Czcionka:Mniejsze АаWiększe Aa
A LASS FROM THE WOODS
A lass from the woods
With a leaf in her hair!
And the rain of the night
And the wind of the morn,
They both quivered right;
For my spirit forlorn
In a garment of white
And a laugh newly born
Sprang in maddest of moods
Like a blossom in air
To the kiss of the sun
And the curl of the breeze,
Caught the cobwebs begun
In the hush of the trees
All my beatings were one
With the swirl of the seas.
Dead the creature that broods
In a tangle of care;
There's a lass from the woods
With a leaf in her hair.
WAS THERE ANOTHER SPRING
Was there another Spring than this?
I half remember through the haze
Of glimmering nights and golden days,
A broken pinioned birdling's note,
An angry sky, a sea-wrecked boat,
A wandering through rain-beaten ways!
Lean closer, love—I have thy kiss!
Was there another Spring than this?
TO DIANE
The ruddy poppies bend and bow
Diane! do you remember?
The sun you knew shines proudly now
The lake still lists the breezes' vow;
Your towers are fairer for their stains,
Each stone you smiled upon remains.
Sing low, where is Diane?
Diane do you remember?
I come to find you through the years—
Diane! do you remember?
For none may rule my love's soft fears.
The ladies now are not your peers,
I seek you thro' your tarnished halls,
Pale sorrow on my spirit falls
High, low—where is Diane?
Diane do you remember?
I crush the poppies where I tread—
Diane! do you remember?
Your flower of life—so bright, so red—
She does not hear—Diane is dead.
I pace the sunny bowers alone
Where nought of her remains but stone.
Sing low—where is Diane?
Diane does not remember.
BIRD LOVE— ROSE LOVE
If you were but a rose—dear love—
And I your bird, with dip of wing
To tell a promise of the Spring
And with a golden swift caress
My happy careless love confess,
No pain such gentle vows could bring,
No tears should stay my flight above,
If you were but a rose—dear love.
Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day
Why shall not we whose hearts are light
Put by the coming of the night,
Catch glints of rapture from the sky,
The scents that swing where lilies lie,
And ring them to a garland white
To ease the pain of life away?
Bird-love, rose-love, to last the day!
THE JOY OF LIFE
Her hair was twined with vine leaves thro' the gold,
The leopard skin about her shoulders flung
Showed gleams of her as marble—fair and cold;
I breathed not—listening to the song she sung.
Hither and thither thro' the solemn world,
Glory of purple, passionate blazing red
Glints thro' the gloom, and thro' the grey is swirled—
Ah! but the leaves twined sweet about her head.
"Heedless—men pass me in their search for life,
Hunting for altars to their souls' fine fires,
Crying the sun or joy of toil and strife
And know not that 'tis I—their heart desires.
They dream not that the sheen on peacock's breast,
The haze and perfume of a Summer's day,
The silver stealing o'er the twilight West
Are joys more rich than all the world's display."
MIST
Mist on the sea; like a great bird's pendulous wing,
Broken and hushed; it trails on the face of the main,
Down comes the sun, a red shot from a merciful sling
Burning its heart with swift death as an end to the pain.
THE LAST CLOUD
A red rose cloud upon the evening sky,
A gallant cloud which dies in foremost fight,
Too proud for prisons of triumphant night.
Knowing no pause, no strain of changing years,
Its little hour too short for dreams or tears,
The faithful sun its first and latest light—
Who would not so be glad to fight and die!
A red rose cloud upon the evening sky.
SONG
Love is a broken lily,
A pale and crownless rose
With golden heart made chilly
By traitor touch of snows.
So sleep my heart—lie sleeping
Nor open weary eyes,
For waking is but weeping
And Sleep is Paradise.
Love is a cadence trailing
Where broken music falls,
A hapless shadow sailing
Across deserted walls.
So still my heart lie sleeping
Till love's hot sun be set,
For waking is but weeping.
Asleep—sad eyes forget.
IN THE GRAVE
Dear Love—do you wake in that land where my waking is done?
Do you bare your brave head to the winds and the clouds and the sun?
And is Summer aflame?
Or has the night fallen to sleep on earth's wonderful breast,
And with it, all joys, save but you, who are dearest and best,
Wakeful—sighing my name?
Sometimes as I sleep, the sweet rain flickers over my head,
And smiling, I dream of the tears that your sorrow has shed;
Then I sigh and awake.
For the dreams of the grave are the dreams that have died in the morn,
And their ghosts alone haunt the cold earth where their maker was born,
For a woman's sweet sake.
Perhaps you are singing—and winding the garlands of May;
Not mine be the hand to withhold you the golden to-day,
Or give you pause to your song.
Perhaps the sweet blossoms may charm the grave's pestilent breath.
Ah! life is so short; so forget and be glad, dear—for death
Is so terribly long.