Thou living light that in thy rainbow hues
Clothest this naked world; and over Sea
And Earth and air, and all the shapes that be
In peopled darkness of this wondrous world
The Spirit of thy glory dost diffuse
... truth ... thou Vital Flame
Mysterious thought that in this mortal frame
Of things, with unextinguished lustre burnest
Now pale and faint now high to Heaven upcurled
That eer as thou dost languish still returnest
And ever
Before the ... before the Pyramids

So soon as from the Earth formless and rude
One living step had chased drear Solitude
Thou wert, Thought; thy brightness charmed the lids
Of the vast snake Eternity, who kept
The tree of good and evil. -

Beyond yon dim old mountain's shadowy height,
    The restless sun droops low his grand old face;
While downward sweeps the trembling veil of night,
    To hide the earth; the frost king's filmy lace
Rests on the mountain's hoary snow-crowned head,
    And adds to it a softened grace; the light
Which dies afar in faint and fading red
    In purple shadows circles near.

                    The flight
Of birds across the vast and silent plains
    Awakes the echoes of the sleeping earth;
Of all the summer beauty naught remains,
    There come no tidings of the spring's glad birth.

Beyond the valley and far-off height
    The birds in wandering do take their way;
Ah, whither is their strange and trackless flight
    Amid the dying embers of the day;

After the movie, when the lights come up,
He takes her powdered hand behind the wings;
She, all in yellow, like a buttercup,
Lifts her white face, yearns up to him, and clings;
And with a silent, gliding step they move
Over the footlights, in familiar glare,
Panther-like in the Tango whirl of love,
He fawning close on her with idiot stare.
Swiftly they cross the stage. O lyric ease!
The drunken music follows the sure feet,
The swaying elbows, intergliding knees,
Moving with slow precision on the beat.
She was a waitress in a restaurant,
He picked her up and taught her how to dance.
She feels his arms, lifts an appealing glance,
But knows he spent last evening with Zudora;
And knows that certain changes are before her.
The brilliant spotlight circles them ...

FROM "THE TRIUMPH OF MUSIC."


    ... Fresh from bathing in orient fountains,
In wells of rock water and snow,
Comes the Dawn with her pearl-brimming fingers
O'er the thyme and the pines of yon mountain;
Where she steps young blossoms fresh blow....

And sweet as the star-beams in fountains,
And soft as the fall of the dew,
Wet as the hues of the rain-arch,
To me was the Dawn when on mountains
Pearl-capped o'er the hyaline blue,
Saint-fair and pure thro' the blue,
Her spirit in dimples comes dancing,
In dimples of light and of fire,
Planting her footprints in roses
On the floss of the snow-drifts, while glancing
Large on her brow is her tire,
Gemmed with the morning-star's fire.

But sweet as the incense from altars,
And war...

It wor th' owd, owd story he towd her,
    Th' story, 'at's owder nor time;
Nowt ivver chap whisper'd wor owder,
    Nowt ivver soa grand an sublime.
For man nivver towd ither story,
    Soa chock full ov magic as this,
For, it shraaded th' young chaps i' glory,
    An' filled her 'at listened wi' bliss.

Th' story had wrought sich a wonder
    Noa ither tale ivver has done--
Two hearts, that afooar wor assunder,
    Wor knit i' a crack into one.
An' still he kept tellin' her th' story,
    Which mooar an' mooar wonderful grew,
(Soa oft its been tell'd its grown hoary,)
    But shoo could hav sworn it wor new.

Shoo thowt of th' angels above 'em,
    Wor jealous o' her, an' him, then--
For angels has noa chaps to love 'em,
    Love's n...

Nel dolce d' una.


It happens that the sweet unfathomed sea
        Of seeming courtesy sometimes doth hide
        Offence to life and honour. This descried,
        I hold less dear the health restored to me.
He who lends wings of hope, while secretly
        He spreads a traitorous snare by the wayside,
        Hath dulled the flame of love, and mortified
        Friendship where friendship burns most fervently.
Keep then, my dear Luigi, clear and pure
        That ancient love to which my life I owe,
        That neither wind nor storm its calm may mar.
For wrath and pain our gratitude obscure;
        And if the truest truth of love I know,
        One pang outweighs a thousand pleasures far.

When leaf and flower are newly made,
And bird and butterfly and bee
Are at their summer posts again;
When all is ready, lo! 'tis she,
Suddenly there after soft rain -
The deep-lashed dryad of the shade.

Shadow! the fairest gift of June,
Gone like the rose the winter through,
Save in the ribbed anatomy
Of ebon line the moonlight drew,
Stark on the snow, of tower or tree,
Like letters of a dead man's rune.

Dew-breathing shade! all summer lies
In the cool hollow of thy breast,
Thou moth-winged creature darkly fair;
The very sun steals down to rest
Within thy swaying tendrilled hair,
And forest-flicker of thine eyes.

Made of all shapes that flit and sway,
And mass, and scatter in the breeze,
And meet and part, open and close;<...

Ye have met, ye have met, disencumbered of pain,
Of sorrow, and sickness, and care;
And the slave and the prisoner, now freed from their chain,
Have rejoicingly welcomed you there.

The true light now shines and the darkness is past,
For that which is perfect is come,
And your pure loving spirits are gathered at last,
In their only congenial home.

May the balm of your memory steal through the soul,
Like a gale from Arabia the blest,
Exert o'er the feelings a sacred control,
And hush every murmur to rest!

In the world we shall seek your resemblance in vain,
Your places shall know you no more;
Yet who by a wish would recall you again?
For the days of your mourning are o'er.

The King in His beauty your eyes now behold,
He has sweetly d...

A voice said, Look me in the stars
And tell me truly, men of earth,
If all the soul-and-body scars
Were not too much to pay for birth.

It was a little budding rose,
Round like a fairy globe,
And shyly did its leaves unclose
Hid in their mossy robe,
But sweet was the slight and spicy smell
It breathed from its heart invisible.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,
Its root has felt a worm,
And like a heart beloved and slighted,
Failed, faded, shrunk its form.
Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,
I stole thee from thy natal bower.

I was the worm that withered thee,
Thy tears of dew all fell for me;
Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,
Exile earth they died upon.
Yes, that last breath of balmy scent
With alien breezes sadly blent!

April! April! April!
With a mist of green on the trees -
And a scent of the warm brown broken earth
On every wandering breeze;
What, though thou be changeful,
Though thy gold turns to grey again,
There's a robin out yonder singing,
Singing in the rain.

April! April! April!
'Tis the Northland hath longed for thee,
She hath gazed toward the South with aching eyes
Full long and patiently.
Come now - tell us, sweeting,
Thou laggard so lovely and late,
Dost know there's no joy like the joy that comes
When hearts have learned to wait?

        (Suggested by the "Clarimonde" OF Théophile Gautier.)

        Adieu, Romauld! But thou canst not forget me.
    Although no more I haunt thy dreams at night,
        Thy hungering heart forever must regret me,
    And starve for those lost moments of delight.

        Naught shall avail thy priestly rites and duties,
    Nor fears of Hell, nor hopes of Heaven beyond:
        Before the Cross shall rise my fair form's beauties - -
    The lips, the limbs, the eyes of Clarimonde.

        Like gall the wine sipped from the sacred chalice
    Shall taste to one who knew my red mouth's bliss,
        When Youth and Beauty dwelt in Love's own palace,
    And life flowed on in one eternal kiss.

        Through what strange ways I come, dear heart, to ...

What time I paced, at pleasant morn,
A deep and dewy wood,
I heard a mellow hunting-horn
Make dim report of Dian's lustihood
Far down a heavenly hollow.
Mine ear, though fain, had pain to follow:
`Tara!' it twanged, `tara-tara!' it blew,
Yet wavered oft, and flew
Most ficklewise about, or here, or there,
A music now from earth and now from air.
But on a sudden, lo!
I marked a blossom shiver to and fro
With dainty inward storm; and there within
A down-drawn trump of yellow jessamine
A bee
Thrust up its sad-gold body lustily,
All in a honey madness hotly bound
On blissful burglary.
    A cunning sound
In that wing-music held me: down I lay
In amber shades of many a golden spray,
Where looping low with languid arms the Vine
In wreath...

Three errors there are, that forever are found
On the lips of the good, on the lips of the best;
But empty their meaning and hollow their sound
And slight is the comfort they bring to the breast.
The fruits of existence escape from the clasp
Of the seeker who strives but those shadows to grasp

So long as man dreams of some age in this life
When the right and the good will all evil subdue;
For the right and the good lead us ever to strife,
And wherever they lead us the fiend will pursue.
And (till from the earth borne, and stifled at length)
The earth that he touches still gifts him with strength! [56]

So long as man fancies that fortune will live,
Like a bride with her lover, united with worth;
For her favors, alas! to the mean she will give
And virtue ...

(IN MEMORY OF A PUPIL)


            Thou art but gone before -
            Gone to that unknown shore
Toward which my feet are journeying swiftly on
            Thou hast but laid thy head
            First with the dreamless dead,
I, too, shall come, and share thy rest anon.

            Methinks 'twas sweet to die,
            Ere childhood's purity
Had been polluted by sin's withering breath;
            Ere Care's pale, haggard mien
            Thy laughing eye had seen,
Or thou hadst wept beside the bed of death!

            We weep - yet thou art blest!
            We mourn - but thou'rt at rest!
Well may we weep, yet, lost one, not for thee!
            Not that thy race is run,
            Thy brief life-journey...

Absent from thee I languish still;
Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear! from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try
That tears my fixed heart from my love.

When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire
where love and peace and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire,

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest,
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.

"Purpureos spargam flores."

The wreath that star-crowned Shelley gave
Is lying on thy Roman grave,
Yet on its turf young April sets
Her store of slender violets;
Though all the Gods their garlands shower,
I too may bring one purple flower.
Alas! what blossom shall I bring,
That opens in my Northern spring?
The garden beds have all run wild,
So trim when I was yet a child;
Flat plantains and unseemly stalks
Have crept across the gravel walks;
The vines are dead, long, long ago,
The almond buds no longer blow.
No more upon its mound I see
The azure, plume-bound fleur-de-lis;
Where once the tulips used to show,
In straggling tufts the pansies grow;
The grass has quenched my white-rayed gem,
The flowering "Star of Bethlehem,"
Though ...

This passion is but an ember
    Of a Sun, of a Fire, long set;
I could not live and remember,
    And so I love and forget.

You say, and the tone is fretful,
    That my mourning days were few,
You call me over forgetful -
    My God, if you only knew!