystic Shadowland. Awaken, sweet and fair! And add to night thy grace! Suffer its loveliness to share The white moon of thy face, The dark cloud of thy hair. Awaken, sweet and fair!

A moth, like down, swings on th’ althea’s pistil,— Ghost of a tone that haunts its bell’s deep dome;— And in the August-lily’s cone of crystal A firefly hangs the lantern of a gnome, Green as a gem that gleams through hollow foam. Approach! the moment flies! O sweetheart of the South! Come! mingle with night’s mysteries The red rose of thy mouth, The dark stars of thine eyes.— Approach! the moment flies!

Dim through the dusk, like some unearthly presence, The night-song silvers of a dreaming bird; And with it borne, faint on a breeze-blown essence, The rainy whisper of a fountain’s heard— As if young lips had breathed a perfumed word. How long, my love, my bliss! How long must I await With night—that all impatience is— Thy greeting at the gate, And at the gate thy kiss? How long, my love, my bliss!

The cactus and the aloe bloom Beneath the window of your room; That window where, at evenfall, Beneath the twilight’s first pale star, You linger, tall and spiritual, And hearken my guitar. It is the hour When every flower Is wooed of moth or bee— Would, would you were the flower, dear, And I the moth to draw you near, To draw you near to me, My dear, To draw you near to me!

The jasmine and bignonia spill Their balm about your windowsill; That sill where, when magnolia-white, In foliage mists, the moon hangs far, You lean with bright deep eyes of night, And hearken my guitar. It is the hour When from each flower The wind woos essences— Would, would you were the flower, love, And I the wind to breathe above, To breathe above and kiss, My love, To breathe above and kiss!