Death

White artist he, who, breezeless nights,
From tingling stars jocosely whirls,
A harlequin in spangled tights,
His wand a pot of pounded pearls.

The field a hasty pallet; for,
In thin or thick, with daub and streak,
It stretches from the barn-gate's bar
To the bleached ribbon of the creek.

A great geometer is he;
For, on the creek's diaphanous silk,
Sphere, cone, and star exquisitely
He's drawn in crystal lines of milk.

Most delicate, his talent keen
On casement panes he lavishes,
In many a Lilliputian scene
Of vague white hives and milky bees,

That sparkling in still swarms delight,
Or bow the jeweled bells of flowers; -
Of dim, deep landscapes of the night,
Hanging down limpid domes quaint showers

Of feathery ...

Oh, I could let the world go by,
Its loud new wonders and its wars,
But how will I give up the sky
When winter dusk is set with stars?

And I could let the cities go,
Their changing customs and their creeds,
But oh, the summer rains that blow
In silver on the jewel-weeds!

        I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
        And what did I see I had not seen before?
        Only a question less or a question more;
        Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
        Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
        House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
        Wild swans, come over the town, come over
        The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,
In darkness weeps as all ashamed to weep,
Because the earth hath made her state forlorn
With self-wrought evil of unnumbered years,
And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap.
And all the day heaven gathers back her tears
Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep,
And showering down the glory of lightsome day,
Smiles on the earth’s worn brow to win her if she may.

My lady love lives far away,
And oh my heart is sad by day,
And ah my tears fall fast by night,
What may I do in such a plight.

Why, miles grow few when love is fleet,
And love, you know, hath flying feet;
Break off thy sighs and witness this,
How poor a thing mere distance is.

My love knows not I love her so,
And would she scorn me, did she know?
How may the tale I would impart
Attract her ear and storm her heart?

Calm thou the tempest in my breast,
Who loves in silence loves the best,
But bide thy time, she will awake,
No night so dark but morn will break.

But though my heart so strongly yearn,
My lady loves me not in turn,
How may I win the blest reply
That my void heart shall satisfy.

Love breedeth love, be...

Beautiful cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Swimming in the pure quiet air!
Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;
Where, midst their labour, pause the reaper train
As cool it comes along the grain.
Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee
In thy calm way o'er land and sea:
To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
On Earth as on an open book;
On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
And the long ways that seem her lands;
And hear her humming cities, and the sound
Of the great ocean breaking round.
Ay, I would sail upon thy air-borne car
To blooming regions distant far,
To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive-groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's bright sky
In smiles u...

Where olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew,
There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru.
Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air,
Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair;
And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook,
As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook.

'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung;
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below,
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.
A while that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the...

    O Petrarch! I am here. I bow to thee,
    Great king of sonnets, thronèd long ago
    And lover-like, as Love enjoineth me,
    And miser-like, enamoured of my woe,
    I reckon up my teardrops as they flow.
    I would not lose the power to shed a tear
    For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.
    I would not be so base as not complain
    When she I love is absent from my sight.
    No, not for all the marvels of the night,
    And all the varying splendours of the year.
    Do thou assist me, thou! that art the light
    Of all true lovers' souls, in all the sphere,
    To make a May-time of my sorrows slain.

Daisies Out At Sea.


I.

    These are the buds we bear beyond the surf, -
            Enshrined in mould and turf, -
    To take to fields far off, a land's salute
            Of high and vast repute, -
    The Shakespeare-land of every heart's desire,
    Whereof, 'tis said, the fame shall not expire,
    But shine in all men's thoughts as shines a beacon-fire.


II.

    O bright and gracious things that seem to glow
            With frills of winter snow,
    And little golden heads that know the sun,
            And seasons ha...

Whiten, oh whiten, O clouds of lawn!
Lily-like clouds that whiten above,
Now like a dove, and now like a swan,
But never, oh never pass on! pass on!
Never so white as the throat of my love.

Blue-black night on the mountain peaks
Is not so black as the locks o' my love!
Stars that shine through the evening streaks
Over the torrent that flashes and breaks,
Are not so bright as the eyes o' my love!

Moon in a cloud, a cloud of snow,
Mist in the vale where the rivulet sounds,
Dropping from ledge to ledge below,
Turning to gold in the sunset's glow,
Are not so soft as her footstep sounds.

Sound o' May winds in the blossoming trees,
Is not so sweet as her laugh that rings;
Song o' wild birds on the morning breeze,
Birds and brooks and murm...

She loved the Autumn, I the Spring,
Sad all the songs she loved to sing;
And in her face was strangely set
Some great inherited regret.

Some look in all things made her sigh,
Yea! sad to her the morning sky:
'So sad! so sad its beauty seems' -
I hear her say it still in dreams.

But when the day grew grey and old,
And rising stars shone strange and cold,
Then only in her face I saw
A mystic glee, a joyous awe.

Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres
Is there an end of mortal tears?
Or is there still in those great eyes
That look of lonely hills and skies?

In the chill grey summer dawn-light
    We pass through the empty streets;
The rattling wheels are all silent;
    No friend his fellow greets.

Here and there, at the corners,
    A man in a great-coat stands;
A bayonet hangs by his side, and
    A rifle is in his hands.

This is a conquered city;
    It speaks of war not peace;
And that's one of the English soldiers
    The English call "police."

You see, at the present moment
    That noble country of mine
Is boiling with indignation
    At the memory of a "crime."

In a path in the Phoenix Park where
    The children romped and ran,
An Irish ruffian met his doom,
    And an English gentleman.

For a hundred and over a hundred
    Years on the country side<...

The tide of fate rolls on! heart-pierced and pale,
The gallant soldier lies,[1] nor aught avail,
The shield, the sword, the spirit of the brave,
From rapine's armed hand thy vales to save,
Land of illustrious heroes, who, of yore,
Drenched the same plains with the invader's gore,
Stood frowning, in the front of death, and hurled
Defiance to the conquerors[2] of the world!
Oh, when we hear the agonising tale
Of those who, faint, and fugitive, and pale,
Saw hourly, harassed through their long retreat,
Some worn companion sinking at their feet,
Yet even in danger and from toil more bold,
Back on their gathering foes the tide of battle rolled;
While tears of pity mingle with applause,
On the dread scene in silence let us pause;
Yes, pause, an...

What poets feel not, when they make,
A pleasure in creating,
The world, in its turn, will not take
Pleasure in contemplating

Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes
In silence, for the tongue cannot avail.
Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale
Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries
To him whose grief outmasters all replies.
Only watch near him gently; do but bring
The piteous help of silent ministering,
Watchful and tender. This alone is wise.

So shall thy presence and thine every motion,
The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion
Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief,
And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul.
He shall bow down beneath thy mute control,
And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief.

Since to obtain thee nothing me will stead,
I have a med'cine that shall cure my love.
The powder of her heart dried, when she's dead,
That gold nor honour ne'er had power to move;
    Mixed with her tears that ne'er her true love crost,
Nor at fifteen ne'er longed to be a bride;
Boiled with her sighs, in giving up the ghost,
That for her late deceasèd husband died;
    Into the same then let a woman breathe,
That being chid did never word reply;
With one thrice married's prayers, that did bequeath
A legacy to stale virginity.
    If this receipt have not the power to win me,
    Little I'll say, but think the devil's in me!

[VASSAR COLLEGE, 1918]


        Oh, loveliest throat of all sweet throats,
            Where now no more the music is,
        With hands that wrote you little notes
            I write you little elegies!

Speak, ye stones, I entreat! Oh speak, ye palaces lofty!

Utter a word, oh ye streets! Wilt thou not, Genius, awake?
All that thy sacred walls, eternal Rome, hold within them

Teemeth with life; but to me, all is still silent and dead.
Oh, who will whisper unto me, when shall I see at the casement

That one beauteous form, which, while it scorcheth, revives?
Can I as yet not discern the road, on which I for ever

To her and from her shall go, heeding not time as it flies?
Still do I mark the churches, palaces, ruins, and columns,

As a wise traveller should, would he his journey improve.
Soon all this will be past; and then will there be but one temple,

Amor's temple alone, where the Initiate may go.
Thou art indeed a world, oh Rome; and yet, were L...