Sonnets and Songs

 
 
 
Not that young Joy, but one courageous, calm,
Who—passed beyond the quiet morning meadows
Beyond the dawn of life’s delicious shadows—
Holds the great sun and moon in either palm.
 
 
In her wise heart she takes that little Joy,
Kisses to sleep tired eyes with laughter over,
Pointing to greater joys in heights above her—
This shall be ours whom fate would fain destroy.
 

IX

The Rose-Colored Camelia-Tree

 
Stained by the ardent silver of the stars,
Glitter the leaves, a challenge to the day—
The bright, fierce flame of naked scimitars
Holds still the argent night, folded away.
 
 
Challenging day, yet, lovelier than light,
Blushing with dawn the flick’ring leaves between,
Burn the rose blossoms, traitors to the night—
Color of joy upon the tranquil green.
 
 
Brave to the amorous sun, who, fearing, grieves,
At last the tree’s whole heart with love is crowned—
The rose-red flowers warm against the leaves,
The rose-red petals sweet against the ground.
 

X

Good-Bye Sorrow

 
Day that began with a tear,
Will you end with a sigh?
Stay! See the blossoming year,
Laugh up to the sky.
Nay, here’s a hope for your fear,
Sweet sorrow—good-bye!
 

XI

In Harbor

 
My little boat is in a bay,
It swings with gentle motion,
And there I lie and watch all day
The far-off, noisy ocean.
 
 
The ships go up, the ships go down,
And never see me spying.
They are the pride and fear of town—
Sails wide and colors flying.
 
 
They are so strong, they are so tall,
They fear no storm, no sorrow;
With brave eyes to the sun, they all
Set sail for some to-morrow.
 
 
Sometimes I long to range and roam,
My harbor life bewailing,
But little boats must bide at home,
To gayly speed the sailing.
 

XII

Rosa Mundi

 
O life that flowered at the very top of the tree,
Redder than all the roses out of the South,
This was the blossom colored and wrought for me,
Sweeter than scarlet bloom of a maiden’s mouth.
 
 
Fain would I climb, and fain would I reach the flower.
Ah, but the tree was tall as the flower was fair!
Weary I grew and slept through the noonday hour;
Winds caught my fate and strewed it over the air.
 

XIII

The Ribbon

 
Ah, dearest, dearest, not alone
I face the day’s white monotone.
The fair, bright ribbon of the hours—
A mountain brook bestead through flowers—
Runs, a dear line, from you to you.
There is no smallest deed I do
Through which the ribbon does not run,
A silver string to pearls of sun.
So glad I watch the moments fly
Across the high-hung summer sky,
Till in a radiant flame they burn,
To mark the hour of your return.
 

XIV

The Aster

 
The little vagrant gypsy flower
Has blossomed forth again—
Your face against the autumn sky,
Your face against the rain.
 
 
The fevered youth of summer days
Has passed away in tears.
The aged winter totters down
The pathway of the years.
 
 
Yet, nodding, luring, laughing o’er
The tired world’s pain and scars,
Joyous I find between my hands
Your face—in aster stars.
 

XV

Heart and Hand

 
Singing, he smote his heart—
The woman smiled,
And Love leaped, flaming,
Into being—wild.
 
 
Singing, he smote his hands—
The woman sighed,
And Love grew weary,
Turned his face, and died.
 

XVI

The Golden Fruit

 
I lacked not Love, I lacked not lovely Love,
But, ah, the apples of Hesperides!
The golden apples and the emerald trees,
The flower-sweet maidens, dancing in the breeze—
Holds Love a blossom with such fruits as these?
 
 
I gave up Love, I gave up lovely Love,
And sought the island of enchanted skies,
With little rainbow rifts of seraphs’ eyes,
Round which the flaming sword forever plies
Against the darkened world of rue and sighs.
 
 
Alas for Love! alas for lovely Love!
In dreams I heard the beating of his wing;
His soft voice, beautiful as sea in spring,
Mourned through the empty songs the seraphs sing;
Life seemed in sleep more dear than everything.
 
 
Take me back, Love; take me back, lovely Love.
Dark winds may drive me o’er thy tyrannous seas—
Life is a world that breaks the thing it frees.
I would be bound in all thy masteries—
Yet, ah, the apples of Hesperides!
 

XVII

To a Moth

 
Spirit of evil, heavily flying, turning,
Dropping to earth,
Caught to the light, with brown wings torn and burning,
Whence was your birth?
 
 
Was there a cause that, ceaselessly turning, flying,
Drew you from night?
All that we know is this—the aimless dying,
Killed by the light.
 
 
Evil the star that led you, spirit of evil,
Out of your dark,
Breeding desire that conquers us, man and devil—
Passion’s red spark.
 

XVIII

Winter Song

 
Oh, it’s winter, winter, when you’re here,
And summer when you’re gone.
What need of birds when hearts sing clear,
From dusk of day to dawn?
 
 
The noble wind, the silver snow,
High stars, and, best of all,
The red-rose hearth—a golden glow
When twilight curtains fall.
 
 
Who’d cry the heat of summer skies,
The bare, despairing sun,
The languid flowers, with closing eyes,
The earth’s fair wooing done?
 
 
The possibilities of spring,
The reticence of bliss,
Love with the winter’s argent wing,
We’ll scorn the sun for this.
 

XIX

Youth

 
Youth and its pensive agonies! How soon
The restless heart forgets to crave the moon!
Age is too weary for the butterflies—
Spring’s rainbow radiance fluttering through sweet skies,
Hope merrily deferred. We see the morn,
We who are old, in shattered fragments. Scorn
For laughter and for singing clouds our breast.
Youth, take your fill of pleasure, for the rest
Of Age is endless. Sing, nor grudge the song—
Youth is so short, and Age, quiet Age, so long!
 

XX

Persephone

 
Persephone, Persephone—her sweet face wanders up to me,
Through this bewildering maze of spring.
At length she daunts the tyrannous year,
Her little laugh usurps the tear,
Her little song she dares to fling
Against the black stars, merrily.
 
 
Persephone, Persephone—her hands lean through the spring to me.
Sweet, could I show you in what wise
Your song has blossomed—how the air
Is mad with gold because your hair,
Tossed golden ’neath your sea-blue eyes,
And earth goes laughing with your glee?
 
 
Persephone, Persephone, this hour sends out your heart to me.
Child of the Dark, with soul sun-bright,
Ah, give me largesse, give me May,
So shall I charm the saddest day,
And life—one amber dawn’s delight—
Shall bear your song eternally.
 

XXI

Étoiles d’Enfer

 
The four wide winds of evening have their stars,
Fashioned in fire, in purity of snow,
Tossed to their height by endless avatars—
These all the righteous know.
 
 
What of the stars of Hades? On the gloom
The outcast see them shine like angels’ eyes,
And in the living night that is their tomb
They dream of Paradise.
 
 
They know the stars of Hades. They are deeds,
Wickedly born, which came to good at last—
Fair blossoms spring from villany of weeds,
Rest—and redeem the past.
 

XXII

Enough of Singing

 
Enough of singing; since your heart is tired,
We’ll leave the lute, so long, so long desired,
And in the silence speak one quiet word,
Simple as earth, forgetting song and bird.
 
 
No more of singing; mating-time has sped,
In the broad fields the poppy-lips are red.
Crush them, Beloved, drink the lethe deep;
Song being dead, what else is left but sleep?
 

XXIII

Truth

 
Up from the soul, as a blade of grass from the sod,
Springs the intent of the prayer as a cry to God.
Blossoms may veil it or visions with ways uncouth,
He sees the ultimate grass-blade, the heart of Truth.
 

XXIV

The Philosopher

 
The grim immensities are mine,
The sunlight on the brook is theirs;
I drink the lees of bitter wine,
Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.
 
 
I stammer, all afire to tell