LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SAN DIEGO X 7- IN A PORTUGUESE GARDEN AND OTHER VERSE BY CARA E. WHITON-STONE Author of " Sonnets, Songs, Laments," etc. BOSTON SHERMAN, FRENCH &> COMPANY 1911 COPYRIGHT, 1911 SHERMAN, FRENCH &* COMPANT TO THE THREE CHEVALIERS ONE IMMORTAL WHO HAVE MADE THIS BOOK POSSIBLE AND TO AN EAGLE AND A DOVE WHOSE SPLENDID FLIGHTS HAVE BEEN EXAMPLE AND INSPIRATION THESE VERSES ARE DEDICATED AN EAGLE AND A DOVE They mate not and yet mate, these wondrous two. The one mounts up with mighty wings that beat To tractless solitudes, content to meet No rival but the sun, and would break through The sky s supreme immeasurable blue To conquer him, and heeding cold nor heat Insatiate mounts and mounts, nor will retreat Till conquering, he shall the sun outdo. The other waits divinely calm to know From the white glory in her soul, how best To bear a healing balm to some great woe, And wears the whole of heaven within her breast, And while the eagle seeks the sun to know What lies beyond the sun, the dove has guessed. CONTENTS BOOK I PAGE IN A PORTUGUESE GARDEN .... 3 BOOK II SONNETS TO A SAPPHIC SINGER ... 25 BOOK III HEXAMETERS 59 BOOK IV EDWARD THE SEVENTH AND OTHER THREN ODIES 91 BOOK V SONGS OF THE CITIES 133 BOOK VI SONGS OF THE SEASONS 165 BOOK VII MISCELLANEOUS 269 BOOK I IN A PORTUGUESE GARDEN IN A PORTUGUESE GARDEN CANTO I FAIREST of the Fair, would I could send My soul to thee, across the upper skies, To thee, whose eyes are like the stars that rise In sight of morning, and with morning blend. The heavy pomegranate scents that lie In dusky splendor of thy flooding hair Are wafted by the flame-winged birds that fly Fanning in scarlet triumph through the air. 1 hear the insects droning in the heat, I hear the south winds through the palm trees sigh, Incarnate music seems to swoon and die In all the lutes of Summer at thy feet. Thou seemst for some mystery to wait; Thou knowest ecstasies of lutes enfold Summer s consummate breath: I bring thee bold One ecstasy, than Summer s all, more great. 3n a Portuguese <arUen At coming of thy footsteps I rejoice, Thou art the playmate of the winds and flowers I know no time, I only count the hours In which I hear the music of thy voice. The days grow more divine with thee, the nights Are mighty with thy presence ; and the moon Bends low o er thee, as to the heart of June And spills o er thee, its million silver lights. I follow thee, as shadow follows light I worship thee, as some transcendent star Tangled in meshes of the worlds afar That is too perfect to be hidden from sight. I hardly dare to kiss thy hand "good-night" Thou art so beautiful, thou seemst to wear The high reserve that the eternals bear Turning their faces towards the mystic light. The winds across the jasmine cease to blow, The scarlet-breasted birds their raptures hush, And o er the breast of evening falls a flush Hearing thee, virgin-hearted, praying low. Good-night, O Love! The golden days are fleet The doves are flocking homeward to their eaves A fluttering silence falls upon the leaves Go, fold thine eyes, the doves will watch thee, Sweet. Heart of my Heart, good-night. a Portuguese @atPen CANTO II Thou comest from thy tent of sleep away With an auroral calm upon thy face, Waiting awhile in the white dawn s embrace, Ere thou shalt quaff the golden wine of day. The flowers are drenched with dew, the garden waits Transfiguration of the rising sun That slowly mounts and mounts till it is won To pay thee tribute at its unbarred gates. As if heaven had been drained of golden fire The world from East to West is drenched in it And thou, thy calm, strange, beauty, glory-lit Adown the azalia pathway drawest nigher. Peerless One, how whisper what I feel ! 1 search the asolian voices in the air For one divine enough my love to bear, Whose homage is so great I fain would kneel. Thou lookest up, with thy young eyes aglow Creation s sunrise transport, I partake O heart, if thou canst bear to beat, nor break Teach me some heavenly way my love to show. Once more the morning blazons into day, Once more the insects trumpet through the heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. 6 3n a Portuguese <>arDen I know not is it June or Paradise, A tender mist hangs o er the matchless sky A line of pink marks where the ripples die And into souls of murmuring sea-shells rise. And so we silent wander hand in hand. What need of speech? We are content to share The language of the earth and upper air. It is enough eternity is spanned. Good-night ! Good-night, Beloved, thou canst not stay I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves Go Sweet, and come forth with the virgin day. Heart of my Heart, good-night. CANTO III Thou comest, and the birds sing clear and high To greet thee, O thou Dreamer of White Dreams, Along the pathway aurioled with the gleams Dropped from a silver cloud that roams the sky. The sun, as waiting thee, is hidden away, In mists diaphonous that trail the East And drape thee, as for some transcendent feast In gauzy opalescence of the day. a Portugue0e Garden Then as thou standest, sudden above the flowers The sun seeing thee, sets the whole world aglow And lilies weep for joy, and birds sing low And the new day is born, and heaven is ours. For us, O Best Beloved, the glow will stay, For us, sunrise will be from morn till night ; And though we see time, poised as if for flight, For us, for evermore will be the day. O Sweet, I read in those strange eyes of thine The calm of saints that travels ray on ray The circling of the million suns that sway Toward the lilied sweeps of fields divine. And so we watch the crimson roses blow And golden sunshine drifting through the trees And hear the South wind s whispers of litanies And soundless deeps of the eternal know. And once more morning blazons into day And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. Why seeing thee, must I so silent be? Who know that thou art fairest of the fair, Why do I not proclaim it through the air Until the butterflies bring word to thee? 8 Why do I not call into the blue abyss Thou, Flower of the Universe, art here And bid the winds blow thee, from hill tops near Its heavenly benediction and its kiss. If I am silent, thou art silent, too ; The birds are singing what we fain would say The flowers are breathing it along the way Sparks glittering star the air, as if they knew. The shadows lengthen, sunrise still in sight, I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves, Thou turnest away, ah, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night. CANTO IV O sky of chrysoprase with stars still lit When thou shalt hear the footsteps of my day Coming in soundles rhythm along the way Rush into saffron, and then drown in it. Drown thyself deep in it, till hair astream, The sky shall swim to sight, and I shall see The fairest of the fair approaching me, And all, all else will vanish like a dream. And hast thou come, Beloved, and dost thou know, The heavens magnificence is spread for thee? Come closer, Sweet, and let us watch and see The vast effulgence gulf us here below. a Portuguese <$arDen 9 All is as yesterday, there is no sight Or scent, or sound, or bird on any tree That sings his scarlet-raptured dreams to thee That is forgotten, all is changeless bright. The paths are lined with flowers, the poppies lift Their drowsy heads as if to nod salute, But though empulsed in music, we are mute, And sun enmarshaled into Eden drift. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. Oh Love, not worthy I thy slave to be, I am so poor a thing, so wondrous thou, Yet with thy virgin kiss upon my brow I wear a crown that kings might envy me. Thine eyes that search the yellow flaming air Are shining, Sweet, as if the sight of rings That mark the upward path of glittering wings Had left consummate glory visioned there. Lend me thy wondrous power that I may know As thou, O Sweet, the secret souls of things And learn that love that into flowering springs May the whole boundless universe outgrow. 10 an a Portuguese <$arDen And must I say good-night, sunrise in sight? I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves Ah, must I, must I, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night ! CANTO V The birds at thy approach to chorus break As at a festival, O Peerless Fair, I see thee coming through the sunrise air Nearer and nearer until thy hand I take. Then while thine hand within mine own is pressed, The birds still singing, glad and high and free As if to pay obeisance unto thee, The sun sails up, and bares its scarlet breast. And thou and I, O Sweet, and thou and I, Beneath the glory wander to and fro And watch the fading of the sunrise glow And all the crystal morning splendor die. To-day the breezes blow from far away Strange murmurous sounds like echoes of a flute, While yesterday the glittering leaves were mute, And which more beautiful, we cannot say. The sky has slowly into sapphire grown, The flush has changed to amber in the air We scarce can breathe with joy too great to bear And birds still sing, although the birds are flown. 3n a Portuguese (fcarDen 11 And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. Sweet, for us, not long enough the days The: mornings slip to noons, and ere we know The honeysuckles silver trumpets blow The sunset hour, and hills are drowned in haze. The burnished golden shadows round us beat, An orange cloud is floating from the West ; And still within mine own thy hand is pressed; This, this is our forever Sweet. The fireflies flash, the stars gleam here and there The palm trees stand out purple, gainst the sky Almost we hear the weeping grasses sigh, And all the scents of Summer fill the air. Thou goest away the sunrise still in sight - The doves are flocking homeward to their eaves ; 1 hear the whispered secrets of the leaves ; And must I, Sweet, oh must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night ! CANTO VI Hither enwrapped in transparent light Where Summer has let down its golden bars Thou comest, who has slept watched by the stars, In the majestic cradle of the night. Sn a Portugue0e Across the purple of the morning s breast The rosy tide has not yet wholly run And wider, wider yet to flood the sun We watched it, sweeping on from east to west. O Sweet, the heavens have made us high bequest, In this omnipotence of rosy flame What other morn can such transcendence claim Is it, O Love, that glory is at crest? How can we know which is the fairest tide? All, all, are fairest, since we closer drew And breathless watched the rapture as it flew And still looked on, nor knew when it had died. Come, Love, with me beneath the palm trees shade And watch the scintillations of the heat Through the great arteries of the noon air beat While in the distance, Pipes of Pan are played. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. And as of old, the sylvan paths we tread And hear the inarticulate delight Of growing things, while Summer at its height Ablaze with music, burns to blue o er head. 3n a Portitgue0e (garden is And so the Pipes of Pan play on, while we Watch day with cooler veins go drifting by And gainst the bare blue splendor of the sky, One great white butterfly down-sailing see. And thou and I, O Sweet and thou and I, Who know how vast the earth and sky and air Hear fluttering wings around us everywhere, And are ourselves enwinged with ecstasy. The twilight falls, the dear divine day dies, On the far hilltops sing the nightingales A golden-breasted moon above us sails And we sail past it through the opening skies. And then thou goest, sunrise still in sight, I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves O Best Beloved, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night. CANTO VII O Peerless One, my soul leaps up to hear Thy voice that through the air divinely calls Who watch thee, clad in a flooding veil that falls Enmeshed with sunrise splendor drawing near. Above thee in an iridescent sea The sun with scarlet breath and blazing breast As if all Summer s joy was in it pressed Looks down through panoply of June, on thee. 14- an a Portuguese acDen Looks down on thee, O Beautiful, O Fair, As if adoring and with gorgeous might Drops down on thee, a more translucent light Who, standstj upgazing like a saint at prayer. And then thou comest with me, clad in light To watch the jasmine and the palms and rose And feel the warm wind that around us blows Laden with perfume of the dew clad night. There are no changes, save that here and there Where some wild rose s petals lie in shower Another bud, has broken into flower And beauty, beauty still, is zenithed there. And as we watch in love s unmapped degree, The matchless sky, and palms and buds in glow, All the June s reckless splendor seems to flow Into our souls, like a resistless sea. O Best Beloved, O Divine, O Sweet, We scarce can bear the rushing floods that shake Our hearts to such wild joy, they almost break As with the sweep of shoreless waves, they beat. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. 3n a Portugue0e (garDen 15 The sun s light deepens, and its myriad rays Drop as it sweeps up to a goldener height And stabs us with unspeakable delight And sets the grasses at our feet ablaze. Wilder than Pipes of Pan, tune after tune On winds that blow is borne us, until they grow So all divine, so heavenly sweet we know It is not music that we hear, but June. The palm trees into shadows have been won ; The clouds that drift out from the west, burn red ; The tunes play on, although the sun is dead Play on, play on, and still, still, still, play on. Thou goest away the sunrise still in sight - I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves And must I, must I, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night. CANTO VIII Hasten, oh hasten, Love, I wait for thee To watch the half-oped rose of sunrise blow And drop on thee, its sea-shell flush below And flood thee with its boundless radiancy. I see thee, coming and around thee flows A vast resplendence and to cheat the day The sunrise-scattered petals round thee lay And it is thou, thou, Sweet, that wearst the rose. 16 an a Portuguese And then, O Sweet, the sky bereaved, o ercast, With flecks as of remembrance is lined And here and there a petal left behind Fades, till its silent breast is blue at last. The rose is dead, but in the East the sun Has burned itself a place, and flings around A flood of melted gold upon the ground, Through which, toward the flowers our feet are won. O Sweet, the world is like a rainbow arc Radiant with burning joys of yesterdays; We wander on, where the gold light still stays, It matters not which way, who know no dark. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. The roses that we see, not roses are, They are our dreams transfixed ; the perfect glow Of this o erwhelming passion that we know, The blood-red glory of love s morning star. There is no cloud upon the turquoise sky The golden hush is palpitant and deep Nature itself seems to have fallen asleep And tranced aloft, the zephyrs breathe no sigh. Jn a Portugue0e aartien 17 The silence to transfiguration slips And thou and I, in an enchanted dream Float outward on the bosom of a stream Out, out, and out, toward the apocalypse. We know not, that the day is waning fast Nor that a dusky purple floods the air We still drift on, and still drift on, to where There is no earth, only the eternal vast. The purple darkens, sunrise still in sight I see the doves flock homeward to their eaves, I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves Must I, O Sweet, and must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night. CANTO IX Day, day is here, and of all other days This is divinest, for I take thy hand And know that all of earth and heaven is spanned In the white innocency of thy gaze. Thou art areek with Summer, and in might Of thy strange beauty, thou hast claim to share The glory of the sun, who, unaware Has dropped upon thy face his fullest light. The birds sail down from heaven, because so fair And as in homage, come and sing to thee And sunlit clouds that sail the upper sea Lingering above thy head grow goldener there. is 3n a Portuguese Garden And yesterday, and yesters, yesterday It was the same, and earth and air and sky Seemed to yearn toward thee, as thou drewest nigh And grow to shadow, when thou turnd st away. The sunshine is aflood with butterflies, That to its myriads golden ladders keep : We see the hills, engulfed in azure sleep Pillowed upon the bosom of the skies. And thou and I, O Sweet, and thou and I, Drink deep the undregged goblet of delight And know that we have been vouchsafed the sight Of the eternal fires that burn on high. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat, And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. O Love, it is Omnipotence that reigns, The earth is throbbing with it, prism ed with light, And the whole reckless sky, with June at height, Like liquid heaven is racing through our veins. The heart of Summer beats in everything; We hear it in the buds that sighing blow ; We hear it in the river s lapping flow ; And birds keep time with it on whirring wing. 3n a Portugue0e (DatDett 19 A golden haze, the golden sunshine meets, The dews are weeping for the day that dies We know not as the emblazoned vapors rise If it is Summer s heart, or ours that beats. The Western glory flickers and burns low The sun has drowned itself in sea of red And thou and I, beneath the light o erhead Sweet, O Fair, through gates of Jasper go. And night drops down, the sunrise still in sight; 1 see the doves flock homeward to their eaves ; I hear the whispered secrets of the leaves, And must I, must I, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night ! CANTO X And thou art here, here, Love and one white star That loitered till thou earnest has pierced its way Into the burning bosom of the day And seeing thee, has vanished out of sight. The sun mounts up, and mounting higher and higher We watch it hand in hand until it sends Its greeting to the world, and as it bends Down-scatters at our feet its jeweled fire. Sn a Portuguese Across the blazing arch, cloud after cloud Like fleecy phantoms of the day, goes by And into silence of the earth and sky The music of creation seems to crowd. A single sunbeam that has hither strayed Marks out a golden path through which we go To the high solitudes where lilies blow And where, hark, Sweet, the Pipes of Pan are played. And once more morning blazons into day, And once more murmuring insects drone in heat And all the lutes of Summer at thy feet Into a soundless rapture swoon away. So blue the sky, so passionately blue It seems to melt into infinity And we who, raptured can Beyond descrye Lifted upon its breast, melt upward, too. And then O Love, we watch until afar, The sunset clouds adown the horizon sweep And burn to gold ; and as if waked from sleep Amid the smoldering glow an amethyst star. Best Beloved, O Divine, O Sweet, The mystery and wonder of these days Bears me to where, beyond the sunset haze 1 see the light through which archangels beat. Jn a Portuguese <$atDen 21 The tender night wind blows across the flowers ; Heaven s undertone is swelling as we go, O Love, from the forever that we know, Into the new Forever, still more ours. The dews fall fast, with sunrise still in sight The flocking doves are slumbering neath their eaves, We know the whispered secrets of the leaves O Best Beloved, must I say good-night? Heart of my Heart, good-night ! BOOK II SONNETS TO A SAPPHIC SINGER WHEN thou and I had parted, Sweet, and night Had drowned the twilight in its purple sea, The stars that amber flashing shone o er me, Like sparks of the burned day showered into sight, Seemed to, mysterious echo from their height Thy minstrel soul s insistent minstrelsy; And all the skies were palpitate with thee, Who art, heaven voiced, epiphany of light ; Although but pathways through Spring violets In sunlit fields thine April feet have known, Thou understandest every tide that frets My shoreless heart, life s swirling maelstrom s shown Its pangs, desires, and infinite regrets, Because thou wear st the rose of Song, full blown. 26 3n a Portuguese ii Beloved of Music, radiant with the might Of lyric passion, that mysterious glows, They, chosen of old to wear the Pierian rose, Make room for thee ; for, Greek-souled, thou hast sight Vouchsafed alone, to those who dwell on height Where once dwelt gods ; and all the fire that goes From sun to sunrise through thy being flows ; Bearing thy heaven-winged dreams to heavenliest flight. Thou capturest Beauty if on land or sea, Shining or sad ; and the wild rains that wet The Spring s first born divine anemone Thou who art pulsed with pulse of Spring canst set Into a song that will drop melody ! And, sapphic cadenced, sublimate regret. a Portuguese harden 27 ni Yea, and a matchless day with gold supreme And zenithed sun, and clouds that eastward go, Thou canst so tangle in thy verses flow Th emblazoned light in every word will gleam ; Sing st thou of lilies in a silver stream, And in thy lines they pulsate, aye, and blow, And all the ripples into rhythms grow, And thou canst attar Summer in a dream. Go and in splendor of some perfect line The flawless heart of some great truth disclose, And lyric inspiration that shall shine, As into Song s resplendent sea it flows So sunned in it, Thought s sovereigns shall divine Thy classic right to wear the Pierian rose. 28 Jin a Portuguese IV Dream thine own dreams, Dear Heart, in thine own way, And how to shape them best, thou best wilt know ; They are so fair, so fair, that they may blow Into white hyacinths, neath the sun, some day : And left in garden of the gods to stray, If thou shouldst wear them, when they blossom so, Into them, souls of nightingales will go, Sung from thy heart, as from the heart of May. The world has need of what its dreamers lend, Nor knows, with vapors chilled, its need how great ; But let thy song, despite the mist, ascend ; Unloose thy prisoned nightingales, nor wait, And thy winged hyacinthine dreams may blend With dreams of those who W 7 ith th immortals rate. 3ftt a Portuguese <2$arDen 29 v Nor be disheartened, nor grow mute with pain, Because the world is careless of thy song; Sing on ; some one grown weary in the throng Will hear the Spring s voice call in every strain, And breathe the scent of hyacinths again, And for the burdens of the day grow strong. Life s disenchantments will be swept along, But memories of the hyacinths will remain. Thou walk st in garden of the gods, by right Thou hast no other choice than wander there, And yet Gethsemane is in full sight ; Still, still unloose thy nightingales, to bear Song s bleeding testimony, it has might, The world to bless, if it can ease despair. 30 Jn a Portuguese <>atDert VI Although our ways awhile have lain apart I have not lost thee, Sweet: I go my way Holding thee dear as Aphrodite, may Feeling the grace of thy serener heart. My thoughts keep pace with thee, where er thou art I know with what high rapture thou wilt stay To watch the golden-hearted lilies sway And see the blushes on the hawthorne start And so thou art still mine ; I follow thee Seeing thee not ; Yet when soft gusts of rain Tangled with sunshine, borne from off the sea Shall wet thy cheek, ere it has dried again However dull with weeping I may be I shall feel April in my every vein. Kn a Iportugue0e (SarDen si VII I know not Sweet, nor do I seek to know Wherefore thou sets this April day apart If kneeling at some shrine thou bar st thy heart In adoration or to ease its woe If tears of rapture or of anguish flow But whichso er it be, I know thou art Feeling the might of Spring, needing no chart To lead thee to its earliest flowers that blow : I pray thou be exalted as on wing The swallows are, and that thy soul may share In the mysterious melody of Spring And of its lilies, thou the one most fair How should st forget that every living thing Must breathe, neath Crown or Cross the Christ breathed air. 32 Jn a Portuguese Garden VIII Or if thou goest not forth, but calm and still Shall at thy window watch the sunset hour And see the West burst into splendid flower Spreading the heavens like a vast daffodil And with the glory of it brim st, until Thy happy tears shall fall in sudden shower Though in another continent, some power Would bear me into weeping, at its will. For as to desert, sound of waters flow, I can sometimes when listening, hear divine The music of a far off rhythm, I know Is beating hither from thy heart to mine And hold thee still, for were Pan s reed to blow What tunes it played, were less to me than thine. a ortiiiie0e arDen 33 IX Or in the ineffable sweet charm of June When butterflies shall drift above thy hair With its pale gold, their pinions to compare And thou seest filmed up on the sapphire noon The silver wraith of the unrisen moon And through the haze of heat, adown the air The zenithed sun its lute-strings shall declare If thou hear st then their silence pulse to tune I in some lonely dell, although remote, With the soft sunshine shimmering on the ground Shall hear the same soft measures, note by note In murmurs indistinguishable around And while the butterflies above me float Who cannot lose thee, in the noontide drowned. 34 3n a Portuguese Thou lookest forth on Summer and seeing gleams Of sky, and sea, and grass, and shining dew, And roses, and the sun, whose red they drew. Thou hast the fabric for a thousand dreams. Thou turn st to Winter and when sapphire streams Across the snow until it reeks with blue, Watching and sighing as it fades from view, Behold the mirror of thy soul redeems. Worship thine ^Eschylus and all the old, Illustrious Greeks whom thou hast loved and read ; Thou hast swept high, nor let ideals grow cold, And Nature s very self interpreted. Keep of thy hyacinthine dreams fast hold, The gods have dowered thee, though gods are dead. a Portuguese (DarUen XI Or shouldst thou pluck those nurslings of the skies The Autumn gentians that in shadows hide And wear them with the sunshine glorified A sudden gladness would my heart surprise And from to-morrows I should turn mine eyes And things of yesterday should set aside And the new gladness with the old allied Would set as corner-stone of Paradise For into Music s exaltations sent From some far peak I hear thy throbbing lyre Within whose soul such visions vast are pent Whose blood with Beauty s wine is so on fire ; With less for thee, I should not be content Than the full heavens that the high gods aspire. 36 an a Portuguese XII The Autumn s shadow-haunted sunshine lies Trembling upon the sycamore trees, that show Myriads of seeds, within whose delicate glow The shining bloom of coming April lies ; Thou brought st a broken branch to point its dyes Oh best beloved, to me, who fain would know The secret, hidden in all the things that grow Of that mysterious power that never dies. Ah, it is dreamers, Sweet, that hear like thee The million frozen murmurs neath the snow And send them into measures wild and free That with the winged seeds through the ether go Sailing the universe, until it be The unborn blossoms into lyrics blow. a Portuguese (garden 37 XIII And though the winds that blow thine hair are cold, Thou watchest still, while paler sunsets shine, And the undazzling noons, November s sign No longer blaze up with their fires of gold Thou seest the naked trees and sodden mold And yet still holdest Nature s heart divine And makest it, so exquisitely thine Its mystic changes on thine own are scrolled. For dead leaves matted in the ways forlorn Not dead leaves are to thee, but bridal bed From whence a rose some iridescent morn Ablush with June, will lift its radiant head: And thou sing st on, despite the wild-flowers gone Not of what is, but what shall be, instead. 38 Un a Portugum <>arDen XIV The Winter days go all unheeded by In ruthless order, while thou sit st alone In an enchanting Summer of thine own, Dreaming perchance of mystic shores that lie Kissed by the transcendent Nile, or birds that fly Flaming through Lesbian air, or, tropic blown, Stretches of lilies, swept by warm winds, grown Into white crested seas that, lute souled, sigh. Ah Sweet, I cannot follow thee in flight Whose rainbow visions are forever nigh. I can but watch thee as thou cleav st the light, Winging thy way the Sun s heart to descry, And listen as thou shakest from thy height The everlasting music of the sky. Jfn a Portuguese <2>atDen 39 xv But not alone when the day s pageants woo Thou art inspired, Sweet, but when the night Like a great sable butterfly in flight Trails its mysterious wings across the blue And one by one, thou see st the stars prick through And the red moon climb up its scarlet height Then thou so smitten with rapture at the sight Turnest to heaven, thy winged thoughts to pur sue . And we who read thy verses martial flow, Are onward borne as at a drum-beat s sign And feel the red moon s efflorescent glow And, see, in fire of some majestic line In the horizoned splendor dropt below, The rings of planets and the Pleiades shine. 40 3n a Portuguese Garden XVI The storm-racked wind is blowing o er the trees Shaking their naked branches into threat Fierce-voiced as if it held the world s regret And its immeasurable agonies. I know not if thou see st it lash the seas And art with a vast restlessness beset Or if, calm-souled, thou hear st not their fret And weav st thy rhymes, fanned by a Summer Breeze. In that dream-held elysian region, far From wind, and storm, and seas, and threats of ill, Thou dwellest, shining like a flowering star Striking out music from the heavens at will And in some golden strain, some magic bar Will the stars lyric destiny fulfill. 3n a Portuguese Parpen 41 XVII Thine eyes, Beloved, turn from material things, Dear, happy eyes, like gentians in the sun Cloudless as skies when Summer has begun That see in common air the glint of wings To thee, the clamor of the city brings No joy, but sight of some great cloud o er run With deeps of purple when the day is done Bears out thy soul beyond the rim it clings Lonely thou art, though in the crowded street. Lonely like that transcendent flower that grows On Alpine Peak. Thou hear st, through deaf- ning beat Of gathering noise that on around thee goes Strains wafted through Olympia, it is meet Thou, Sweet, shouldst roam, who wearst the Pierian rose. 4# 3n a Portuguese harden XVIII Singer and Dreamer, that watchest day by day The world s great movements, hearing praise and blame , Accorded creeds, and noting sunrise flame Of larger thought smiling thou turn st away From Time s events, more clearly to survey Men who have shaped them, daring to make claim If to untangle continents their aim They would restore them each to olden sway : And yet with mighty things so intimate I wonder not, O Singer, thou should st turn, Other than vanished dynasties to rate, Who canst with vision of the Seer, discern, The ageless Sphinx that sits at Egypt s gate Is less a marvel, than the Spring s return. Jn a Pottugue0e harden 43 XIX I know not what thou dreamst these heavenly days If of the nightingales that sing afar Upon the Roman hills or of some star That trembles on the morning s chrysoprase. If of the sun-gods breathe, that blows the haze Bove the out-going ocean past the bar Or of his throned approach that leaves ajar The horizon s gates and sets the dawn ablaze. Nay, chance with none of these wouldst be con tent For, flaming with unreached ideals, thy soul Up-winging from its earthly battlement ; On some diviner height may read the scroll Writ in the Eternal s language, and be bent Only on dreaming of the perfect goal. 44 an a Portuguese xx And thou who holdst thine ear to heart of things, I envy thee, who knowst how all supreme Are Nature s secrets, and has-t power to dream, When Spring is not, the sound of blue-bird s wings, The brimming measure of the joy it brings, And canst to Winter s frozen soul redeem The mighty music of some rushing stream Wherein June lies in every tune it plays Yet though I also know thou must hear sighs Of dying summers, and the whir in air Of some last swallow as it outward flies I envy thee not less, who hast had share In the whole scale of knowledge, and hast grown wise Knowing infinities thou couldst ensnare. a Portuguese <$arDen 45 XXI Nothing can mar thy flights whose soul can wing The mystic kingdom that is only known Unto the music-visioned in it grown, For swarming silences that crowd the spring And sighing of its lilies, south winds swing Thou canst make audible in ways thine own And in some lyric measure can enthrone Passion, that noontides to the Summer bring Therefore because this golden gift is thine, I wonder not that through thy verses stream Rapture-like swish of waves with light ashine ; Nor that, while I am reading them, I seem To hear the ocean rush through every line, Who hast transfixed therein its soul supreme. 46 3n a Pottugue0e XXII Thou mak st the place wherein thou dwellest fair Lending it grace like a consummate flower And though ofttimes alone, yet hour by hour Amid thy books, boldest communion rare Chance with Theocratus, and breath st the air In which the high gods dwelt, and feelest power Of those immortal Greeks, whose thoughts still tower And to the world, thought s deathlessness declare. And when I see thee with thy head low bent Seeming to listen to a murmurous sound Born in thy soul, like intimation sent From April to its wild-flowers in the ground I know, who catch a violet s faint scent The Spring song that eluded thee, is found. 3n a Portuguese <arDen 47 XXIII Minstrel that hear st above life s sounding sea A voice ethereal luring thee to wings, That like a sunrise-lark continual sings Till thou art drowned in thine own ecstasy, Drown, drown in it, for though thou chance may st be Chained like a galley slave to common things, Though troubled by the wounds life, sharp- fanged brings Nor chains nor deadliest wounds can vanquish thee. Oh, music-hearted whatever may befall, Athrob with passion of divine unrest, Even Death s scrutiny cannot appall, With that consummate rapture in thy breast. Some day, o er flooding it will break its thrall And bear thee surging out, beyond the West. 48 XXIV Mating with nature thou hast learned to know The secret solitudes of forest ways And winged thyself with the wild wind that plays The mountain bugles and the reeds below; Hast stood on sands where pinks faint blushing grow And looking at the sea, that surging flays The circling shore hast seen how it obeys The everlasting tides that ebb and flow. Thou hast made Beauty s radiant soul thine own ; Canst shine with planets, with the sun up-leap And, wind-winged, over mountain tops hast flown And hast outraptured in thine upward sweep All music, save the Eternal undertone To which thou singst beloved, as deep to deep. Jn a Portuguese (Stamen 49 xxv And sweeter even than the soft despair That aspens, silvering in the summer sun, Thrilled by the rays that from its gold heart run, Melodious shake upon the rose flushed air Thy songs are for the dead: Witness they bear To thine exhaustless love, as one by one I seem to hear in every verse begun Thy dropping tears, drop from the measures there ! Oh nightingale divine lamenting, lo Thou has shaped fair with classic grace thine own A monument of lyrics, that will show She still lives on, into thy music grown Whom Spring crowned as another Spring, and so Will, long as daffodils shall bloom, be known. 50 3n a Portuguese (garden XXVI Dear Sapphic Singer with thy gentian eyes, What holds thee captive through these perfect days ? For often cross the morning s chrysoprase I hear a tune divine as that which lies In bosom of a star, athrob to rise. And know it thine! What other could appraise The hidden music of the upper ways, And snatch it, snatch it golden from the skies? It is with melodies that in thee grow Thou art held captive, and not thou alone, For always, always I can hear them flow Into that pulsing sea whose undertone On-swelling through infinitudes may go Mighty with mighty music of the throne. a Portuguese (gattien 51 XXVII Captive in radiant castle of thy dreams, The freedom of the universe is thine. For thou hast winged thyself out past the line Into the unknown vast, upon which streams The light ineffable whose dazzling beams Point through the purple distance, to where The jasper gates of song wherein divine, The amethystine air around thee gleams. Why shouldst regret the summer drifting by Who can make deathless something that it bore, Some passion flower, or gold-winged butterfly, Or sunrise, smoking on the Eastern shore, Why, O Beloved, shouldst for summer sigh, Who can bring summer into bloom once more? sa 3n a Portuguese (garden XXVIII I may not hear thee singing in the vast, So dull mine ears, but some white flowering moon May bring the haunting cadence of a tune That on the twilight s opal thou hast cast, I may not hear, too far beyond thee passed, But this my tribute, as a rose marks June, As blushing coral signals a lagoon, Song, sweet, is thine insignia, first and last ! For spring is thine where hyacinths never die. Thou art enwinged thou art a meadow lark ; Thou art a dweller in the upper sky, That brushing sunrise, or a rainbow arc, Art so ablaze with scarlet ecstasy Thou dropst thy fire of music spark on spark. a Portuguese (garden 53 XXIX In castle of thy dreams hast thou not found Some place where we could ponder well, as they Who know the heart of song, is there no way That we can take to conquer time and space And sweep forever onward in the race Until we melt to music, as a sound Melts into glory of the air around? Are not the souls of things, the souls that stay The things imperishable for which we pray? Holdst thou not key to song who art song crowned? And yet I hold belief the eternal flows Into the singer with the song, Sweet, And that some coming lyric will disclose, So near, so near to Heaven thy wings may beat, The golden rippling of its air that blows The golden rhythm of its seraphs feet. 54 an a Portuguese atDen xxx August has come with its mysterious mist, Thou lover of the summer, all too soon Who sangst so little time ago to June, Holding high carnival, when it had kissed Its first born rose ; and to the amethyst That drowned its suns ; and to its orange moon, Whose rays, lute phantomed, gave forth tune on tune The fireflies flashing by could not resist ! Yet thou wilt sing, although the rose be fled Sing on, because thou hast the soul of flute ; And thou wilt watch the vapors swim o erhead, With the strong sea winds blowing, in pursuit, And sudden, seeing the universe blush red, And the gauze wrecks burn by, how canst be mute? a Portuguese <$ar&en 55 XXXI And ere thou knowest summer will be gone And melodies ethereal, note by note, From souls of pines will down the immenses float And then be into new immenses born: And thou wilt see the splendor of the morn Melt into gaugeless blue, and hear, remote Down from the sun s heart, from an eagle s throat The revelation of its superb scorn: And still, still singing, swirling airs o erhead Will bear thy songs out past the banking flame, And it will echo on, till time is dead : Ah, unto thee, whose heart the spring s might shame, What matter when the summer s days are told, Who canst eternities of transport claim? BOOK III HEXAMETERS TO A DREAMER OF HIGH DREAMS YOUTH in thine own youth triumphant, who hast heard life like a siren, Luring thee on through the mornings, on through the daisy-crowned valleys, Over which butterflies shimmer, on through the lily-blown meadows Over which larks break to singing on through the outstretching highways, And through the wild-rose lit byways, up to the summits of mountains, Breasting the sun at the noontides, down on the shore silver shining Watching the moon climb the sea, hast thou not grown to the knowledge, However complex creation, Thought nor e en Science can answer Wherefore from wombs of abysses, planets and stars to the sky-fields New-born shall leap into shining, hast thou not grown to the knowledge Infinite beauty pervades it, Infinite Love over looks it, Infinite Love underlies it, and hast not then thy soul risen Risen as winged like an eagle, up and still up through the ether, 59 6o 3fn a Pottugue0e Till at a breath from Jehovah, thou knowst where fore thy being, Wherefore the thoughts that uplifted, wherefore wast made in His image, And that aspiring divinely only to heights that are gaugeless, Only to beauty eternal, growing as part of cre ation, Intimate with the immenses, hearing the winds and the waters, Calling to thee as replying to thy soul s high im- ploration For the supreme flower of wisdom, still with the silent voice calling If hast through self-abnegation, climbed to the truths that are deathless Building a "holy of holies," vaultless and vast as forever Thou through the breath that was blown thee Manifold miracles shown thee, if thou shalt walk forth unspotted, Mayst become leader and prophet, through the Jehovah in thee. 3n a Portugue0e <gatDen ei TO A STAR SWEET, who in splendor of living hast thine own longing transcended Taught by the visions of poets, Milton and Dante and Homer Breathed the same ether the gods breathed, and their Olympia known How shall I dare to confront thee? Lost in the wastes of the desert What can I show thee to win thee, who can bring nothing but weeping? Will not from lightning within thee, dark of my being disown? Thou hast gained measureless knowledge, soared with the nightingales singing Listened and grown to, and joined in, rush of the fathomless ocean Taken thy place with the planets, intimate grown with the sun. What shall I show thee to win thee, thou with Immensities racing I, with my broken wings trailing, seeking to fol low and find thee Only this one rapture left me, triumph at goal thou hast won. Day by day growing diviner thou hast gained stature of sages Broken through infinite boundries into the infinite spaces a Melted to music above thee, borne nor from land nor from sea, What can I bring thee to win thee, I with my broken wings trailing? Yet if thou backward shall beckon, love that lies wounded, will heal me And from the heart of the desert, Sweet, I shall climb toward thee. Jin a J2ortugue0e <$arDen 63 A LETTER FROM A STAR NEWS from the mystic Immenses borne from the heavens unhorizoned, Sweeter than nightingale s transports, sheathed in the soul of a sunrise Quickens my soul and bears it up to where speech is forgotten Up to where visions ethereal, grow to divine rev elations Up to the center of ether blazing with breath of archangels That through the universe streaming circles in vast radiations, Bearing the rapture of ages, on to the rapture in thee. Swept on invisible pinions up through the fath omless azure Into the vaultless resplendence, thou shalt bear message from Eden Born in the bosoms of seraphs, filled with a mighty rejoicing Set to magnificent silence of the Ineffable s foot falls Thou hast borne message from Eden, that shall proclaim thee immortal ; All that is now, and that has been, thou shalt in fullness partake of. Knowledge of this world, the age of, and of the worlds that are ageless, a Pottugue0e Thou sha.lt partake of insatiate, till thou hast found the Eternal And through eternities, boundless, measureless triumph be thine. Golden abysses of sunshine, whirlwinds of flower exaltations They shall be thine to embathe in, when with Life s heat thou art fainting Winds that bear bloom to the Summer, thou shalt have strength to outride them Noontides that halo the mountains, thou shalt dream dreams to eclipse them All that now is, and that has been, Beauty incar nate of ages Beauty and knowledge and myst ry into thy soul shall be added Till in the splendor of promise, what thou hast grown to, shall wing thee And thou shalt out-pace the planets, rays of the sun shall out-dazzle And through the vast of Forever, mount to the Infinite breast. a ortuue0e (SarHen 6s A SUMMER FANTASY BREATHING the perfumes of wildwoods wafted on winds of the morning, Wooed from the dazzle of sunshine, into the violet shade ; Heard I the harps of the summer, nor could I listening discover, Mingling with splashing of fountains, drowned by the birds in the glade Smitten with music of aspens, what were the tunes that they played. Over the delicate mosses into a pathway elysian, Where in ineffable beauty star blossoms cluster ing grew, Wandered I, farther and farther, till in the heart of the forest, Into a silence exalted reaching aloft to the blue, Swept into measureless rapture, Spirit of Summer I knew. Never a crimson bird rustled, never a bee stung a rose leaf, Infinite stretches of azure motionless trees overtopped ; Noiseless the sunlight they filtered, mingled its gold with the shadows, 66 3n a Portuguese Noiseless the needles of pine trees into the radiance dropped; Down in the heart of the forest, even its beat ing had stopped. Then while I waited expectant, down from a mountain she called me ; Harp after harp she touched lightly as in her splendor she came ; Sudden the fountains gan splashing, crimson birds climbing the ether, Left on the sky as they neared it winging re flections of flame, And on the brims of the roses, bees sipp d their nectar the same. Spake I, thou canst not escape me, Summer, thou vision ethereal ; Thou art the fern leaf s resplendence trans fixed with dewdrops ashine; Thou art incarnate of music, harps of the uni verse playing; Thou art incarnate of silence, than all its tunes more divine, Thou art the earth s efflorescence, thou art the blush of its wine. Never again shalt escape me, thou art my cap tive forever; For at the altar of silence down in the violet glade Jn a Portugue0e <$arDen 67 was baptized in thy beauty, knew by that measureless rapture As thine invisible pinions swepst down from mountain to glade, Thou wert the harps and the harpist ; yea, and the tunes that were played. 68 3n a Portuguese <$arUen WINDS OF THE SUMMER WINDS of the Summer are blowing over the daisy- lit meadows, Tossing them, sprinkling the grasses, into a sea of white billows, Shaking the pink of the hawthorn into the sheen of the light ; Bearing the perfumes of roses out through the golden-lit spaces, Flirting their way through the forests, searching the flower-hidden places, Wings of the wild birds outstripping, tireless they go on their flight. Wandering o er vivid green lowlands, fanning the streams into ripple, Wafting the sun-flooded willows into enphan- tomed resplendence, Warm with the breath of the tropics, borne from the South and the West, Chasing from shore to the ocean, farther and still farther winging, Lured by the voices of sirens, down in its shining deeps singing, Feathering its spray into rainbow s kiss they the blue on its breast. 3)n a Portuguese (SfrarDen 69 Out from immensities calling, swept from beyond the horizon, Whispering low as they pass me, melodies never forgotten, Blow they from dazzle of mountains, down to the heart of the sea : Blow they, how far past the sunpeaks, Love has been winged to o ertake them Blow they from deeps in the sea s heart Love has known raptures that shake them Blow where they will, they but blow back souls of divine years to me. II Borne on the wings of a sunrise over the moun tains and valleys Rushing with rosy insistence into the white arms of day, Greeted by chorus of wild birds, bugled by mighty voiced waters, Summer the herald of beauty, Summer the happy souled virgin, Comes from the kiss of the Spring time, drop ping her flowers by the way. Fanned by the butterflies winging, lulled by the bees mong the lilies Shaking her hair in the noontides golden as fleece of the Sun. Gliding through silver of moonlights into the pur ple starred midnights, TO 3n a Portugue0e Summer the herald of beauty, Summer the happy souled virgin Dreams, while her own crimson currents into the roses hearts run. Breathing the breath of the south wind tranced with the sky s yearning azure, Child of the Summers, since chaos, clad in divine- ness as they Hearing the echoes of music piped forth by Pan since creation, Summer, the herald of beauty, Summer the happy souled virgin Comes with the songs of the ages, singing them all on her way. Ill Down past the golden-lit meadows, rivers are languorous murmuring, Out from the deeps of the forests, breath of the pine trees is blown, Clouds of the morning are rose drenched, noon tides are swooning with silence, Day dreams have silvered the daisies, starlight has flowered to azaleas, I can hear Summer s voice clamor why art thou silent, mine own? Buttercups toss in the sunshine ; cloud shadows float o er the grasses ; Hills like a necklace of sapphire lie on the breast of the sky ; Jtt a Portuguese atDen 71 Lured by the trumpet flower s color, humming birds thither are darting; Leaves with the light overladen, quivering are borne into music; I can hear Summer s voice clamor can I the Summer deny? IV Onto my soul, quick with longing, Art thou, I cried out, a craven? Hark to the million voiced chorus calling thee forth from the night! Borrow the wings of the lightning, mount up aloft like the eagle; Thou hast been drunken with sorrow, drink thou to-day of the glory; Thou has been vestured in sackcloth, wrap thy self round with the light. Shake off the chill of the grave-damps, thou shalt be captive no longer; Make thyself part of the ocean rushing in might to the shore, Learn thou its undertones rapture; sweep with the winds o er its vastness ; Compass the heavens with thy daring; outride the sun in its coursing; Wheel with the stars in their orbits ; thou shalt be trammeled no more. 72 Jn a Portuguese Speed o er the purple of sunsets faster than clouds in their sailing; Speed in the arms of the Summer up to earth s uttermost height ; Thou shalt discover life s secrets, for thou art born of Jehovah ; Thou hast been drunken with sorrow, thou shalt be drunken with glory ; Thou hast been vestured in sackcloth thou shalt be winged with the light. flit a Portuguese arften 73 TO AN OCTOBER SOUTH WIND SOUTH WIND, o erladen with perfume, blown from the damp of the marshes, Drifting out over the ocean, lying in measureless rest, Thou who elusive and free wert passionate soul of the summer Breath that awakened the wild rose, springing to bloom on its breast, Hast thou, the summer lamenting, come, of the summer in quest? South Wind, in vain thou wilt search through torches that flare in the forests And through the sublimate sunshine flaunting its gold on the ground ; Thou mayst search blaze of the hilltops, sylvan dells hidden in valleys, Yet, though the soul of the summer, since from the summer unbound, Thou mayst wing uttermost places, summer will never be found. South Wind, October is flinging banners exultant to hail thee, Thou, who canst sport with the cloud hosts, glitt ring o er land and o er main, Canst thou not, past the horizon, bring through its purple enrimming 74 3Jn a }portugue0e garden Out from the luminous silence, what I have lis tened in vain Voice of unspeakable rapture borne from Love s infinite plane? 3n a Pottugue0e LAMENTATION "For there is none among men whom Zeus appoints not and wills to unmeasured ills." Mimnermus, 620 B.C. DOWN through the ages are rolling infinite woes of the people ; Sound of the measureless weeping, drenching the earth since creation, Louder than wails from the sea s womb that in perpetual travail Prest with its neverborn undertone sobs in its consummate anguish, Out of the pits that ye live in born of the outcasts of Eden, Monarchs of agonies mighty crowned with the blood sweat of living, Come forth, O mortals, and listen clad in the ashes of mourners For till in grave damps ye molder, hiding ye cannot escape it. For ye are part of the chorus swelling the vast lamentation Mad to discover the secrets nailed up in coffins forever, Stung with the fangs of remembrance poisoned with impotent longings, Writhing with passions of music strangled to discord in utterance, This is the doom ye inherit, scourged with the scourge of the Human, 76 3n a Portuguese This is the doom ye inherit, clad in the ashes of mourners, While with the universe battling, though with but death to be victors, Ye shall increase the vibrations borne from de spairs of the millions. Reeking with black desolation into the chaos of meanings Ye shall hurl cries of your torments, as from the still undelivered ; This is the doom ye inherit, born of the outcasts of Eden, Tissues of souls shall be tested till they are strained to their utmost; Ye shall dig pits that ye live in with the swords drawn from your vitals ; For ye are monarchs of agonies crowned with the blood sweat of living, And ye shall never know triumph till ye are loosed from Time s fetters, And ye shall never know rapture till in Eternity s bosom. 3ftt a Portuguese (SatDen 77 A RHAPSODY LISTLESSLY watching the Pleiades breasting Night s ebb tide superbly, Lo in the east came hint of the sun ; and the soul of the morning Swept into mine like an eagle, and with its jubi lant courage Down from the winds I drew joy of the hills ; and the breath of the daisies Lifted me upward exultant ; and what had held me in bondage I in the swirl of morning forgot ; and I broke loose from Sorrow, Saying: "Ye chain me no longer, for I am winged with the summer; Yea, and am drunken with glory of day, for like wine in its foaming Red with the bubbles of sunrise, beaded and spar kling I quaff it. And I am whirled through the air like a bird, and I hear in the spaces Voices of murmuring rivers swelling to articula tion, Till in the rush of seas I rejoice; and the sky and the mountains However distant I scale them, nor can the white clouds outsail me; For behold I can speed with the light, and the universe round me 78 3n a Portuguese Melts to the universe in me." Soul, O my soul pierced with Morning, Sight of the sun is less than thou cravest ; for with measureless longing Thou hast outridden the Pleiades and swept past Night of lamenting; Yet, though thy rapture of wings has been brief, thou hast outgrown the eagles. 3n a Portuguese (garPen 79 FREE SOUL, I have broken my fetters, Summer has lent me its pinions, And with the winds I am sporting, sweeping the harps of the forests, And with the clouds I am sailing azure that edges the sea ; Breasting its rainbow-capped billows, hearing its undertone s secrets, Breaking out past the horizon into the infinite vastness. Soul, I am reckless with Summer ; Soul, for to day I am free. I can hear soundless vibrations, rising and falling like music, Making the sublimate silence splendid with rap ture of rhythm, For I am one with the noontide and with the glory to be, One with the sun at its zenith; I am ablaze with its shining; I can look down on the hilltops, mount up out stripping the eagles. Soul, I am drunken with Summer ; Soul, for to day, I am free. so 3ln a Portugue0e What though to-morrow I go back, torn from the measureless glory, Back to the pit of the human, clad in the vesture of sorrow, Sailing no more o er the azure, breasting no longer the sea? I have known transport of pinions, and though the Summer deny me Anguish that slays me shall wing me, nothing shall hold me in bondage. Soul, I shall still traverse kingdoms ; Soul, I have learned to be free. 3in a Portuguese <SarDen si TO THE EAGLE EAGLE that mountest exultant searching the uttermost places Making the motionless silence quiver with rush of thy pinions, Winging the golden rimmed mornings, sailing the purple lit twilights Plunging through glory of noon-tides into the day, snowy blossomed, Beating out past the horizon, racing with clouds as they run Breasting the solitudes virgin, circling o er fore heads of mountains Hovering the shadows abysmal gathered in fis sures and chasms Light from thy bladed wings spilling over the tops of the forests Stern and majestic and regal, never a bird to approach thee Hast thou no pang at thy loneness, listening to heart of the sun? Never a bird to approach thee all the magnifi cence hidden Knowledge of sublimate grandeurs, millions of marvels primeval Traces of volcanic splendors, tracts of impass able ridges 82 3n a }g>ortuguege Hast thou no longing to share them, hast thou no longing to show them? Never a bird to approach thee, never a listener won Too high aloft from the meadow murmurs to hear of the wild bees Exquisite sighs of the hy cinths breathed at the kiss of the sunshine JEolian stir of the grasses, silver regrets of the aspens Or the divine breasted river heaving its tides into singing Hast thou no pang for thy loneness listening to heart of the sun? Eagle that mountest exultant in the fierce joy of thy daring Thou art not conqueror wholly, for while with battling winds wearied Cradled in crag of a boulder up through the blush of the sunrise Up, through the tangles of rainbows dazzling the dawns of the springtime Rises a lark that transfuses all its soul s infinite passion Into aerial flamed raptures, till the whole heav ens are o er run : Thou who hast circled o er forests, swept o er the foreheads of mountains, Hovered o er shadows abysmal beaten out past the horizon Jfn a Portuguese <$ar&en ss Hast not the lark overcome thee? How shall thou call thyself conqueror Who hast not broken the blue through, with a supreme exaltation? In the fierce joy of thy daring, never a bird to approach thee Always in upper air sailing, always alone in thy triumphs, How shall thou call thyself conqueror, who hast not swung into rhythm Who hast not swung into rapture, listening to heart of the sun? 84 an a Portuguese (garden MEMORIAL DAY MARCH to the graves of our soldiers, ye who were with them in battle, March, too, at sound of the bugles, ye of the new generations, And in divinest remembrance crown them with lilies of May ; Ye, who were born into freedom, ye, who are heirs to their glory, Honor the dauntless who went forth, wakened from youth s golden dreaming, And the one blot on our country, washed with their life s blood away. Pillowed on heart that they loved so, rest they in slumber unbroken ; Snows of the winters have hushed them, winds of the summers caressed them, Warm, as to kiss back the wild flowers, spring s tears above them have rained; Yearn, O ye sunrises, o er them they gave re lease to the captives Burn, O ye stars, as rejoicing they are enrolled with the mighty Victors who died for love s proving, and a new country attained. 3n a Portuguese <g>arDen 85 March to the graves of our soldiers, march with your crownings of lilies ; Voices of love cannot reach them yet, though they sleep on unheeding. Millions unborn will proclaim them, ages their fame will increase ; Blow forth, ye bugles, the message they were our country s redeemers ; Blow forth, O bugles, the message, they are be loved of Immortals : It was not Death overcame them it was the Angel of Peace. 86 3n a Portuguese <$arBen THE LIVING TO THE DEAD MEMORIAL DAY COMRADES that fell in the battle, we, whom we camped with, remaining, Stand in spring s passionate sunshine decking the graves where ye lie Listening to fife and to drum beat, as when ye once marched beside us, And in yon heaven we salute you, comrades that never can die. Out from the peace of your households, crowned with the splendor of manhood, Answering the call of your country, holding its sunrise flag high, Wielding your swords gainst oppression struck ye undaunted for freedom, And in yon heaven we salute you, comrades that never can die. Ah, ye had love that was greatest, yea, ye were slaughtered to prove it, And through the long generations, none shall your glory deny ; Brothers of Christ in your purpose, brothers for ever beside him, Lo ! in yon heaven we salute you, comrades that never can die. In a Portuguese (fcarDen 87 PEACE FROM the bugles that called to the battle, and the thud of the armies tread ; From the murderous swords uplifted, with their sharp blades running red; From the agonized cries of the wounded, and horses, trampling the dead Lo ! the sudden release of the White Dove of Peace and the blue of the Summer o erhead. From the hidden mines awful explosions, and cannons thundering boom ; From the bloody waves drinking the dying, and the running of Hell s vast loom : From the nations enwrapt in conflict, and their rulers enwrapt in gloom Lo ! the sudden release of the White Dove of Peace and the lilies of Summer a-bloom. From the lion-souled patriots fighting no grim- ness of Death could appall ; From the mothers that went forth unweeping, and gave to the Country their all, With desolate hearts as of Rachel, and stony despairs, as of Saul Lo ! the sudden release of the White Dove of Peace and the whole world held in thrall. 88 Jin a Portuguese garden From the bugles that called to the battle blow pasans to East and to West That shall reach the Earth s lowliest valleys from mountains supremest confest, That shall gladden the souls of the angels, in the music of angels expressed, For the sudden release of the White Dove of Peace, that was winged from Jehovah s breast. BOOK IV EDWARD THE SEVENTH AND OTHER THRENODIES EDWARD THE SEVENTH AN ODE ENGLAND, bend low bove thine exalted dead ; A sovereign messenger of Peace has passed Thy royal guarded gates, and through them led, With his unsandaled feet, thy kingly King. Into the Vast, He went forth with the panoply of spring Blazoning around him, not to martial sound Of bugle or of drum, but wrapt in hush profound, In the magnificence of death laid down Scepter and crown For a new dwelling in a new domain, In a diviner realm to reign. What gifts hadst thou, O England, to compare, No measured country his to share, But the illimitable sweeps afar, Reached, star by star, Where the Eternals are: O England, bid thy nightingales sing low, Sing low, sing low, thy King asleep, And bid the winds that o er the hawthorn blow And cross the heather sweep No more the harps of spring to wake But into requiems of silence go, Mighty as endless woe, Mightier than those chorused forth that thy whole Kingdom shake. 91 92 3n a Portuguese <$arUen ii Nation made desolate, Thy Peoples lamentations fill the air, But what of her, drowned in supreme despair, Thy Queen? How shalt thou even dare To seek to gauge the gulf of thy regret While she, with bleeding pangs unguessed, Sits, sword to hilt plunged in her breast? Lend her thy lion strength on which to lean, Pay to the King who ruled so well thy debt, Weep not, O England, for thyself, but for thy Queen, thy Queen. Ill England bend low ; thy King sleeps well With all life s honors and perplexments done, He sleeps, as in a spell: So let him sleep who has outsoared the sun ; So let him sleep in his transcendent rest, Who has met, breast to breast, The everlasting one; And wearing his insignia, why Ah why for him put sackcloth on? Plucking the flower of Immortality He went forth with the panoply of spring Blazoning around him, into the Vast God s Vast. and won 3tt a Portuguese <>atDen 93 A rank that only death could bring, Sublimer than of king And so sleeps well, England, lift up again thy mighty head Be comforted Thy King sleeps well, sleeps well why weep? Let the King sleep. LONDON AFTER THE KING S BURIAL THE King is dead he went from king s command The mandates of a Mightier to obey ; Out from the Abbey where in state he lay, Past mourning multitudes, that London spanned, Past crowned heads, princes, peers, and band on band Of guards and soldiers and enflowered display, Was borne to his eternal rest away, While a wild rain of weeping swept the land He went from cares of state, and war s alarms, From problems, doubts, and life s vexed harmo nies Into the rapture of eternal calms ; And summer, summer wraps the bed he lies, While in the royal hand may shine the palms They only pluck who wander Paradise. 3n a I>ortiigite0e Garden 95 ii The city s traffic is no longer stayed And clamorous noises, surging upward, ring Upon the air of summer thundering Like muffled din of distant cannonade : But howe er loud the brazen voice of trade, It will not summon back the flowering spring Or waken from his dreamless sleep the King Within his splendid mausoleum laid: The King, Victoria s son, who reigned so well, Who sought with power of Peace, to stay the rents That threatened foreign policies, and quell Mutterings of jealousies and discontents And calm and wise, as history will tell, With matchless skill untangled continents. 96 3n a Portuguese in Within the castle sits the widowed Queen, Wondering that Life s full tides should round her flow, Seeing the young and careless-hearted go Searching the ways for pleasure, caught by sheen Of rainbow d bubbles, in each passing scene, Who never yet have kissed the lips of woe, While she, with silent grief and head bent low Sits dropping down her heavy tears unseen. Sits, with new knowledge of Love s crucial creed, Not gained by lips of prophet, or of priest, The creed, wherein is written, that none may read "What of the coming day," how fair the East Sits crownless, crownless save for brows that bleed, Who yesterday sat with the King at feast. a Portuguese harden 9 r IV From off the shining crest of distant hills The summer zephyrs over London blow With a hot languor, moving to and fro The thick dense vapor that the city fills ; The great sun, through the smoke embankments, spills Its yellow light upon the streets below On crash and beat and roar and flare and show And juggernaut of greed, that grinding, kills. On brawl of commerce in the open mart On steaming atmosphere that films the land, And hides St. Paul s magnificence, in part, On saddened crowds, that silent thread the Strand, And London in a swoon, with thudding heart Seeming to reel and sway, as built on sand. 98 3n a lS>ortugue0e <>ar&en The Abbey reached, London s cathedral tomb, The rain begins to fall, thick as the tears Of all the mourners of the vanished years Whose dead are lying in its massive womb. I wander past, and in the gathering gloom Half envy those, who know, nor hopes, nor fears Nor burning stings of Grief s relentless spears, Oblivious alike to blight or bloom ! Sudden the sun again and boom and flow And maelstrom that the city compasseth ; And with a rush of flooding life, I know How vast its tides, how wonderful its breath, And winged with flame that leaps within me, go Sailing through air, where nothing dies but Death. Jn a Portuguese ar&en 99 VI London behind, with smoke and gloom and glare With all its pageantries and changes done, I watch the lakes, whose waters silent run Hushing to rest the hills embossed there : The skies, an ecstasy of azure wear, And swirls of purple, from the ground begun Swim from the heather, upward toward the sun Into divine effulgence of the air Nor can escape from Death for near, one lies, Above whose poet heart the wild flowers spring Who recks not, of the sun, or lakes, or skies, Or hills, whereon the larks regretting, sing, Or that, the air of London reeks with sighs, Or that, on England s bosom, sleeps a King. ioo Jn a Portuguese ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE DEATH, thou hast brought on thy pinions noise lessly down from on high Scope for this mighty-voiced minstrel, scope for the singer of raptures. Up past the stars massive chording; up past the swirling of planets Into the infinite spaces where infinite ecstasies lie Into the infinite spaces, golden and sunlit and bright, Death, thou has brought him triumphant, scope for the passion of flight, Swinburne the mighty-voiced minstrel, Swinburne, the singer of light. Out beyond limits of England ; out beyond all the world s limits, Into the boundless Forever fanned by the music- blown air, He has seen flaming archangels, sun-crowned has joined in their chorus. He has seen song sweeps outstretching, golden and sunlit and fair. Into the song sweeps outstretching, golden and sunlit and bright, Death, thou has brought him transfigured, scope for the passion of flight, Swinburne the mighty-voiced minstrel, Swinburne the singer of light. 3ln a Portuguese (gartien 101 T. B. ALDRIDGE SOUNDLY he sleeps on Death s imperial bed, This lyric Poet, with his soul afar Shining exaltedly like some great star Caught from the breast of morn to Heaven o er- head. Climbing earth s dizziest height with fearless tread, Lo, from the peak he reached, nothing could mar His prophet vision, nor could sunrise bar His entrance, into where its rapture led ! Oh, Poet, who hast dreams empurpled worn, Halos of dreams sublimer round thee shine. Unto the Eternal heart of music borne Thou liest, who its rhythm could so divine, Calm browed and unperplext and while we mourn The mastery of Infinitudes is thine. 102 3n a Jportuguese RICHARD WATSON GILDER IN ether of divinest thought, he dwelt This silent singer, up, so near the sky That all the morning s ecstasy Into his being grew, Until within his veins he felt The liquid sunrise pouring through In rushing streams of golden fire that burned to Song: His soul was like a mighty harp, stringed with the light Perfect, as rays that thread the noon at Sum mer s golden height That sweet and strong Attuned to exaltations sent forth strains Ineffable as the melodious winds that blow The pines into aeolian regrets, Or that of tender April rains Kissing in their transcendent flow The opening lids of new-born violets ; Now deep and low, Now like the ocean s swelling undertone Whose massive diapason rolls, organed from zone to zone In solitude of mountain tops and streams That were familiar to his eager sight As clamorous in might As the wild thunders that above them broke The silences that filled the air awoke Innumerable dreams, That shaped to noble metres, sprang From line to line Magnificently on, and on, Until the goal of classic song was won ; Nor yet content, still on, and on, he sang, Drinking insatiate the imperial wine, From knowledge of the ages pressed, And giving wings To the mysterious immeasurable things, The chrysalis of genius could not hide That into vivid life resplendent flew Holding the world enthralled, while past the blue Into Creation s heaven of heavens they palpi tated through, Until with overwhelming tide Of overwhelming light, The apocalypse of song within his breast, The harp-strings snap d the music stopped and the pale singer lay In the full splendor of Eternal day. 104 3Jn a Portuguese harden JULIA WARD HOWE SWING out, oh gates of the sunrise, Wider with weight of the glory Borne from the infinite dazzle, Caught from the Throne and its lilies And from the pinions approaching, Winging toward light ye enclose Sing forth invisible choirs In a magnificent chorus, Led by the shining arch angels Rapture on rapture enharping, While into music s eternal Music s supreme flower goes. Wider, swing wider, oh gateway, Till e en to earth s blinded vision Press of the transcendent glory As of her joy to bear witness Down through the suffocate silence Drops like a kiss from on high. Listen, oh hearts that enheld her, And ye may hear in the distance Sweeping in exquisite sweetness Through the new heaven that enwraps her Voice of Jehovah s beloved Break, like a star through the sky. 3(n a Pottugue0e Parpen 105 Swing out, oh gates of the sunrise, Wider and wider and wider Until the whole heavens shall shine forth Like the apocalypse blazing And for a sublimate moment Rays whence it springs ye disclose, Neath which invisible choirs Sing in magnificent chorus, Led by the shining arch angels Rapture on rapture enharping, While into music s eternal Music s supreme flower goes. 106 3n a Portuguese arDen EDWARD EVERETT HALE DEATH, Love s high priest, upon Love s mission bent, Enwrapt this soul in a majestic calm And left him smiling with the mystic charm To the Immortals by the Immortals lent. Out through the silent gates, behold he went, Unknowing aught of shrinking or alarm, Led onward by the Eternal, palm to palm, Into another, fairer continent. Oh, mighty one, Apostle of the light, Dreamer of earth for Earth all too divine, Thou wert baptized in heavenly joy and light Ere thou hadst winged beyond the boundary line And into glory of the Infinite Hast taken thy place with cherubim ashine. 3n a {Portuguese Parpen 107 ALBERT LAIGHTON, POET HE lent his ear, this Singer whom we knew, To murmurous secrets of the Summer air, And in a verse, the while, the South winds blew. Transfixed them, unaware. He made the Sea s eternal voice his own, And from its everlasting music wrought A sublimated measure, arteried through, With golden flame of Thought. And then he vanished, like a sunrise glow: But the South winds he heard, still blow divine, And the sea s rapture at its Tidal flow, Lives, in some magic line. And all the secrets of the upper air That only to Immortals can belong, He long since learned, whom Genius Crowned fair, With the white flower of song. 108 jn a Portuguese A. P. HE touched the countless chords of Life, and played So wondrously upon its complex keys That ere we knew, sprang forth strange har monies And bar by bar the perfect song was made; Great thoughts inspired him, and he essayed From their fair fields the fairest flowers to seize, And taught by Beauty, listening its decrees, His own divinest impulses obeyed. Nor do we question wherefore should he go, For they who climb the summits, breathing air They unseen breathe, who all Earth s secrets know, Are shining marks for Death Death found him there, And to the masters he had loved below Led him still higher, their Heaven of thought to share. Jin a Portuguese harden 109 THE SINGER G. C. L. HE went, like a lark springing, morning to breast In a glory enwrapt, with his face to the sun ; With a song on his lips he had only begun ; By the music within him divinely opprest, From the rapture of singing to rapture of rest. He gave to the world, borne aloft to song s crest In measures from stars in the Pleiades caught The sublimities lyricked from vast of his thought ; Then went, like a lark springing, morning to breast From the rapture of singing to rapture of rest. no Sn a Portuguese TOSCA LYON I A MEMORIAL SHE was so radiant when I saw her last With the strange rapture on her face they wear Whose aureoles are shaping in the air, I turned me to the east when she had passed, To see what shadow on the sun was cast, And then I knew her soul in light had share And that toward that dazzling otherwhere Her feet in glory shod, were travelling fast. And so I lost my heart to her that day As the dull things of earth lose hearts to Spring, And through the immeasurable bloom of May I search the sunny spots where wild flowers cling For some divinest violet hidden away She smiled upon in last year s blossoming. II ON HER PICTURE TAKEN IN EGYPT WHAT dreamed this flower of flowers in that strange land Where Pharaohs reigned and where they lay at rest In splendor of barbaric jewels drest? What were her fancies as she stretched her hand To pluck the leaves by tropic breezes fanned? Kn a Portuguese harden in She looks as if she held within her breast Imperial secrets by the Sphinx confessed, And all the ages truths her eyes had scanned; Nay, more, she looks as if her soul had sight Of an Immense to which she might be won. Only, Love near, awhile she stayed her flight That still her happy heart was bent upon. So, knoweth now whence comes the Pleiades light; Yea, and can count the fires of Orion. 112 3n a Portuguese (gartien EMERSON MONO men he was a master; with his eyes Forever questioning Nature, he grew wise, The secrets of the Spring unraveling; And with its laughing rivers, laughed, And from the Springs of all the ages, quaffed The attar of their joy, and learned innumer able notes to sing From birds on wing, Till into music he could set The perfume of a violet And drew, from exhalations of its dew Into his rippling cadences, the rapture of its blue. Mong men he was a master ; and drinking deep From bosom of the heavens that o er him swept, Was nurtured on the spheres, and kept His soul attuned to their imperial sweep ; Yea, traveled with them, till his pace They could no longer keep, Then vanished into space, Up through the ether fine They only breathe who are divine ! But still the world sings, and it still will sing The song wherein the master set The rapture of the violet ; He cannot die, whose spirit caught 3n a Portuguese (gattten 113 The laughter of the streams ; And color of his unhorizoned dreams Into cerulean music wrought In kingly state He stands out, with the great, And this the message that the century gives, The master lives ! 3n a ^Portuguese THRENODY THE sun sprang forth to meet the golden day, The day we knew her first, too fair to die, And the glad April on its glittering way, Dropped violets from the sky. II With music of the ages all aflame, Raptured with jonquil splendors of the east, From near and far its voice transcendent came, Like the sky s soul released. Ill And listening to the melody supreme Too near the angels to have known regrets, A radiant child as in a radiant dream, Bloomed with the violets. IV child transfigured, who wert April s own, With nature rhythmic to its pulses swing, Up from the arms that held thee, thou hast flown Into the arms of Spring. 3n a Portuguese <$atDen 115 CIRCUMSTANCE HE was like lark climbing to some new height, Plunging the radiant shining ether through, That with exultant pinions sweeps the blue And sings to it ecstatic with its light: How could this high-souled dreamer turn from flight And to the illimitable, forsake the clew And the low levels of the earth pursue And be content with them, as swallows might? How could he for a "silver piece" betray His own high genius? nay, what time he bore Heaven on his breast, he had heard mighty play Of wings therein up-sweeping score on score, And so, with face turned East toward the day Listening th immortals, learned the way to soar. 116 an a Ipottugue0e (gattien MY SILENT SINGER HE was the fairest thing The April skies, all palpitate with blue, As if with violets abrim, Looked down upon ; And birds were won, Sweeping the sunrise fires to sing to him Who, gladdest of the sunrise visions knew, And whose young voice had ring Like laughter of the thousand streams, That, wakened from their wintry dreams, Ran, rippling to the sea ; Ah me, ah me! My little, star-eyed child That with the violets came, and smiled, And, with ineffable content, Smiled on and with the violets went. The spring winds, now, that blow And to the hills and valleys whisper low, Listen, in vain, to hear The music of his footsteps drawing near; The rippling laughter of the streams goes on ; But gladdest note from April s voice is gone ; And waves of sunshine golden drifting go, And, soundless, search the lily blooming ground, And, soundless, grow to rainbows on the mound Where lilies with the whitest petals grow, And birds with joy of spring aflame That come, each year, and sing the same ; 3fn a Portuguese (garden 117 Howso they sing, no more enthrall, For sweeter and diviner than them all I seem to hear, down through the ether fall A rapture scaping heaven, like his transcendent call. And though its sun s rays pierce and sting, Unto the April s heart I cling As to some living thing: For ofttimes from its shadowed eyes, As, grieving for the grief I cannot hide, Its warm tears rain upon the place where lies Its other self, who died; Its other self, denied To the whole world and me Oh, star-eyed child, God gave to thee, Who hadst outgrown thine earthly place, Death whose transfiguring grace Makes royal all the race. * * * * # # Thou sleepest well, my king; Thou sleepest well, my Spring-crowned spring. 118 3n a Pottugue0e MY MINSTREL A MINSTREL violin-voiced once dwelt with me Whose Soul, abrim with ecstasy of June, Was with all earth and all the heavens in tune ; And sang with birds that sang on every tree, And blew from dandelion s heart with glee, Where a gold sun had set, its fleecy moon, And chased the butterflies lit up with noon, And frolicked with the west winds, glad and free : He sprang out on the hills with laughter clear And sprang still on, the echoing laugh to meet And caught the foam of glad brooks tossing near, And trod the universe with flying feet The music of its millions notes to hear, And made, himself, the symphony complete. 3n a Portuguese atDen 119 ii Untired, the minstrel slept Memorial day; I could not keep him, at the bugle s sound, From leaping out to Death, that, sunrise crowned, Bore him, white limbed and beautiful, away. Hushed by the muffled beat of drums, he lay, Like one who in a happy dream had found The Universe he yearned in Eden s ground, And was content his flying feet to stay; Deathless is Death, for never through the years Have I forgotten the look his young eyes bore, As prescient, that they were not meant for tears ; Or the strange rapture of the smile he wore In that white dream, wherein he trod the spheres, But am importunate of Heaven, no more. 120 jn a Portuguese in Years melt to-day, to that one, when aflame With the hushed rapture of maternity Higher than calm, I was content to lie Cradling the radiant messenger that came To crown spring, doubly spring, whose earthly name I cannot whisper now without a sigh. Who was so strangely fair, naught but the sky Held paths divine enough his feet to claim; I know not, if the early March that year Was wrapt in warmth or winding sheet of snow ; I only know through the thin atmosphere I saw white lilies falling all ablow Yearning toward his heart, to mine so near, His heart that beat such little time below. a IV He saw the grasses growing on the hills Beckon his coming but a few short springs ; And through the sunshine watched upsoaring wings As if not strange their glitter, and heard rills And answered them, as one who but fulfills Impulse of nature and so heaven voiced sings ; And pondering, pondering mysterious things Vanished, one springtime, with the daffodils : It was, oh, long ago he came and went, Yet always when earth breaks to flowers, I see Up in the blue above me, sunrise rent, Not spring alone, but spring s epiphany Vision encrowned with lilies, as if sent To show, Love waits, beyond Gethsemane. 122 3n a Portuguese The Spring comes slowly on, as if to stay The flowers from opening at the south wind s kiss, Lest the young daffodils a-bloom should miss The child who used to watch them day by day, And wore them, journeying outward April s way Until he vanished through the blue abyss Into a world of goldener flowers than this ; And heeds not, nor can question Spring s delay : The rain falls, sobbing cadenced, to the ground, Dripping with woe, as if of all the years Since first it wet the grasses on his mound ; Ah, fitting heaven itself should drop its tears For thee, beloved, who wenteth forth, flower- crowned, And tookst thine April with thee, through the spheres. 3n a Portuguese harden 126 VI Taught by the bluebirds, to each morning s sun He sang, the music in his soul to free, And filled the days with matchless melody, Till the whole scale of rapture he had run ; Then, rapture hushed him, and his songs were done; But always when the first wild flower I see Across the Spring his voice comes back to me As if from silence he might yet be won : Weep on, O Spring ! Thy tears are all too fleet : Something divine is missing from thy breast And thou wilt hear no more the sound of feet That have through fields of shining lilies pressed, Or feel warm on thine own, my child s heart beat Who has so long so long been rocked to rest. 124 3n a Portuguese <$atUen VII Lured by the wonderment of spring, mine eyes Are lifted to the shining hills, whereon I looked rejoicing when thou cam st new won child, from arms of Heaven. The azure skies Are lit to-day with the same flooding dyes Flung eastward by that other sun, that shone, As my illimitable bliss to own Half on the earth and half on Paradise ; Fluttering of countless wings I hear again As in the past ; and hyacinths call to me, Clamoring the same, in their new bloom to reign ; 1 have unlocked my soul, and set grief free And bade the spring rush in ; but all in vain It is the old spring, not the new, I see. fln a pottugue0e <g>artien 125 VIII When the annunciation lilies wake And purple hyacinths break their perfumed sighs, Thy birthday comes, O child, whose radiant eyes Illumine heaven. Once more the near hills shake The sunshine to thy grave, and bluebirds wake Innumerable echoes as they rise And sing, as if to sing thee from the skies, And will not hush, howe er my heart may ache, Each year in earliest days of spring I dream Of that sweet time when first I welcomed thee, And of that other time thou caughtest gleam That lured thee into immortality. child, thou wert spring s miracle, supreme, What miracle but death s is left to me? 126 3n a Ig>ortii0ue0e harden IX Gay plumaged birds that come to greet the Spring While Spring is yet new born, always I sigh, As past the glittering, opal hills ye fly, For one who nevermore will hear you sing; Nor winds, whichever way they blow, can bring The music of his laughter from the sky, Or echoes of his footsteps drawing nigh That only now, through fields elysian ring Ah, as with rushing sound ye cleave the air, Scatt ring the gossamer radiance as ye go, What is it unto me that ye shouldst bear The sunshine on your wings, since never glow Will light to flooding gold his bright young hair, Or aught but wild flowers where he slumbers, show ? a Portuguese <$arDen ia r He held the lilies in his childish hand, Grown white in silent splendor of the Spring, And smiled on summer roses blossoming; As if his happy heart could understand Whence came the sunshine, and from out what land Came music of the birds who stayed to sing, He loved them so and slept at last, to swing Of rhythmic planets he had nightly scanned, He slept but woke to fairer flowers and light, And tuned to music all divine ; became An angel, sweeping in transcendent flight The chords of all the worlds ; yea, that whose name Is heaven ; woke into beauty infinite, A child immortal, but mine own, the same. 128 3n a Portuguese <$ar&en XI From out the silences thou earnest sweet, Enclad in music, Radiant as a star, Borne on the heart of springs that near and far Scattered white hyacinths with every beat, From off the scintillant hilltops warm and fleet, The sunshine trickled through the heavens afar. Nor faintest film hung in the air to mar The glittering pathway for thy pinions beat : Ah, crowding years can never dim the light, Transfusing all the earth and sky and sea Of that far spring, when lifted to the height Of gaugeless joy, oh child, I cradled thee, Thine eyes are holding Seraphim in sight Still seraph shining, looking forth, past me. Jn a Portuguese <arDen 129 XII Oh seraph child, thou wert not meant to stay But little while, the coming spring to meet, And unforgotten music of thy feet Breaks into quivering threnodies to-day. The scintillating hilltops cannot pierce their way To the vast scintillence of thy retreat; And though the wild white hyacinths I greet, The coming spring without thee seems astray ; I have implored but death will make no sign, Frigid it answered not to my desire; Yet sometimes list ning I could half divine I hear thy voice upsoaring from a choir; Its holy rapture, caught in dawn s gold line, Made audible in its transcendent fire. BOOK V SONGS OF THE CITIES IN AN OLD CHATEAU BRITTANY I FROM AN EASTERN WINDOW A FILMY sky with stars that pale and clear, Like flowering lilies amber hearted, shine, Then as elysian gathered, line on line From their elysian garden disappear; And rising thick, and stealing far and near Where nights spent fires and dawns new lit combine A turquoise smoke, their smoldering embers sign Empurpling the translucent atmosphere ; East born, a tender flush that spreads the blue, And deepening, deepening still to rapture grows, And Ocean shimmering lifted into view Stretched out majestic limbed in its repose; And on a phantomed disk half pricking through The scarlet heart of Morning s full-blown rose. 133 134 3n a Portuguese ii FROM A WESTERN WINDOW On the horizon s rim, a dauntless sun Wounded and bleeding, and yet holding place, Tossing his streaming hair with matchless grace, And all unbaffled, battling one by one The clouds that plunge and overwhelming run Across the sky, whereon still lingers trace Of his own dazzling course, in dazzling race For the emblazoned parapet, "just won." Wavering and swooning and half lost to view, Struggling as if his dying strength to test, The near hills watch him, from their deeps of blue, Drown, in a gulf of flame that floods the West, And lo, while watching, as if wounded, too, Have grown areek with Carmine, breast by breast. 31n a Portuguese Parpen 135 IN BRITTANY THE LAND OF MISTS SUNRISE TRAGIC enshrouded sun, unmask, and be Thine own deliverer ; for the strange pall That dense-meshed overhangs thee shuts out all The new born triumph of the dawn from me. While thou art struggling in captivity, The whole world, as if held in magic thrall, Seems listening for some transcendent call That shall be bugled upward from the sea: Eager I watch the veil that o er thee lies, Till by the salt-breathed tide mysterious strewn, Web after web of the torn vapor flies, Bannering the east with radiance all thine own, While thou, thou shin st on bosom of the skies Like an elysian daffodil, full blown. 136 3n a Portuguese <$arDen NOON The gorse is hidden blossoming by the ways, And fogs hang heavy on the breathless air, And nothing of the sun is seen save glare Of smoky saffron, smoking through the haze, Along Concarneau s water edge its rays Unsheathed a moment, lay the white sails bare, Then swift withdrawn, leave them enphantomed there, And the whole sea is blotted, while we gaze : But wait The wind upsprings, and fleet and fine A rosy tremor through the filming flies, And harbor, ships, and sea are all ashine; And in the middle of the noonday skies, Fired with its own resplendence, as with wine, The scarlet sun flares, stripped of its disguise. a poctugue0e SUNSET Oh, peerless Sun, superbly lingering yet, Slip not too soon into the arms of night ; Stay, and allegiance of the day requite With new magnificence ere thou shalt set ; The dew falls fast the eyes of flowers are wet, They weep for thee who art half hidden from sight ; Once more adown the west send thy full light And lift the twilight from its pale regret: Reckless, into a sea of liquid rose Thou plungest with thy golden bosom bare And swimmest onward till the waters close, And thou art drowned therein, who wert so fair ; While still across the horizon streaming flows The tangled splendor of thy glittering hair. 138 3n a Portuguese arDen EGYPT I EGYPT Oh land majestic and sublime, The living monument defying time Above dead cities set ; Where like a voiceless image of regret, As from humanity debarred The Sphinx with stony eyes keeps ceaseless guard, Thou standest like a Queen dethroned, Still mighty though disowned Looking with undimmed eyes, Without lamenting and without surprise Across the faded centuries, And seest the waters of the enchanting Nile Still in the sunlight smile, And hearest on eastern sands their music beat Serene as when they flowed at Pharoah s kingly feet. The pyramids that stand Like massive tents for the immortals planned Thine outposts line, And so mysterious in their grandeur seem, It is not strange that men to-day should dream Immortal armies in a hush divine Are waiting there some sign Thy secrets to reveal: Oh, Egypt, like a sovereign unseal Thy people s treasure, open wide and free Thy soul s gigantic tomb that we may see The vast magnificence therein, o er which have rolled, Burying resistless dynasties, aeons untold. What splendors still are thine what gems of art Lie crushed upon thy pulseless heart? Haughty and mute thou stand st yet while we own Prophetic message of thy marble lilies blown, We still shall call thee Queen, mighty though overthrown. Within thy breast Nations once powerful in silence rest, And sepulchers with many a royal guest, Where through the darkness shine, As if of love s supremacy the sign, Pictures of faces young and radiant-eyed, Who lived and loved and died Six thousand years ago And there the marble lotus-lilies blow, Sculpture by some dead hand as if to show While yet thy years were few, ere Christ s decree, Thy people hoped and longed for immortality. 3n a Portuguese harden ii TO THE EGYPTIAN SPHINX Thou, who hast through Ogygian aeons kept Thy calm lips sealed, who hast escaped, un- drowned The insatiate Sea of Time, what sight, what sound Can rouse, who ere the world was mayst have kept Thine ageless vigil, by despairs o erswept, And since then, chance in whirl of chaos, found, Upon the mighty heart of Egypt bound ; Wherefore, O Sphinx, hast thou unwakening slept ? Colossal mystery, when the world shall sway And into nothingness be crumbling sent, I wonder wilt thou still majestic stay With thy stone eyes upon the future bent, And scathless, though all else shall pass away, Be left behind, the dead world s monument ! Great baffling mystery of the centuries, Lion that crouchest changeless on thy throne As if to spring and rend from out the stone Thy mongrel impotence, canst thou not rise And to the woman s lips bring woman s cries? Must thou, with her superb resistance, own Thy snarling rage canst never be outgrown ; Must thou be beast beast till Time pitying dies? O tragic image of sublime despair, Wert thou all woman, by thine anguish led, Thou mightst break trance and crush the mon ster there And regal conquering reign alone instead ; Nay, thou might st to thy breast a soul ensnare, But wouldst be Sphinx, Sphinx, the lion dead? a Pottugue0e in MIDNIGHT IN EGYPT The midnight sleeps and into dreaming sinks, And the white moon, a lily newly blown, Leans, with a chaliced rapture all its own And radiant floods the immemorial sphinx The level plain, athirst with mystery, drinks The liquid ecstasy, and silver thrown The light, to a colossal chain has grown As pyramid with pyramid it links ; Not tombs these seem, but places wherein dwell Pharaohs that sleep, nor would it scarce surprise If they should rouse them from their frigid spell And swarthy browed, magnificent arise And come forth in barbaric gems, to tell Secrets of Egypt s crumbled dynasties. 3n a Portugue0e (garDett 143 LONDON AND GRASSMERE IN SUMMER I LONDON SNATCHES of sunshine and transcendent blue Twixt evanescent showers, and sudden sight Of the dim Abbey in a flood of light Lifted for one brief moment into view. The noises of the city booming through The smoke-enweighted air, in deafening might, The parks and squares and, winding, left and right, The river, old and yet forever new. A steadfast throbbing like an engine s beat Borne from the busy Strand, where on and on Come surging multitudes with hurrying feet, And in their very midst, pillowed upon Heaven s overhanging bosom, as is meet, The splendid obelisk of Wellington. 144 jn a Pottugue0e Twilight that lingering stays and stays, and Night Adown the murky ether sailing slow, And neath its shadow, dashing to and fro, Wheeling through crowded mazes, light on light Flashed here and there and then borne out of sight, The thud of horses feet and tidal flow Of human life, and fire and flame and glow Of London s midnight fever at its height. Music and drama and the silken sheen Of royal women, and with haggard eyes Gaunt shadows crouching low, with hunted mien, And, mingled with the continuous roar, the cries Of murdered souls that bleed to death unseen, - And over all the calm stars shining high. Jn a Portuguese harden 145 ii GRASSMERE A single star faint burning, like a spark From some spent fire blown east, that flickering lies, Then sinks, and on the swarthy azure dies ; And out from where the night lies, dead and stark, A golden sword-blade, cutting through the dark, And Dawn s warm blood that pouring outward flies, Running in scarlet streams across the skies, And rapturing upward an awakened lark; The sun, borne to the sky s and lake s embrace, The blackened hills that into purple leap, Wild flowers that with the heather interlace And neath the heavy dews enflooding, weep While neath their weeping hearts, his fitting place, Who sang them deathless, lying sound asleep. a Portugue0e A DREAM OF ANCIENT GREECE IT is of the old peerless Greece I dream, And neath its skies I see the setting sun Shine on the splendors of the Parthenon And hear, swept onward by some noble theme, Songs of inspired Athenians mount supreme To golden rhapsodies, and one by one In haunting measures through the charmed air run Till the low sun with music seems astream ; Then twilight sinks, and moonlight s lances fall, Crowning the city with their silver light, And I can hear the nightingales that call With their melodious rapture flooding night, And see in distance, more divine than all, The JEgeans blazing sapphire swoon to white. I tread the labyrinthed halls where statues stand, Seeming to breathe with life s intense desire, Whose marbles burn with the immortal fire Carven therein, by an immortal hand : I breathe, intoxicate, the air that fanned The brow of Pericles, and list the lyre The Lesbian singer touched, and draw me nigher, Unheeding ages, at her song s command : Hark ! ere it faints, I hear the battle fray, See shining shields and gilded trappings blaze, And warriors holding enemies at bay, And glittering multitudes that crowd the ways ; 3n a Portuguese aarDen 147 And thrilled by shouts of victory, I stay To see the brows of conquerors crowned with bays. Back, farther back, I search those centuries through When Christ was not: I lift mine eyes and see Homer, the thunder-souled, whose Odyssey Upon Time s sea was hurled, and ere he knew Eternity had snatched: Homer who grew Blind with his own soul s light, and eagle free Heard the sun swing in metric majesty, And set, magnificent, his verse thereto. O wondrous Greece, these deathless, are thy pride ; No wonder, borne to such imperial height, Thou hadst, ere thy dishevelment, defied. The world to mate thee; and canst still scorn blight Who hast reared gods ; who wear st, nor seons can hide, Art s matchless flower as thy consummate right. a Portuguese <5arDen PARIS PARIS IN SUMMER PARIS lies smiling in the summer light, Keying to Pleasure s note its countless strings, Like some great butterfly with gaudy wings Striving with joys its little day to heap: It has forgotten the Bastile, and headless sleep Of murdered men, and the young frightened things That kissed with their white lips their wedding rings And then were butchered as are butchered sheep. Oh, city piled with splendors infinite ; With thy gay people and thy festive whir, Thou canst not lure me with thy bubbles bright, A curdling horror seems my soul to stir, As if thy bloody claws could clutch me tight ! Oh, tiger heart : oh, whited sepulcher ! 3n a Portugue0e harden 149 ROME i THE CATACOMBS THE hills are brooding o er the olive plain Of the Campagna, where above the dead The living, breathing Rome lifts up her head In haughty silence, heeding not the pain Nor dreams nor passions of her martyr s slain, And though half crushed, half conquered, by the tread Of trampling years magnificently fled, Rich in her past, still regal, holds her reign ! Not strange her pride, whose classic feet are pressed Upon the dust-crowned Catacombs where sleep Emperors and popes, and where in holy rest Lies Music s Virgin Saint: Not strange to keep Knowledge of sovereignty within her breast, Who has heard St. Cecilia s strains upsweep. 150 an a Portuguese <garten ii SUNSET OX THE APPIAN WAY Writ as in blood in the vermilion light, Where broken tombs are leaning gainst the skies, One city, of the dead, beneath me lies And one is stretching onward out of sight ; Within this wondrous scene is crowded might And history of Rome ; its victories, Ambitions, valors, its defeats and sighs, And life and death of centuries drowned in night. Yet haply men may see, though Rome is old, Heroes more noble than the Caesars rise And win her new renown ; nay, may behold Apostle that shall all the world surprise, Whose creed divine may cross the heavens be told, And the blind Past anoint the Future s eyes. Ill UNTO THE HILLS Beyond the Church of St. Sebastian lie The ruins of the splendid tomb of one Who died when Rome was young the setting sun Lingering awhile in scarlet majesty, While bathing it in glory, seems to sigh That death must be, as for the ages done Then Rome is plunged in gloom ; Rome overrun With its dead multitudes, and those to die. Unto the hills, grim shadowed, I look up, Searching the gloom, some peak of light to gain, For at another feast I fain would sup, Who have grown satiate at the feast of pain, Since though these millions dead, drained deep the cup Of life s despair the cup has filled again. 152 Kn a Portuguese IV A DREAM I dreamed a dream of Rome ; I saw the light On its seven hills drop from its burning red To thickest gloom, as though the sun lay dead, Slaughtered with its own writhing rays, at sight Of splendors wrecked; then, reeking with the night, While classic marbles splintered to the tread Of ruthless feet through aisles of temples led, The shadowy city vanished, wormed with blight : O fallen Rome! my soul with grief profound Sits mid the ruins of its golden prime, Like thee accurst. Like thee, with gaping wound, That bleeds unstanched ; like thee, beckoned to climb To mine own fall. Yet fallen scourged dis crowned, From such high bliss dream even to fall, sub lime. Kn a Portugue0e <$arDen 153 v MOONLIGHT IN ROME A flood of silver falls across the plain And drowns the hills, where sing the nightin gales, And fluttering moths with their outspreading sails In the translucent air hold velvet reign. The white, bare-bosomed moon, from vane to vane, Its glory o er the sleeping city trails, And like a queen, that a lost bauble, hails, Rome, its endazzling crescent wears again. From off the lambent heavens the stars have flown, I know not where, and yet, as seas on seas Of lilies on the Campagna wave, new blown, I half believe that, orbit-held, all these Once on the sky in calm resplendence shone And knew the secrets of the Pleiades. VI IN ROME I trod Rome in the grandeur of its past, Not ruined Rome ; with waving palms and flowers. And fountains playing in enchanting bowers, And courts, and squares, with gay crowds, bril liant massed, With gorgeous palaces, and columns vast, And looming, golden dripping, bove its towers, St. Peters, drenched in sun enflooding showers, Into a sapphire flame its great dome cast ; The splendid empire at its splendid height ; Revelers and bursts of music, and the air Areek with careless mirth, and lined in sight Th eternal hills, serene and calm and fair As if on guard, in their eternal might, To cradle it in splendor or despair. 3n a Portugue0e Parpen 155 VII AT ST. PETER S Heavy as with the prayers of centuries Within the dim cathedral hung the air With incense thick, and with the "Glorias" there The great bell s booming clangor seemed to rise As if it would bear up earth s suppliant cries To heart of heaven. Above the altar fair, Lit by the tapers with their saffron flare, Down from the cross shone Christ s beseeching eyes O Rome, of all thy matchless jewels worn St. Peter s is most fair! Lo, as I came Slow from its doors, the swooning sun, death- borne, Flooded with a great sea of jasper flame Its dome and thee. Why for the dead past mourn Who still such vast magnificence can claim? 156 3n a Portuguese <$arDen VENICE i VENICE AT SUNRISE A BURNISHED light through morning s bosom flows, As the sun rises, at the trumpet s sound, And the new day leaps up with arms unbound And drenches Venice in a flood of rose ; A sapphire, in the blushing distance shows, And from the Grand Canal lights glitter round, And lone, mid spires and domes vermilion crowned, San Marco, as with benediction glows : O city of enchantment, sunrise kissed, Whose palaces and archways, centuries fold, Whose lions of St. Marc, unroused, resist Time s finger prints, how shouldst thou e er grow old, When here, uplifted to Art s eucharist, Titian and Veronese their deathless visions told? 3n a portugue0e Parpen 157 ii VENICE IN RAIN Rainfall in Venice and the skies are gray And heavy clouds engathering here and there Have drifted lowering to the horizon, where Gulfed in the gloom, St. Mark s is hidden away ! A muffling mist is hanging o er the Bay, Where lie the gondolas undecked and bare, And ashen drops are trickling through the air Like tragic tears wept by the shrouded day. I turn to Venice of my dreams, with gold Of its sun sprinkled air, and skies aglow, With fountains, radiant crowds, and marbles scrolled; Music in Swirls and Tasso s deathless flow And Venice at its splendid height behold And splendid measure of its triumph know. 158 3n a Portuguese harden SWITZERLAND I TO THE ALPS GREAT Alps, with glaciers glittering in the light Of the gold-sandaled sun, whose peaks uprise And gild the sapphire floor of Paradise, Whose giant Jungfrau, with its flaming might, Leaning the heavens, in dazzle of its height, Seems plunged therein, up from your caves come cries, As from imprisoned gods, and virgin sighs Of winds that waken music in their flight ! Wrapt in the white of your eternal snows, With fleecy clouds that o er your summits ride, I can recall you, when the twilight goes, And in the Night s stupendous arms ye hide ; As if the glory in your bosoms froze, And with the anguish of eclipse ye died. 3n a Portuguese <$atDen 159 ii SUMMER IN SWITZERLAND I looked out on the Alps afar they shone, Through the translucence of the noontide air, With their snow mantled peaks enclustering fair, Like lilies on the heart of heaven full blown; Beneath, the lake with shattered rainbows strewn. Ran on its sinuous way, and here and there Flashed radiant messages aloft, to where The Jungf rau beckoned on its frozen throne ; The eternal peaks beneath the zenithed sun Imperial lifted, seemed to prick the sky And all the light with which it was o errun In its sublimity rushed flooding by, And glittering drowned them in it, one by one, While almost, almost I heard summer sigh. 160 jn a Portuguese Garden DEFIANCE AGE, I defy thee, though thou hold st me fast, Though I have heard the sound of rustling wings, And threnodies of pines, so many Springs, And plucked the violets to lay at last Upon beloved hearts, with grief so vast Aeons might reek with it, yet April brings To my dumb soul aghast with voiceless things A call to new hope like a bugle blast : Thou hast half beggared, yet I scorn thy power, Nor canst thou, to forget, my soul ensnare, But death will rivaling come some sunrise hour, And bring to me, blown in the luminous air Of Love s unzoned Immense, the shining flower Of what, in living embryoed, was Despair. Kn a Portugue0e <>arDen I STOOD UPON A MOUNT I STOOD upon a mount that scarred the sky, And every blade of grass was touched with blight- Where blazing suns blazed down with withering might, And lightning blasted trees hung dead and dry ; Eagles with fierce-lit eyes swooped from on high With savage motion, clutching murderous tight Warm, quivering creatures talon-torn in flight, And held me shuddering as they thundered by. O cowering soul! Behold, thou lingerest yet In that dread place, and seest thy pathway strewn With eagles bleaching prey. Rise up and set Thy drooping wings toward Faith s diviner zone; Rise! Rise until this black mount of regret Into transfiguration shall be grown. BOOK VI SONGS OF THE SEASONS JANUARY I SNOW SHINING world that liest as in a dream, With all thy rugged nakedness disguised, On which the imperial sun looks down, surprised At thy new grace, snow-crowned, thou wear st a gleam As if, from winter s dreariness supreme, Thy white eclipse revolt hast signalized, And hills and valleys have been all apprised Of this soft power thy beauty to redeem ; Shine on ; the gloomy autumn has gone by, And the young spring is stirring at thy side, Clamoring for thee to waken and reply. O world, not long wilt thou consent to bide In such chill sleep, for soon, soon, with glad sigh, Thou wilt arise, resplendent as a bride. 165 166 3n a Portuguese <$artien ii RAIN O rain, that beatest eastward through the air, Malignant rival of the illumined snow, Jealous thou searchest earth, as if to know How soon its every sinew thou mayst bare ! Thou hast no pity, nor canst even spare The meadow s secrets ; nay, its hollows low Insisteth fierce to rob, as dismal, so Thou wouldst rebuke the wild flowers sleeping there ; Will naught but earth s gaunt skeleton content? From dripping branches of the trees, have gone The rainbows, neath which yesterday they bent, And, lo ! they seem to point at thee with scorn, As if they knew, earth s brief transfigurement Thou hadst o erthrown because thyself forlorn. a in SUNSHINE O sun, that hast o ermastered snow and rain, Yea, almost conquered winter, with thy gold, Thou hast forgotten time, and seekest bold To dupe with smile of spring, but all in vain ; Unsoftened by thy glances all the plain Is but a dreary stretch of frozen mold, And earth s great heart in lethargy of cold Unheaving still beneath thee lies ; behold Thou hast not reached the zenith of thy reign Yet shouldst thou sudden veil thy face, some blast Blown from the hills may trumpet change to thee, And sinking shuddering from the horizon vast, Thou mayst outblotted by a whirlwind be ; Yet not for long, thou wilt proclaim at last The lilied spring, glad with maternity. 168 3n a Portuguese FEBRUARY I MOONLIGHT IN FEBRUARY BEND low, O moon, that risest calm and fair And with thy flame of silver searchest night As if its soul to read, and drownest light Of the bewildered stars ; bend low, to where List ning, thou mayest hear, fretting in the air The first faint cry of spring, for neath the blight That shrivels the midwinter s heart, lies might, New forces through its frozen veins to bear! Where the sun s funeral pageant left the place, Lo ! bove the smoldering ashes of the day Unheeding thou look st down, and in white grace, I see thee shining on, as to obey Heaven s changeless laws ; nor can I know or trace What voices signal, as thou climb st thy way, a Portuue0e <g>arDen 169 ii FEBRUARY AT THE SEA The wind-blown snow that o er the marshes flew, Has settled into drifts and o er them lie, Dropt as in benediction from the sky, The frozen shadows of its matchless blue ; They seem like monuments set up as clew To graves of marigolds, and wild birds fly Wheeling above them, and from ocean nigh Are rolled forth symphonies forever new I look upon th entrancing scene spellbound ; For sunlit trees upon their branches wear Millions of rainbows and the earth is crowned With such strange light, almost it seems as fair As when the daffodils lit up the ground And flaming orioles winged the summer air. 170 3n a l>ortuguese barton MARCH WHO can reproach thee that thou tak st thy place With shy reserve, O March, coming from chill Of Winter s funeral rites, and holding still Traces of countless tears upon thy face? Yet thou wear st something of the Spring s wild grace, For grasses have grown brighter with the thrill Of the new currents that thine arteries fill And swiftened run, warmed by the sun s em brace ; And in the gullied meadows, moisture bound, Cradles of swamp-flowers, purple in the light, And bushes, pointed leaved, will soon be crowned With bloom aquiver, as for airy flight; O Spring, dear Spring, whose breath so stirs the ground ! How canst be silent daffodils in sight? Jn a Portuguese harden 171 ii Thou seemest drowsing still, although with might Of the years giant forces running high, Divinest murmurs through the ether fly As if escaping thee with pure delight. The skies are bluer, and from height to height A glittering glory runs, and winds go by Searching thy radiant presence to descry And rouse thee from thy dreaming into flight ; Waken, laggard Spring, for near and far The sighs of hyacinths assail the air, As if their purple prisons were ajar; Waken, and let my soul, dull with despair, Rejoice with thee, who wilt unloose each bar And on thy breast the escaping wild flowers wear. a Portuguese <$arDen in Thou hast arisen, for sun on sun has sent Its shining lances over hill and plain, And the warm winds have blown up gusts of rain, And from the hillsides tumbling waters rent ; The somber willows o er the rivers bent Unfurl their dazzling feathery fans again, And now and then is heard a matchless strain, The rapture of a bluebird finding vent. Thou hast been turbulent, because of sting Of embryoed flowers ; but soon at thy decree Anemones will smile and trilliums bring Their silver shining fonts, where thou shalt be In thine own tears baptized again, O Spring, With the new name of April waiting thee. 3fn a Portuguese harden ITS IV The clouds have smitten the sun to a dull glow, Plunging in gloomy billows cross the sky, And the unquiet winds go hurrying by, Whirling the tiny tracks from out the snow Of countless sparrows, and half plaintive sigh Across the shivering trees, where swollen lie A thousand smoldering, warm-hued buds, that sigh, Yet neath their icy veilings dare not blow. Hast thou forgotten, March, in thine unrest, The glittering crocuses with gold agleam? Let flow thy tears for tears that rain thy breast Transformed to wild flowers, will thy past re deem; Thou art but child with Spring s new cares opprest, And canst not rouse thee from thy troubled dream. 174, Kn a Portuguese Thy dream has vanished, for behold on high The sun is rioting in dazzling blue, And where the snow lay, shines a film of dew Transfigured by the noonday s ecstasy ; The alien winds, sudden affrighted, fly Their southern rival, that with music low Murmurs accompaniments to streams that flow Where violet shadows from the mountains lie ; From out the nightmare of thy child-tossed sleep Thou hast at last arisen, smiling fair, And with a power ineffable wilt sweep Spring s sweet contagion through the enam ored air, And round thy brow sun s rays will haste to leap Who wert appointed oriflamme to wear. a Portuguese harden 175 VI The wind is blowing southward down the hills, Damp with the vaporous phantoms of the snow, And o er the peevish sky the vexed clouds go Hurrying toward the beckoning daffodils. There is a rushing sound of mountain rills That, discontent with their high places, go Edging the valley lands where willows grow, Whose scent the sunshine flings forth as it wills ; Inconstant March ! fractious and stormy browed, Almost thou seem st thine own moods to assail, Seeking from morn s their saffron lights to crowd And flashing of thy fickle smiles to veil ; Yet, though thou buglest low, or buglest loud, Thou art the Spring the Spring that blue birds hail. iT6 3n a Iportiiguese harden APRIL i APRIL WITH shining eyes across the purple hills, Shaking to earth her glittering, sun-rayed hair, With mist and dew, and perfume everywhere, Comes the young April crowned with daffodils : The mystery of her golden presence thrills Anemones to trembling in the air, And wakes a butterfly that gauzy fair With streaming banners her behest fulfills ; Divine foretold by intimations low, Like soft escape of seashells murmuring, The verdant grasses neath her footsteps grow, And the white lilies to her garments cling ; And Pan, dead Pan, comes back, once more to blow A wild sweet welcome to the wild sweet spring. Blow Pan, how can Thine eyelids but unfold When loosened rivers clamor thee to rise, When mammoth womb of earth, aleap with cries Of flowers yet undelivered, shakes the mold? Thou mayest mistake her with her locks of gold For Aphrodite, till within her eyes, Maternal yearning, thou shalt recognize Twin violets that violets behold 3fn a Portuguese <>arDen 177 If thou wert dead and she has wakened thee With lilies, silver bells, list their refrain And chime thy notes to their white melody Till constellate daisies, shimmering, light the plain Blow Pan, but let thy flute-charmed soul decree Thou shalt blow April thy divinest strain. 178 in a Portitgiie0e <>arDen ii MOONLIGHT Fair moon that silver sandaled climb st on high As if to reach a place we may not know, Bring from therein some mystic bloom to show Its shining hearted flowers can blight defy ; Glide up thine April path, till, through the sky, From a new April thou shalt bring new glow, Drenched in the light of pinions as they go Winging toward the throne eternally Thou seem st with hyacinthine spring inspired, Thy great heart crescent beating in the east, As if thou knewest what its soul desired And decked thyself for resurrection s feast, Hearing its countless anthems lily-choired, White, with incarnate glory of its priest. Jn a Portuguese harden 179 in THREE APRIL MOODS The jonquil fires have hidden the skies deep blue At mandate of the sun, and downward rolled From off the glittering hills, the liquid gold Falls on the thick, soft grasses, drenched with dew; The warm winds, blowing from the south, steal through The ruddy maple boughs and half unfold Their scarlet pennants, and with color bold Tall tulip-torches flame and flare anew; Up from the emerald valleys comes the bleat Of glad young lambs that in the pastures play, And far and near the shrill voiced cocks repeat Their strenuous, noisy welcomes to the day, And, high o er all by April, bugled sweet Spring s jubilates break from spring away. The minstrel winds are hither wandering, The eager minstrel winds that as they stray Upon a thousand lutes of April play, And from the hearts of all things growing bring Immeasurable music of the spring. Oh, soul divine, exultant go thy way And with the daffodils keep holiday, For the whole world is new, when blue birds sing. Pale tipped, the hemlocks in the sunshine glow, 180 3n a Portuguese And silver shoots hide fair the willow scars, And butterflies have scaped their shrouds, and lo, "The stones are rolled, from the flower sepul- chers ;" Oh soul, watch bloom from graves arisen, and know Thou, too, shalt one day break thy prison bars. Across the hills I heard the spring s voice call, And straightway, light-anointed, I became Lifted to the Most High, for, clad in flame, The dazzling sun o er rode the horizon wall And let a measure of his glory fall, Till earth a semblance to the heavens could claim ; And so baptized and shriven from the past shame Of my despairs, I shook my soul, like Saul. O April, grief and I have since grown old; Nor canst thou, calling now o er all the land, Waken such perfect hour; nor can the gold With which thy morning skies is flooding spanned O ertake that shore, mine eyes would fain behold, Whereon the feet of my beloved stand. 3n a Portugue0e (garden isi IV IN APRIL Elusive vision, fluttering here and there In April s shimmering iridescent guise, Thou comest bannered with cerulean skies, And rioting of sunshine everywhere ; To-day thy flooding teardrops drench the air ; Is it thou knowest that in each warm tear lies An embryoed wildflower that will newborn rise And drinking of thy fairness grow more fair? Thou glad, sad Presence, how couldst other be Since Spring s strange tumults through thy pulses flow? All that is beautiful comes back to thee. The maples wind-blown flame, the jonquils glow, And out of but too golden ecstasy Thy tears fall fast, fall fast, while lilies blow. Thou dazzling sun, caught in a vaporous net, And from its flimsy meshes struggling free, Up through the illumined ether I can see Thine unveiled bosom toward the noontide set ; 182 3n a Portuguese <$ar&en Thou light st the harebell and the violet, And gild st the unweaned cowslips, born of thee, And openest buds that blush on every tree, And lift st the last year s grasses, lingering yet: O warm rayed sun, too long I have given heed To sound of sighing in the wash of seas ; Shine forth, that Spring s new music may be freed ! Thou wak st the birds, and butterflies, and bees And earth itself from dreams Canst thou not lead My soul to joy s full eminence, like these? Jn a Portuguese atDcn iss v AN APRIL SUNSET Sink, amber sun, and drown in amber light, The day is ended, and thou hear st the call Of purple-hearted night, whose purple wall, Bridging the West, hides thee awhile from sight : Thou hast kissed flowers to bloom, and from the height Of the emblazoned hilltops hast let fall Thine April ecstasy, enflooding all ; Let death s magnificence for death requite, Thou hast made fairer what hast looked upon, Yet hadst thou lingered longer, it might be Imperishable power thou mightst have won ; For ah, thou knewest not, nor yet couldst see While full, full on me, all day thou hast shone, Not thine, not thine the splendor dazzling me ! 184 an a Portuguese (garden VI IN EARLY SPRING I turned me to the eastward, from whence came A soft, low singing, as from out the sun ; And all the blood of April seemed to run Cross the embosomed chrysoprase, like flame. I turned me to the hills, and lo, the same Transcendent calling, woke them, one by one, And o er their crests a silver veil was spun The magic of the morning to proclaim : O pulsing, mystic ecstasy of sound, As if some prisoned rapture had found wing! O violets soft stirring in the ground, Each blossom sighing like some living thing, How can I ever doubt, so compassed round, That I have heard the first faint cry of Spring? Yes, thou art new born Spring, thou radiant one, Aerial messenger of growing things, Spirit that brightenest forest shadowings, Sn a Portuguese <$arDen iss Who hast, unseen, thy miracles begun ; For earth with soft young grasses, is o errun, And in the clear, transparent ether rings A sound as if innumerable wings Were rhythmic, sweeping upward to the sun ; Thou calledst me softly, with thy voice divine, The glories of thy countless flowers to share, And bove each golden daffodil of thine; And all thy lilies opening white and fair, I seem to see, as they transfigured shine, A cloud-wrapt vision rising through the air. 186 3n a Pottugue0e Fleet-winged thou art, yet captive of the sky ; Prisoner of all the unmeasured heavens, yet free, Illumining the earth and air and sea, And more elusive than the birds that fly ; The impulse of the streams that wander by And kiss the mountain shadows, comes from thee; And south winds, loitering from tree to tree, Whisper, aeolian-voiced, that thou art nigh. O restless, dazzling, prisoner of light, Thou canst not hide thee wholly in the blue, For swept with thine own splendor into flight, Thou shimmerest iridescent into view ; And with thy touch ineffable in might, Scaped from the heavens, hast made the whole earth new. a MAY HASTE hitherward, O month of flashing wings ; I long to hear along thy valleys blown The murmurous music of Spring s undertone Divine, with breathing of its new born things ; Hasten and bring the nightingale that sings, When thou art nigh, unto thy heart alone, And secret of its sweet despair will own But to the moon that on thy bosom clings ; Beloved of Aphrodite ! Haste and wake The lilies that along thy path will blow Enamored with thine eyes ! Haste thee, and take Unto the rose the blush it fain would know! Thou art so beautiful, and thou canst make The world so beautiful, why com st so slow. 188 Hn a Portuguese ii Here, here thou art, thou flower breasted Spring, And from thy sun s gold heart the glad, warm rays Have glittering pierced the evanescent haze, And to the hillcrests, radiant-reaching, cling. Into a swirl of glory west winds fling The full-orbed marguerites that star the ways, And orioles, winging with their breasts ablaze Unto the silvery blossoms, silvery sing. There is a dazzle over all the land, A light, ethereal shimmering everywhere, And the whole shining universe is spanned With beauty palpitate, and the stirred air Seems as it had the power at its command Into earth s soul, the soul of heaven to bear. 3n a Portuguese <$artien in Over the grasses wet with April rain, Whose damps still linger neath thy forest trees, Thou comest thy way with lilies and with bees. Kissing magnolias into bloom again. The willows, listening to the tides refrain, Borne into undulating harmonies, Dream silver dreams once more, and every breeze Breathes secrets of the clover on the plain. Thou bringst the blushing iridescent skies, The sapphire noons, the dawns pale chryso- prase, The sunshine, haunted with the butterflies, And perfect twilights, born of perfect days What lackest thou that I should turn mine eyes And search the shadows of thy loneliest wavs? 190 Jn a Pottugue0e <>arDen IV Thou com st incarnate of the Spring and yet, I plead with thee for more than bloom and light ; Bring back a hope that will my soul requite For its long desolation and regret. Once, when I plucked a late, sweet violet, I was so raptured that I felt Spring s might Run scarlet through my veins ; now, now what right Have I, whom thou art part of, to forget? For thou returnest each year as to declare Thou art unchanged; why then may I not know Fulfillment of desire sometime, somewhere? I will commune with thee, for thou canst show Death is not death, and so, weaned from despair, I shall be glad once more because the violets blow. 3Jn a Portuguese harden 191 Swift, swift thou com st with thine imperial days, With dawns ineffable, and winds that blow Bearing the swallows hitherward, and flow Of silver streams singing through forest ways, Thy suns fling broadcast their transfiguring rays The imminent rapture of thy bloom to show, And all the perfumed ether is aglow With blushing buds of lilacs swung to haze ; The beauty in thy soul thou settest free, To flower thy fields, and make thy hills more fair; So fair, so fairer still, they grow to be, Neath the exceeding light they, sky-kissed, wear, I half expect, charmed back to earth, to see The gods, as in Olympia, roaming there. 192 3n a Portuguese <$arDen VI The fretted skies have wept themselves to mist And their dull gray has melted into blue, And wild birds call to Spring, as if they knew The hills would soon be crowned with amethyst ; The hyacinths and crocuses, sun kissed, Startled to life, the sodden ground breaks through, And o er the last year s grasses steals a hue As earth s new smile they could not long resist ; The sparkling rivers passionately sway, Swirling the snow-crests of the mountains by, And willow branches, shining silver gray, Stretch out, as if exultant, to the sky ; And swifter, swifter, swifter, day by day The Spring, the fair young Spring, is drawing nigh. 3n a Portuguese harden 193 VII O saffron lights that palpitate and flame On bosom of the East ! beneath your fire Of blazing splendor, that each morn sweeps higher As if earth s resurrection to proclaim, The opening daffodils ye put to shame ; While April, stirred with music s soft desire, Listening the bluebirds that your gleams aspire, Sings lullabies her vagrant winds to tame; A murmurous rapture seems to haunt the dells, Like the faint breathing, indistinct and sweet, Of new-born violets ; and sound of bells That chimed by lilies muffled seem to beat Through their own perfumes, like a signal tells The presence of the Spring ye climb to greet. 194. 3n a Portuguese (gartien VIII O jonquils, gleaming in the crystal air, As if from soul of the great dazzling sun, Unbarred to Spring, your color had been won, Transfused with its gold fire, ye seem to share Its eminence of light and shine out fair Beneath its glow, as if ye had begun To dream your orbits, and, with earth films done, For the bright rays ye covet, to prepare ! The butterflies steal out, and from their sleep The drowsy bees, half wakened, languid, stay Hovering your petals, and I hear the sweep Of vibrant chords, as if the winds at play Had loosed your music, while with dews that steep, O radiant flowers ! ye are baptized in May. a Portuguese <$arDen 195 IX Pink lilac buds that tender violet grow In the consummate splendor of the sun, And white campanula s, that one by one Your imminent music ring forth as ye blow ! It is Spring s carnival, and full rayed glow The dandelions with their gold o errun, And crowned with rainbows by the dewdrops spun, The glittering marguerites toss to and fro. Around the hills vapors of sapphire cling, And bees and butterflies wing through the air As if to every blossom they would bring Sense of their own divineness ! Yea, so fair The Spring has grown that when the bluebirds sing Almost my heart beats jubilant unaware. 196 3n a Portuguese <$arDen x SUNRISE Gold fires that flaming upward burn the east, As if the Sun-god s heralds lit the way Until his chariot wheels should roll in Day, And from the stars that held them, be released ; Ere the great pageant overhead has ceased, I see your dazzling colors reel and sway, Until they melt to chrysoprase of May ; And, lo ! marvels of morn are but increased ; O soul of heaven ! mystery palpitate, On flowers innumerable thou lookest down And like a mother, brooding, seemst to wait, Yearning earth s children, if they smile or frown ; And watchest miracles of Spring, elate, Nor know st of all, thou art thyself the crown. 197 XI A MAY SWALLOW Swallow, that springest through the illumined air With thine impetuous wings toward summer pressed, Content thee, for in the purple of the west The Summer waits, its presence to declare ; Too late for daffodils, thou comest ere The wild rose dares to flaunt its golden breast And morning-glories filled with soft unrest Still for their delicate tracery prepare: Thou hast exceeded Summer in thy race, And golden-breasted orioles outflown, Content thee for awhile with May s white grace, Nor restless, shalt thou long remain alone, For Summer, Summer will thy pathway trace And overtake thee, who art Summer s own. 198 3n a Portuguese harden XII MAY SUNRISE AT THE SEASHORE Upon the sky areek with violet, Behold, eastward there grows a sudden blaze, As if the beacon fires of classic days Were burning still, for Agamemnon set ; And the great Sun leans from his parapet And o er the marigolds that mark the ways Of the drained marsh lands, flings his splintered rays, Till the whole shore with glory is beset; And in the distant fields, where cowslips shine, Emblazons their cups, till their faint flecks of red Glitter like undrained drops of April s wine ; And Dawn, with its resplendent wings outspread, Drifts to the sea, and signals, held divine, Its double rapture, to the Dawn o erhead. a pottugue0e <>arDen 199 XIII FROM AN EASTERN WINDOW The morning blushed, and blushed and blushed once more, And o er its beating heart I saw the flow Of its encarmined currents surging go, And flood the twlight pallor of the shore : The slumbering sea a glittering pathway bore, And far and near the spires were all aglow, Tipped, as with blood, and on the ground below Where white frost lay, the rose bloomed as of yore. Ah, when the sun wheels upward glittering bright In regal trappings, I could almost share In worship of the East and kneel at sight: I sometimes think, knowing men could not bear The awful splendor of His bosom s light, God flowered a Sun and left it flowering there. 200 3n a Portuguese XIV REGRET I had grown May enamored ; glad and free She went with flower-shod feet o er hill and plain, But now for her white bloom I watch in vain, And search her olden haunts, yet cannot see Which way she vanished. What is June to me, Who, listening, dream that I may hear again Her child-voice singing even in the rain, Who had the soul of sweet Persephone? O rose, delay ! Haply she had not meant With her sun-blinded eyes thy way to choose. But, oh! the lilies breathe not where she went, And nightingales her nightingales refuse. Thou brib st with June and scorn st my discon tent, But what thy scorn who hast no May to lose? Jn a Portuguese Garden 201 JUNE THE swallows have come back in a swift race For newer joys, cleaving the purple air With their impetuous wings, the while they bear The Summer hitherward in close embrace ! matchless Summer, with thy matchless grace, 1 tremble lest of thine own power aware, While still the swallows dart through sunshine fair, Thou shouldst escape them and thy ways re trace. Stay, for each beat of thy rose-laden heart Brings forth a strain from Joy s neglected lyre And I am lifted sunward as thou art. Yea, I am winged with thee ! O sweet, mount higher Till bove death s change, above life s petty smart, I see the Summer of my soul s desire. 202 3n a Portuguese harden n Thou hast unveiled thy face, O Summer fair, And lookest with thine unfathomable eyes On land and sea, as if thou wouldst baptize The world in thine own joy; thou com st, and where Thy glad feet press a thousand flowers prepare To hail thy presence in resplendent dyes, And when thou whisperest, answering whispers rise, As those breathed by the pine trees on the air : Thou art an incarnation of the year, With all its sweetness in thy soul expressed ; A priestess passionate, a rose-crowned seer, A white Madonna in whose virgin breast, Beneath its calms, ineffable, appear Shadows of an ineffable unrest! Jn a pottugue0e <$ar&en 203 in The butterflies are winging to and fro, And clover blossoms, purple flaunting, swing And the wild blackberry vines, their perfumes fling On the warm winds that kiss them as they blow. Upon the turquoise heavens the light clouds go, Illusive sailing eastward, as to bring News from the sunrise, where the orioles sing, Caught in its meshes, to their mates below ; The grasses glisten and the bees, elate, Scale the sun s dazzling ladders, side by side, And languid winging with their honeyed freight In the full-breasted thistles seek to hide; And the wild roses, color brimmed, translate What radiant visions in June s soul abide. 204 3n a Portuguese <2>arDen IV Gay, plumaged bird that slender dartest by From the azaleas, with thy tiny power. Shaking the dewdrops in a perfumed shower, We know by thee the Summer s heart beats high. Thou turnest from the honeysuckles nigh To hover o er a gorgeous trumpet flower, And rivaling, flashest forth thy bosom s dower, Poised on its brim, like a winged ecstasy ; Through golden notes, like sundust, in the air, Where iridescent insects drone at noon, Eager thou plungest as their light to share, Listening the mystic measures they intune, Half bird, half flower, flame winged thou throb- best there, The passionate embodiment of June. Kit a Portuguese <5artien 205 Not in great, swollen drops that flood the ways, Wrung from the heavens ungovernable woe, Thou fall st, O rain, but with a tender flow As from o erwhelming rapture of its days Thou wouldst ease June s full heart ; the grass obeys Thy gentle touch and murmurs soft and low Its sweet responses, that divinely go From rhythmic preludes into rhythmic lays ; The wet-winged birds are lingering near to bear Thy music s pathos into some new tune, And breathe it out in snatches on the air, So to transfix it lest thou go too soon ; And to the rose thou call st, unfolding fair, "Quaff, quaff insatiate, for thou quaffest June" From out the purple blackness of the sky There sprang a writhing scorpion of flame, And rolling o er the darkened hilltops came A sound, as if the angry gods on high Were driving madly in their chariots by, The uttermost regions of the heavens to claim ; And all things winging, bees and birds the same, Sank into silence as if death were nigh ; And then, in sheeted streams the rain broke through, And flowers were torn, and desolation spread, And chasms yawned, where forest pine trees grew, 206 3n a Portuguese And the bright rose of yesterday was dead; But while I wept the sun held court anew, And it was like the JEgean Sea o erhead. When the day broke there was no trace of sun, A chill, pale, clinging vapor hid the skies And the rain fell like tears from hopeless eyes, As if accepting that Earth s joys were done; The flowers in apathy could not be won To lift their heads and flaunt their flaming dyes, And o er the aspens, in their leaden guise No protests seemed from leaf to leaf to run ; Not once the clouds grew lighter in the west ; Not once the vapor could its hold forget, The listless rain, the listless air oppressed, Heavy as an insoluble regret, And so the day went mourning forth, in quest Of that June sun unrisen and unset. 3(n a Portuguese Parpen 207 JULY i SUNRISE THE great imperious sun breaks through the sky And burns a pathway as it climbs up higher, And on the tranced sea leaves a bridge of fire, And dyes the thrushes scarlet as they fly. The half-waked bees through the hot air go by, Too languid the tall lilies to aspire, And to the lowly large-leaved weeds retire, And motionless beneath their shadows lie. The tarnished hollyhocks more wrinkled show, And pansies, ailing, to the earth complain, And e en nasturtiums that dare to blow In the sun s dominant passion droop again, And thou interpretest, July, the woe Of dreamers, whose divinest dreams are vain. 208 jn a Portuguese harden ii NOON The blazing sky is with blue fires aleap, And the fierce sun sends down its fiercest heat Until the valleys neath it seem to beat, And even the burning south winds fall asleep. The squirrels hide in forests dim and deep, And from the sheep fields comes no young lambs bleat ; And wild birds wont to sail on pinions fleet, Soft palpitating in their hot nests keep On brinks of brooks wherein no waters flow. The meek-eyed cattle pant beneath the trees, And tawny butterflies are drifting slow, Searching the transfixed sunshine for a breeze ; And flowers grow faint, and the parched grasses know Naught can July s insatiate soul appease. 3n a Portugue0e Garden 209 in SUNSET The scarlet sunbeams slumber on the grass, And in the dying light the mountains shine, And solemn pines chant, whispering line by line The music of an immemorial mass. The birds that erewhile sang to skies of brass, Sink noiseless to their nests, and make no sign With their soft throats to break the hush divine, Nor even stir the corn silk as they pass. The sinking sun swims in a blood red glow, But soon, o er brazen splendor of the sky A gloom of tender violet will grow, And fireflies through the dropping darkness fly, And neath the stars baptismal dews will flow, And though wilt be transfigured, O July. 210 3n a Portuguese harden IV AT THE CAPE IN JULY Up through the new mown grass earth s vivid heat Sails palpable, at the wind s lightest will, And o er the meadows, yellow lilies thrill, Scatters the mingled perfumes, wild and sweet, Along the edges of the swaying wheat Noisy cicadas, dizzy-noted, trill ; And in the distance, calling loud and shrill, Crows, sable pinioned, through the ether beat. The golden disks of laurel light the ways, And clustering stars of alders shining rise, The fire-souled sun sets the whole sky ablaze, And the great sapphire flame that cross it flies Drops to where, stretched Titanic neath its rays, The sea, scarce breathing, in a deep swoon lies. 3n a Portuguese harden The rosy swamp weeds tremble in the air And butterflies drift languidly around, And thin-vined morning glories trail the ground Tangled in clinging vines that hold them there ; Long slender locust blossoms, pale and fair, Hang from the trees, too faintly stirred, for sound, And flowers, in myriads, orange fringed and crowned. Allegiance to midsummer s heat declare; The bees intone their murmurings o er and o er And petal canopied, half hidden lie; Into the sky s blue, bluer fathoms pour; And drowsing neath its splendor, dreams July ; The sea is still a-swoon, but kissing shore, Its sapphire swell has slipt to sapphire sigh. 3n a Iportiigue0e I turn from all the flowers unto the sea, Whose bosom holds rose blushing coral halls : And hear, unmuffled by their viewless walls, The boundless music of Infinity ; A shell lies in my hand because no key Can open way to the eternal mystery Of its strange murmur, though the sound en thralls, It breaks my heart, like a far voice that calls. From a great universe unknown to me Unfathomable, it lies glittering there, And all the blazing light dropt from the sky Upon its Titan breast I seem to share Facing sublimity I half defy Death and despair to-day, and fain would wear Wings, wings, into the limitless to fly. a Pottugue0e AUGUST O AUGUST sun, from thine enmuffling haze Shake thyself free, and fling off fold on fold, And stay the thick-meshed vapors, striking bold With all the sovereignty of all thy rays, For soon, too soon, the yarrow by the ways Its virgin blushes will forget to hold, Nor canst thou be too prodigal of gold, Holding thy court in these bewildering days. Hasten full resplendor of thy heart to bare, And the elusive thistle-down relight, That it may no more ghostly haunt the air, Lest summer noiseless winging steal from sight, While silver-shackled, thou art hidden there And come no more, lost in aerial flight. a Portuguese <>ar&en ii Stay yet awhile, O gentle August, stay ; Ye bear away the summer s face too soon, Hush the wild locusts in the fields at noon, That on their tiny flutes but farewells play, And hide more niggardly thy Sun s array, Remembering the golden light of June, And veil thy skies, and shroud thy scarlet moon Lest they should light thee to thy funeral day ; Poor August, blotting out, with tears unshed. The world of flowers and the resplendent sea ; The golden rod bends down its filmy head Like some sad mourner listening Death s decree, And thine own purple asters pale with dread, Knowing they weep the Summer, weep with thee. <S5arDen in Through sultry mornings shines the yellow sun, Thick veiled with mists, and shimmering here and there Sail phantom butterflies adown the air To phantom flowers ; the crickets have begun And noisy locusts sharp staccatos run Through fervid noons. The wild bees murmur low, Searching the rose in vain, and onward go, By some new wayside sweetness constant won ; Now, the blue triumphs, and from out the haze Mysterious and divine come forth the hills, Showing distinct their lofty wooded ways, And the whole sky with its lost azure thrills ; August smiles fair and yet no birds no lays Only neath blood-red moons the whippoor- wills. 216 3n a Portuguese <>arDen IV The flame-winged humming birds will come no more Through the sun-dusted atmosphere to sweep, And gorgeous poppies in the gardens sleep Drugged with the lethed dews their bright cups bore : The pageant of the summer bloom is o er, Save that a few belated roses keep Their petels fragrance, and with blushes deep Throb, glimmering here and there along the shore ; O golden-hearted roses, ye remain Fairer than fairest flowers that round you grow, Held captives by the waves superb refrain, Wherein some June-harped rapture, soft and low, Grown sublimate, ye recognize again, Part of the sea s aeolian ebb and flow. a Portuguese (Dattien 217 I had forgotten the splendor of the sea Until I saw it stretching at my feet, Ablaze with sapphire, borne there by the heat, And heard it murmuring ceaselessly to me Tunes, silver-cadenced, fluted in the key Known but to south winds ; so enthralling sweet That all the air around me seemed to beat With snatches of aerial melody ; And as the sun looked down, the noon at crest, Swimming in light, a glory on its face, While the long waves seemed fainting into rest, I saw, as the sea melted into space, With the whole heavens asleep upon its breast, Two dazzling worlds, in a divine embrace. 218 3n a Portuguese (SarDett VI Upon the green waves dashing by, to-day, That near and far are shining glorified, Borne out by passion of the wind and tide, A ship is sailing through the radiant spray That as afar its sails in sunlight play Seems for a moment on the heavens to ride, Then downward drops from view, and side by side With fleecy clouds, pearl-blazoned, drifts away. The ship drifts by I hear thy soul, O sea, Revealing what forever thou hast known, That this reverberating mystery, Rolling sublimely through thine undertone, Thundering, imploring, rapturing to me, By breath of the Magnificent, is blown. VII The sun slips, slowly drowning, out of sight, And o er the sea a flood of scarlet streams, Poured from the struggle of its dying beams, While overhead, toward a rocky height, A seagull, winging through the vivid light, Upon a distant haze of violet gleams That, stretching out along the horizon, seems Like flowering of twilight, ere its flight. The fiery skies melt into ashen blue; From off the burning waves the glory dies ; Bove the drowned sun a pale star pricks to view, The flowering twilight fades, the Ocean sighs, And all at once the full moon silvers through, And Night lies glittering with infinities. 220 Un a Portuguese Garden VIII Great yellow suns that burn through yellow haze And shine upon the grasses filmed with white, Through the tear-woven webs ye send your light And set the trailing gossamer ablaze. Ye gild the foxglove with your glittering rays, And rouse the wild bees from their languid flight Until they seek to scale your dizzy height, Murmuring divinely to the dazzling days ! Shine on, for undulating butterflies The purple of the clematis still hail, Unconscious that with locusts sharp-voiced cries The gorgeous color of the flowers will pale ; Shine on, that reckless neath the summer s eyes The butterflies, unconscious still may sail. 3n a iportuguejse aatDen 221 IX Oh, snow-white honeysuckles hush, ye blow Upon your million trumpets a wild tune, Sadder than that the roses breathed to June ; And out beyond the sands where sea pinks grow The ocean listens. Hush, for ah ! ye know The blushing spirea stabs the August noon, And mullein tapers flare beneath its moon ; Or if ye needs must trumpet, trumpet low ; I hear insistent, bove the ocean s call, Bove songs of birds that linger on their way, The notes that mystically rise and fall, Borne from the illusive chorus ye essay, And dream, in soft lament, as o er a pall It is the summer s "dead march" that ye play. a Pottugue0e Garden x AN AUGUST LOVE SONG Dear heart, the summer rose has long since died ; And swept like shadowy phantoms through the air. The swallows have sought summer otherwhere, And thrushes songs are stayed ; but in a tide From out the solitudes wherein they glide Come plaints of whippoorwills. O sweet, O fair, Couldst not from god s, Demeter s power en snare, And stay Time s course and bid the summer bide? Nay, have no fear, it cannot wholly go ; Though swallows flock and fly for lingering yet The soul of summer still is ours, who know Despite the sad-voiced whippoorwills regret, Despite the vanished rose and singing, lo ! It will be mid the eternal summers set. 3n a Portuguese aarDen 223 XI AT THE CAPE IN AUGUST The glad high noon of summer has gone by, And thou hast come, pale August, lit with glow Of the white bloom adrift of elderblow And moon-rayed thistle disks, that moons outvie ; The orioles still through golden sunshine fly But sing to thee no more, and mad, wild flow, That set the sea to bugling, has ebbed low To deep-drawn breath of a transcendent sigh ; With blushes of the pinks the wet sands thrill And the swamp honeysuckles, line on line From out their slender cups the night dews spill ; And thou art steeped in beauty so divine, So all entrancing, that had I my will Thou shouldst drink deep of some immortal wine. 3n a Ipottugue0e Garden Sweet, captive day, haste, and thy fetters break ; The silken meshes that entangle thee Are woven so thin, that I can almost see The golden sun its glittering tresses shake Adown the eastern sky, but strong winds take Thy gossamer shroud, and at the sea s decree Wind it more closely lest thou struggle free ; Haste! wilt as prisoner let the noon o ertake? Not so, not so thou hast escaped behold, Thou hast usurped the blue, the heavens ridden o er, Outstripped the East wind and the clouds un rolled, Wrung from the salt-breathed sea the film it wore, Gauged the sun s eminence, proven its gold And given to August one divine day more. 3n a Portuguese <>arDen 225 Caverned in blue, thou boldest in thy breast Creation s mysteries, as thou liest there, O tranquil sea, and borne upon the air Comes murmurous music, as if waked from rest The ageless sirens into singing prest Were, of the splendor of thy smile aware ; Nay, I can almost see their streaming hair Caught in the sunshine, of its sight, in quest. Like a great sapphire, in the horizon set Thou seemest, by the Eternal worn, as seal ; And standing on the shore, mine eyes are wet, Not with thy spray, but with my soul s appeal That thou who hast worn continents, with fret, Wilt secret of this marvelous calm reveal. a Iportiigue0e SEPTEMBER SEPTEMBER IN spring I said: "For thee, O fair, more fair Than all the other seasons, lit with shine Of the baptismal lilies, more divine Than even the summer, let my soul prepare ; And I went forth and quaffed the mystic air And felt the spring run through my veins like wine, Then summer came ; and summer so was mine That all I dreamed, I felt its breath declare : Now, golden-veiled usurper though thou art, Matchless September, unto thee I turn And measure every beat of thy full heart Taught by the season s dead and toward thee yearn, Whose blood is blood of three, as toward a part Of earth s great song whose notes I fain would learn. a Pottiiue0e <>ar&en ii SEPTEMBER SUN FLOWERS Great gaudy clocks that tell the summer s o er, Blazoning the knowledge forth, we fain would shun ; Eastward ye turn, as challenging the sun, Whose golden fires insatiate ye implore: The slender humming birds dart by no more; And filmy, fleecy webs, by night dews spun, As if to veil your faces, one by one Ye fling aside and flaunt out as before. Beneath the western breezes like a tide Ye proudly glittering sway, as thus to show New claim to homage, now the rose has died ; But high above you, bold cicadas blow Their sharp, shrill warnings, as to trumpet wide The brazen Autumn lurks beneath your glow. 228 Jn a Portuguese Garden in AUTUMN* The voice of June still haunts the silver streams, And yet, O wanton Autumn, June is dead, Nor all thy wiles can change the sumach s red Into the glory of the sweetbrier s gleams ; But subtle ecstasy of Summer seems As if it lingered in the skies o erhead, The while thou mock st at sign of swallows fled, And smil st, though hushed the thrushes sunset dreams. To tuneless monotones thou mak st consent^ And to the spectral butterflies that go, As if with searching for the lilies spent, Sighing above the asters zoned with woe, Yet, haughty-souled, thou wear st without la ment, The funeral flowers that thine own grave be- strow. IV Divine September, wert not so divine, I should reproach thee that thou dar st to reign Where summer once held place; but o er the plain, That stretches outward to the horizon line, Like endless seas whose billows dazzling shine, I see the sun-anointed fields of grain, And breathe, upon the warm air borne again, The subtle perfumes of the fir and pine. Thou art so like the summer, thou couldst cheat The earth itself, the likeness to mistake, For fanning by the yellow plumes of wheat And gorgeous hovering o er the illumined brake The velvet butterflies in drowse of heat Are lingering, not for thee, but summer s sake. 230 3n a Portuguese Garden The vagrant winds are blowing o er the plain, Warm as in summer ; and the thick fogs lift From off the morning s face, and outward drift In sheeny billows o er the fields of grain. The fireweed and chickory bloom again, And golden sunbeams that through pine trees sift Seem writing as they palpitate and shift, Illumined notes of a divine refrain. The skies, more azure even than in June, Are quick with splendor, and night after night From the dead heart of August comes the moon, Imperial mourner, with its tragic light, The legacy of summer that, too soon, With all this pageantry will fade from sight. VI The falling hemlock-needles pierce the haze And strike the ferns that still unshrunk n re main ; And the tall sunflowers hold aloft again Their streaming banners through the amber days; The thistles cobweb d stars with silvery rays Along the waysides hold their glittering reign ; And signaling heat, in a discordant strain, A sun-lured locust, piping shrilly, plays ; Late dandelions deck the mountain side, And the blue asters in the shadows lie ; But from the birds that through the forests glide There comes no sound of singing as they fly, Only through waves of silence swept aside A breath of music like a long-drawn sigh. 3n a Portuguese harden VII Summer that lingerest as beneath a spell, Tranced in the cloudless azure of the skies, The first fleet swallow that outgoing flies Writes on the air it wings through thy farewell ; Thou canst not with thy sweetest wiles dispel, Or tender pathos of thy sun s disguise, Nor canst with all thy loveliness surprise The June birds back, their ecstasies to tell Yet why, transcendent Summer, shouldst thou go? The gauzy morning-glories linger still ; The gold nasturtiums, golden-hearted, blow ; The blood-red poppies burn upon the hill; Thou, through whose veins the unslackened cur rents flow, Why should Death claim thee at his sullen will? 3n a Portuguese <$arDett 233 VIII Nature is but the Eternal s countersign, Inexorably given and like a dream Thou wentest with thy yellow hair astream Floating resplendent past the sunset line ; And flowers thou bor st that I had held as mine, Left me bereaved anew; yet so supreme Rapture their beauty gave, it left a gleam To which I constant turn, as to a shrine Nor radiant as thou wert shall I repine, Others as radiant have been borne along, In which I learned, silent neath bloom and shine, Silence may be diviner even than song; And am content, who quaffed thy goldenest wine, That matchless, thou shouldst join that match less throng. a Portugue0e <25ar&en IX Summer, dear Summer, with thine airy grace And soft enchantments, though we thought thee flown, Thou hast come back on sunlit pinions, blown By southern breezes to thine olden place ; Thou holdst the mist-crowned hills in thine em brace, With a majestic passion all thine own, Till on thy bosom, amber burnished grown The dazzling necklace worn in June we trace. Oh, Summer, unforgotten and divine, In tender glory of these passing days We see thine azure eyes pathetic shine Like those of one who journeying homeward, stays Waiting amid the silence for some sign Of the old music, that made glad the ways. 3fn a Portuguese <arDen x FAREWELL TO SUMMER Go, Summer, in thy matchless beauty, go. Thou wouldst be desolate if thou shouldst stay, For birds that sang to thee, have flown away, And roses on thy breast died long ago. Nor can the sunflowers, with their gaudy glow, Tempt to remain, for howso in array They supplicate, as toward the sun they sway, That they will make thy funeral train, they know. No more, with thine elysian message sent, Will thy melodious footsteps wander by ; And ocean, with its near waves, makes lament, And winds through pallid bloom of alders sigh, Thou art so beautiful go, be content Who didst bear roses, like the rose to die. 236 Kn a Portuguese harden XI ON THE CLIFF It is the time when hollyhocks bloom, that hold Their gorgeous cups outstretched to catch the dew; And velvet hearts of the nasturtiums woo The splendid topaz fires of suns untold ; When by the river, calm and cool, unfold The lilies one by one, and bees pursue The primrose perfumes, flaunting forth to view, In dazzle of the noons, their chains of gold The pale pink blossoms of the locusts lie Unblown by winds as carven in the air, And a faint film of heat o erspreads the sky As if the soul of August hovered there ; And in a sapphire drowse the ocean nigh Hushes itself to slumber unaware. 3n a Portuguese harden 237 XII I watched the amber sun sink noiselessly, And drown in amber billows of the west ; And the great crescent moon sail forth in quest Of a new height to sentinel the sea. From out its silver heart the light broke free And dropped in splendor on its tide-rocked breast, And every rose upon the cliff s broad crest Grew into bridal white, at its decree Across the shore-kissed waves its soft beams fell, And, as from soul of a great violin swept, An agony of music seemed to swell As if the sea, like a blanched mourner, kept Divinely murmuring a divine farewell Above the cave where the dead Triton slept. 238 Jn a Pottugue0e And lo, unbidden, to the September days Thou hast bequeathed thine own exceeding glow Silvering the white-shelled shore ; and winds that blow And fan the flame-torched cliffland into blaze : Over the heavens a silken tissued haze Wrapt round the sun, as if, untangling slow, Is torn to fleeces that upsailing go, And vanish in the splendor of its rays Myriads of wayside flowers spring and here and there, Pilfering a lingering rose, a stealthy bee And locusts trumpeting throughout the air Approach of noon, and the great turquoise sea That murmuring on its way in soft despair Breaks to lamenting as for thee for thee. Jn a Ipottuguc0e atDen 239 XIV Daily the hidden unforgetting morn, Has flung from East to West a silver haze ; Daily the sun with its defiant rays Into a thousand threads Her film has torn ; And in the triumph of its golden scorn September with full ecstasy ablaze Has daily spilled upon the flower-lit ways Rapture transcendent, as if heavenly born. - Oh, matchless one, how can I else but sigh, Knowing that with thy beauty, still agleam, Thou wilt be roused, nor can the call deny, From the divineness of thy perfect dream ; And I shall see thee in some sunset sky, Drift silent outward on its shining stream. 240 3n a Portuguese harden xv White moon onlooking as the sun sank low And weltering in its own effulgence, died Like an evangel to the light allied Climbing the opal East I saw thee go : Beneath, silvering the ocean in its flow I saw thy radiance tangled in the tide On its immeasurable bosom ride And mingle with the sun s last burning glow. Divine pale moon ! I, plunged, in Life s regret Confronted thee, who hadst no pang to bear, Who unlamenting saw the great sun set, And still climbed on, serene, and calm, and fair, And wondered when defeat thou shouldst have met If even, heaven-held, thou wouldst not learn de spair. 3n a Portuguese (SacDett XVI A SEPTEMBER IDYL I looked up to the dominant heavens, and saw From the sun s smoldering fire; an amber smoke That lit the swarthy purple of the East And sent the clustering clouds to burnished gold, Like petals of a new-blown daffodil: And I was sent to silent worshiping, While from the naked bosom of the sea Came murmurous music that the morning s breath Was disentangling from the pulsing waves And that, aerial wafted, rose and fell, Filling the yellow silence like a flame, Until with fainting of the tide, it swooned And then, in pallor of the sunrise died ; And where no longer bloomed the daffodil Bloomed the white rose of day. Again I looked up to the dominant heavens And saw an arch magnificently blue, Brooding majestic o er the Universe, That stretched out, so immeasurably fair . It seemed for footstool of Jehovah fit : So fair, the splendor that its bosom hid Seemed blazing through so fair that once again I fell to worshiping, while down the noon, Bright as if stars had found their way to wings, Came the September, sun-winged, butterflies 3n a Portuguese Drifting to shrunken flowers : There was no sound But the faint flutter of a bird or leaf To break the spell, and even the sea itself, That lay like a great crystal in the light, Sent forth no voice, but noiseless kissed the sky : The sky of which my soul more conscious grew, Accepting it as first and last and whole That compassed all and held the key to all Until I almost felt there was no world Nothing but its sublime supremacy, Nothing but bared heart of Infinity : And I was lifted up, like one who dreamed, To something that I could not understand, Something invisible, that held me tranced, That in the visible was palpitant ; Till while still tranced, behold I came to know What I was worshiping was not the sky But the Ineffable. Jn a Portuguese atEen 243 OCTOBER I FROM A MILTON WINDOW IN OCTOBER THE sumachs burn their funeral pyres, to-day, Above the graves, where unforgotten sleep The Summer lilies Summer could not keep And sky-kissed hyacinths beloved of May ; And the closed gentians blooming by the way, Hidden in sylvan shadows dim and deep, With dewy eyes for Autumn s trickeries weep, Blazoning its gaudy tints to hide decay The glittering ripples chase the glittering rills And from its amber heights, adown the air, The reckless sun its reckless splendor spills As if bold usurer, making April fair, It had kept gold of all its daffodils In Autumn s spendthrift rioting to share. 244 3n a Portu0ue0e (Stamen In ecstasy of silence, as with sight Of its own plenitude, stretched east and west, The earth lies, in its gorgeous drapery drest, Laden with fruitage, palpitate with light. Even the bees are noiseless in their flight, Drunken with honeyed wine from wild grapes pressed, And azure leaning, in a swoon of rest, The hills are outlined on the azure height ; Unstirred by any breath of wind that blows The clouds like snowy doves, soft flocking pass And gainst the brilliant leaves the sunshine shows In double measure as it lights the grass, And aisle on aisle, neath the arched tree-tops, glows Like a heaven-lit cathedral decked for mass. 3n a Iportugue0e arden 245 Impetuous river that flow st singing by, Thy foaming waters iridescent shine As if where dazzling Summer set its sign The glory lingered, Autumn to defy; I have seen lilies on thy wave-crests lie And swallows sail above thee, line on line, And white moons grow to fullness, and then pine And winter snowflakes whirling round thec fly. Still fair as in the past, I turn mine eyes Lured past the hills and valley lands, to thee Who matchless bearest out, the matchless skies Inviolate on thy bosom, to the sea, And feel again the eternal charm that lies In thine eternal rhythmed minstrelsy. 24.6 Kn a Iportuguege ii ONE OCTOBER DAY The dazzling-hearted sun has kissed away The filmy mists that blushed at early morn, And a faint fragrance, as of Summer born, Sweeps on the southwest wind across the bay. The gorgeous foliage, as to cheat the day, Flames in the gardens, of their blossoms shorn, And on the bosom of the noon is worn A silver shadow, like the moon astray ; O beautiful October, radiant crowned, Glittering with amber lights that make thee fair, Above thy harvest flutes, there comes a sound As if stark Azrael, hovering in the air, Dropped heavy tears upon the dew-drenched ground, Waiting from hence, thy golden soul to bear. Jn a Portuguese <$arHen 247 And oh, what matters it how bright the sun Or how divinely fair, the day may be? There is a shadow constantly, I see A dark eclipse, as if the day were done ; The birds have drifted southward, one by one, And the unpitying hills look down on me Lifting their veils of azure mystery, Lit by the sunset fires, I fain would shun ; I cannot quaff, I am so poor a thing, Thy beauty, O October, as of old, Or grow again intoxicate with Spring, Or the illusive heart of Summer hold, For even on brightest pageants thou canst bring Of flowers, or forests, there is hint of mold. 3(n a Portuguese in TWO MOODS The earth once more has grown articulate, And opening petals of the wild flowers bear Divinest intimations through the air Of music only Springtime can translate ; The sky down-laden with its hyacinth freight, Bends yearning o er the hills, and leaning there, Dreams of the violets that shy and fair For the warm April sunshine lie in wait ; White doves with dawn-flushed bosoms fluttering rise Marking their way in iridescent line, And yet, with all thy wiles, I recognize, wanton Spring, between thy heart and mine Such an impenetrable shadow lies, 1 hail thee not, who once hailed thee divine. a Portuguese Haunt me no longer, Phantom of the Past. Thou com st to me to-day in shining guise Of sun-crowned Spring, that with thine April eyes Bring st me remembrance, tears, and longings vast. I bid thee go, and yet I hold thee fast, So fair thou art, for flung across thy skies Morn after morn, a banner streaming flies As if from Heaven a signal had been cast ; Haunt with regrets no more, O flute-voiced Spring, But as with message from the East, proclaim With revelation of each growing thing Earth has beatitudes Death s power to shame Why should I shrink thy presence, who canst bring From out their graves the daffodils to flame? 250 3n a l$ottugue$e IV TWO OCTOBER DAYS The sun-drenched flowers are glittering on thy breast, O wonderful October ! and upflare Like lighted torches that illumine the air, And spread their blazing gold-fires east and west. The skies o erwhelmed with blue throb manifest : And flocked like gulls with pinions snowy fair The clouds sail outward toward the horizon, where Hushed on the deep magnificence they rest ; The forests, like colossal gardens, shine, And the tall sumachs, vivid blushing sway, And a bewildered bee, half drunken with wine, Drops from his purple cup, and steals away ; And the day drifts, resplendent and divine, Too beautiful to go, too bright to stay. 3n a Portuguese (SterDen 251 The warm, transparent air is still astir With a few gauzy butterflies, that sail Above the asters, growing purple pale, And the low azure studded juniper. The grapes are covered with a sunblown blur, Clustering with nectar brimmed, on vines that trail, And partridges are drumming cross the vale, Drowning with noisy beats their pinions whir The tansy s yellow plumes are nodding low, And as with summer drugged, shrunken and old; Disheveled dandelions that by waysides grow, Unsheath again their flashing blades of gold, And borne from leaf to leaf the shadows go Trembling, as prescient of some grief untold. 252 3n a Portuguese harden v AN OCTOBER IDYL I looked up to-day and saw in the heavens Through the floor where the cherubim tread The shine of their feet as downward it beat To the shine of the clouds overhead. And the sun as it throbbed with its scintillant gold, And the noon in its zenith of power As it sprang forth new born from the bosom of Morn, Sent the world into bloom, like a flower. And the wind o er the hills and the wind o er the vales, As it met in the silence supreme, Woke strain after strain, like the golden refrain Of a rhapsody set to a dream. And I said, I have seen, I have seen, and I know, In the Universe, glory alight : Lies the infinite whole of the infinite soul Of a Universe hidden from sight. 3Jn a Portuguese Garden 253 And the tears that I wept were like floods in the Spring That the south winds of April create, And I said, I have seen what is lying between The Earth and the Heaven that I wait. 254. 3n a Portuguese NOVEMBER I NOVEMBER SUNRISE AT THE SEA THE horizon line is glimmering dusky red, And the pale filmy sun, awakens from sleep, And strong winds blown across the marshes keep The bushes cowed, as with a trampling tread ; The flowers that erewhile lit the ways are dead ; And the gray earth, far as the eye can sweep, Ragged, and torn, and sodden, seems asleep With the chill, pallid damps, of pallid dread ; The sea s green waves break foaming on the shore, And wild birds flapping overhead, go by, And, roused from couch of mullein down, to soar, One last, gold, sky-beribboned butterfly, Unknowing that its gaudy reign is o er, Like a winged fleur-de-lis, sails forth to die. 3n a Portuguese harden 255 ii Wrapt in mysterious light thou dreamest dreams O sad November, and for short, sweet space Stay st thine advance and with resplendent grace Each hectic leaf sends forth bewildering gleams, And glory runs from mountain tops in streams. And held fast locked in a supreme embrace Summer looks down with its divinest face As if too pitying, to withdraw its beams Dream on, November ! Thou, too, soon wilt wake To disenchantment and to ruin bleak ; Masking in guise of June, thou canst not make The June s soul thine, for thou wert born to reck In mists of desolation ; nor canst break From curse of doom, though all the gods should speak. 256 3n a Portuguese arDen in Grim sullen clouds that melancholy ride, Prescient of storm, across the chill gray sky, Ye hover low, as sunlight to defy And the dead Summer s phantom to deride ; The leaves have blown from forest ways aside, And in the naked hollows, torn-veined, lie, And o er the stricken earth, the North winds sigh For the glad-hearted flowers that long since died Darker and still more threatening ye grow Heavy with unshed tears, till spent with pain From the blanched heavens ye pour your utter woe In a wild turbulence of hopeless ruin. And Autumn stripped of pomp, is beaten low, The glory of its pageant all in vain. Jn a Portuguese aacDen 257 IV THREE DAYS IN NOVEMBER The leaves have fallen, and the fitful light Wavers above them from the spectral sun, And o er the skies, thin blue, half threatening run The clouds that darken in their northward flight ; Beneath the vines as if resisting blight, That into tangles by the winds are spun, The yellowing of the grasses has begun Touched by the morning frost-webs silvery white. The widowed Earth in loneliness supreme Enshrouds herself in a thick veil of woe, And robed in sackcloth, in a frozen dream, Sees, one by one, her fairest treasures go ; Hearing no more the song of bird or stream, Only the funeral dirges, wild winds blow. 258 3n a The rain is dropping from the ashen skies Dull tears that Autumn weeps with dull dismay, And the disheveled hills are drowned in gray, And a thick fog impenetrable lies Over the sullen sea that, hidden, sighs ; The ground is sodden and dead leaves obey The pools insistence and are borne away, And on their murky bosoms matted rise. The Earth with hopeless misery seems spent, As if its soul held place in some dead zone Where supplications for escape were pent, As if, with its own weeping it had grown So numb with pain, that were the Sun s face sent Not even the resurrection would atone. Sn a Portugue0e arDen 259 The sun is golden struggling through the mist, And o er the Heavens great flecks of blue are spread, And the long line of sea from its pale bed Into pathetic splendor has been kissed ; The recovered hills are crowned with amethyst, And the trees naked branches that have shed Their sprays of rainbows in the light blush red And lure the sparrows to a noonday tryst. The scented air, blown from the South, sweeps by As if from Summer, and the oak leaves glow In the moist pathways as they sunlit lie As if death were not death ; and rousing slow The fractious Earth forgets awhile to sigh And smiles, as smiles the dying, glad to go. 260 3n a Portuguese As to cheat back the glory that once crowned, The sunlight of this transient summer falls, Illumining the vines that cling the walls, And trail their tangled crimson on the ground ; The warm south winds are blowing softly round, And a half-wakened bee, chance that recalls The vision of some rose that still enthralls, Goes noiseless searching for the rose unfound. Tender, mysterious, from the mist unwon, We seek to trace the distant hills, in vain ; But the whole sky scaping, it has put on Divinest blue of its divinest reign ; And we might dream June sunlight had not gone If but the rose, the rose, would bloom again. 3n a Portugue0e <$artien VI The gold of early autumn tarnished lies, And the deep gloom of the November days Hangs o er the watery sun in heavy haze, That struggle of its flickering light defies. The forest pine-trees breathe despairing sighs, And fleet hawks scream above sequestered ways, And in a matted heap where moisture stays Great flecks of brown, the once bright leaves dis guise. Upon the barren hills and barren plain The ragged stalks, no lingering flowers display, And echoes of the sea s eternal pain From the near shore are rolling on their way ; And earth s heart breaks, knowing it would be vain Howso it wept, the hand of death to stay. 262 3n a Portuguese <$arDen VII TO A NOVEMBER ROSE Pale rose, that in the pale November grew, Coming when earth s sweet fever that ran high, And burned itself to wild flowers, had gone by, As if the summer s farewell pierced thee through, Behold, in soft lament thou wearest hue Of the wan moon that vexed thine autumn sky That haply, with its wasted light, drew nigh, And shivering, kissed thee while the night winds blew. I watch thy half-closed petals as they part, White as some mourner that despair defies, Looking toward heaven though with a breaking heart. Why stoop st to smile, why mockest with dis guise? Pale sorcerer, I know thee as thou art, The phantom of a red rose blanched with sighs. 3n a Portuguese (gatDen 263 VIII MOONLIGHT The lambs are hushed from bleating in the fold, And the long twilight has shut in the day, And silver-shod, the moon goes on its way Dropping its slender arrows pure and cold ; The naked earth, whose radiant robes grown old, Autumn has rent, in skeleton array, Shudders, while branches of the bare trees slay The filmy light, too colorless to hold. Go, sad-faced moon. Thou dost but add to woe A woe more absolute : Take thy wan light From wan November, lest it piteous show, Its utter desolation and its blight ; If fickle, thou canst not transfigure go And drown thyself, in constancy of Night. 264- 3n a Portuguese DECEMBER SUNRISE AT CHOCORUA IN the vast cradle of the firmament Thou liest, oh snow crowned one, white bovc thy head The morning star that throbs from gold to red Yearns down to thee, with sway magnificent : So all inviolate is thy content I watch, and lo ! the lights that have been sped From out the East, and o er thce arching spread, Seem summoning thee to heavenly sacrament : Begotten of chaos, hurled from depths unknown To thy majestic place, neath fires that climb, And flush thy forehead, by the Eternal blown, Thou seemst from sound and dreamless sleep of Time, While the great sun has to full splendor grown, Half stirred to wakening, with a smile sublime. 3fn a pottugue0e Garden DECEMBER AT THE HEADLANDS The North wind blows the light snow cross the shore And whirls it feathery out, wild winged and free Into the iridescence of the sea, And on the sky, like a song s matchless score, The headlands sculptured lie, while o er and o er Dashing against their stone fronts riotously, As at some Triton s, bugle-blown, decree, Great tides of jeweled waters, rush and roar; The silent earth enclad in filmy white, Lies as if dead ; and yet adown the air, Because the sun, mightier than ocean s might, Will some day kiss its snow-wrapt bosom bare, Despite the shroud, despite the flowers in blight- We know, we know the Spring lies embryoed there. BOOK VII MISCELLANEOUS BLUE BELLS BRIGHT blue bells, clustering in the olden way In the same garden where in days divine Ye seemed like goblets filled with dewy wine For butterflies athirst, I sigh to-day, While on your slender stems you softly sway, That when they touch you now with wings ashine I hear no more how-so, mine ears incline, The wild, sweet jubilant chimes ye used to play ; Yet as I watch your veins transparency. Something of the old glamour haunts me still ; Ye seem again, warm nurslings of the sky, And as, sun kissed, ye drink your azure fill, Almost I might believe that from on high Ye could bring back a message, at your will. 270 3(n a Portuguese A LINE OF SUNFLOWERS LOVERS, enamored lovers of the day, Ye have outshaken your petals on the air Till like great suns unorbited, ye flare And through the filmy fleeces burn your way ; The hollyhocks their blushing tributes pay And from their hearts, bees, noon assembled, bear Mysterious messages, the while ye share The secrets of the winds that round ye play ; Along the line ye blaze, like gold fires set, To make the yellow sunshine seem more bright, And chance, charm back the rose and violet, And yet, with all your sorceries alight Ye cannot stay the whippoorwills regret Or lure divine-voiced thrushes from their flight. 3n a Portuguese arOen 271 UNTO MY SOUL UNTO my Soul, I said, "Thou hast drunk deep Of life s red wine, why art thou not content? Thou hast sailed space, and to the desert lent A desolation vaster than its sweep ; Thou hast seen starlight scarlet flowering, leap Into divinest music flaming sent, And wept above the ashes white and spent Of visions fled, too heavenly fair to keep. Insatiate Soul, all things that thou hast known Are part of thee the early joy of Spring. The vast despairs, the starlight scarlet blown And even the songs thou dream dst, but couldst not sing: How be content, with yesterdays outgrown? How be content who, untamed, higher wouldst wing?" 272 3n a Portugue0e MUSIC O Music, child of that endazzling sphere, Unarched and unhorizoned, on thy wings Ethereal spread, thou liftest me past rings Of the orchestral planets, until near The veiled immeasurable, almost I hear, The rippling of the splendid light that springs From crown to crown, and o er thy forehead flings The streaming rainbows that thereon appear. Soul of the new-born Spring s antiphony And of the deeps that call, beyond the line That is invisible, twixt land and sea, Past purple edge of earth, into the shrine Of the ineffable, thou liftest me Through zone on zone, up to the all divine. 3n a Porttigue0e Parpen 273 TO HOLLYHOCKS GORGEOUS magicians, flaming here and there, The streaming fires that on your bosoms glow, Ye come too late, the silver tunes to know That lilies trumpet through the Summer air Or clustering bluebells chime ; but brazen flare, Through smoky yellow heats, while to and fro Through the enmuffling August sunshine go Great butterflies, that shadowy banners bear; Your silken petals that full opened show In mimic folds, as channels for the dew. Wherefore so strange enfashioned, none may know Nor can we from the universe gain clew If it was some vast dread or some wild woe With which ye were enwrinkled as ye blew. 274. 3n a Portuguese SUMMER IN A CITY WILD flowers in distant dells are calling me And the great sun is pointing outward, where, Cleared from the smoky film of city s air, It will flood honeysuckles by the sea ; I follow it and know it will kiss free From the sheathed orchids, rose fires, flaming there, And that above each flower that scapes its snare Will drift entranced a golden girted bee ; Across the level sands, grown doubly sweet, Will come the clover scent from new mown grass, And should I eastward turn, mine eyes would meet The vine-clad glory of a wild morass, And if turned westward, flaming at my feet Great cups, held high, lest I unseeing pass. 3n a Portuguese <$arUen 275 Still, still I hear them, from fields daisy-crowned, From brooksides, meadows and the marshy ways, And know how the thin, summer heated haze Will, purple raptured, hover o er the ground ; How to the blue heavens by a blue line bound The outstretched sea, with sunshine all ablaze, Will lie, like an embosomed chrysoprase, While murmurous silence faints from murmur ous sound. Why lingerest thou, my soul? If thou wouldst keep Thine earlier daring, thou must dwell in sight Of the sublime, immeasurable deep, And bathe thyself in the translucent light Of salt breathed days ; and learn from seagull s flight, Breasting the ether, how the immense to sweep. 276 3jn a I5>ortugue0e Still, still, and still again they call to me, Down from the mountain peaks where wild winds blow, And gentians on their breast toss to and fro ; And where sweep eagles mighty winged and free, The heated pavements burn my feet. I sec Humanity in swarms that wearied go, Crowding the alleys in a listless flow, Dreaming of flower fields, where they fain would be; I shut mine eyes: the city fades away, Its noise is changed to measures that enthrall ; I see the clover nod, the sea s white spray, And down the mountain leaps a waterfall ; Oh, soul, why shouldst with even the seagulls stay, When from the sun s great heart the eagles call? a Portiigue0e <S5arDen 277 I LOOK up at the sky, So blue, and so immeasurably high, So passionately blue and all divine, And hear the swish of waters at my feet, Of waves borne onward from the horizon line, That their Eternal Litanies repeat, And then with sighs like those of violins ; retreat I know not where. And summer seems so luminously fair My soul sails, like a seagull through the air, And riots with the tides : And stringed like an ethereal lyre, The morning sunshine glides From wave to wave, and crowns the sea with fire : I plunge in it, and feel The golden splendor racing through my veins And grow intoxicate with desire To reach the Limitless Unseen, And catch the glitter and the sheen Of that o erwhelming light That floods the Infinite With nought between. My soul forgets its clanking chains : I see the clouds like chariots roll by ; And mount and mount and wheel: I reach them, pass them and then pass the sky And with my soul s wings, still outspread The universe defy. 278 Un a Portuguese <$ar&en I sail on, till the moon is nigh And all the gold fires die : The sea grows calm, and the whole sky Like a great sapphire seems therein to lie. Once more I plunge, and know Who breast the line where sky and sea are one, It is the heart of Heaven I hear in oceans flow : The other beckons upward, and I go And sail up toward the sun That seems to flash and flame and flare As of Jehovah s breath aware, Whose ecstasy I fain would share Whose ecstasy I fain would dare : I dare it pass it, and then pass the sky And fly and fly and fly Into the limitless for which I sigh And with my soul s wings still outspread The universe defy. Jn a Portuguese @atDen 279 AT THE RIVER AGAIN adown the cliff the south winds blow And kiss the drowsy poppies into flame; And the blue river winding on the same Is singing as it ripples soft and low : The lazy bees that through the sunshine go F"or purple shelter of the clover aim And pilgrim butterflies their gold shrines claim Of wide-oped roses that by wayside grow ; All is unchanged ; the sapphire of the sky, The river s limpid flow, the daisies swing, The dew-crowned grass, the swallows sailing by, And sense of music, summer seems to bring As if it, silver-fluted, sigh on sigh Of its own rapture, like some living thing. 280 3Jn a Portuguese arDen ON THE CLIFF I STOOD upon the cliff where wild flowers grew, And countless perfumes filled the summer air, And butterflies were floating here and there; And at my feet outstretched, divinely blue, The ocean lay ; An oriole up flew The blazing sapphire of the heavens to dare, And cross the channeled sky the clouds sailed fair, And the great sun towards its zenith drew. O earth so palpitate with mystery ! O birds and flowers and flaming butterflies, Can ye interpret heart of June to me? Ye make no answer, but a voice replies, Wrung from the mighty travailing of the sea In whose vast undertone the eternal lies. 3n a I>ortitgue0e n The travailing died to murmurs : hill peaks gleamed The blossoms of a larch, shone silvery white ; The day was swooning with too full delight And o er its breast, a liquid glory streamed. No ripple stirred the grass The clover seemed With purple drugged, and the whole cliff in sighs Lay, golden drowsing neath the sun, at height ; And earth and air and sky and ocean dreamed. I watched, as tide-swept, by the matchless glow Silence, in undulations rise and fall, And through the atmosphere, incarnate go, With soundless ecstasy enflooding all, And more entranced, than listening music s flow, Was breathless held, in its consummate thrall. a Portuguese <>arDen in Across the sea illimitably blue, Where the white ships went silent sailing by, I bade my soul on eager pinions fly And to its everlasting moan, find clew. I heard, up from its caves, the tides sweep through, And a lone seagull in the distance cry, And every wave breathed a despairing sigh, As if the heart of ocean broke anew. O sea, upon thine other far-off shore, Thine other shore, for which I needs must pine, My soul will rest, and supplicate no more ; And out beyond this agony of thine, Beyond the ships, with mystic freights they bore, Reach the gold lights that in the harbor shine. a NASTURTIUMS YE have relit your fires of lurid gold, O gay Nasturtiums, and with all the rays Of all the suns of summer are ablaze, Quaffing the noon s elixir as of old ; The lilies by the river, pure and cold, Look wondering toward ye, from their sylvan ways As gaudy poised ye flutter through the days Like butterflies that fain would wings unfold, O gorgeous shining flowers ! O blossom bright Of radiant souled July! out through the dew Ye send a thousand pointed shafts of light That sting me to remembrance anew Ye are the torches, ere the funeral rite The summer s splendid vaunt ere death shall woo. 28-t 3n a Portuguese harden THE VAGRANT I PLUCKED a flower that in an alien place Among the roses I had chanced descry, A vagrant that had wild and sweet and shy, Though exiled, bloomed in solitary grace, No tender care had sought its growth to trace But sun and dew and air, and smiling sky Had wrought their miracles, till roses nigh Could not entice the bees from its embrace ; I know not, if the flowers to mold have grown, But I have wondered whether valley-born That flower had not, though among the roses blown For its own kindred sighed nay yestermorn I saw its golden mate, whose golden zone Was drenched with tears, as if it wept forlorn. 3n a Pottugue0e harden 285 OUT OF THE PRISON HOUSE I HEARD the yearning voice of Spring Clamoring to me like some wild thing; I heard the sapphire sea implore ; I heard the young leaves, o er and o er Cry out, resistless in their gold, To fires within me growing cold : Wake, ailing soul, bid doubts take wing; Wake, and make answer to the Spring! I heard the calling of the wind, Blowing, salt-breathed, and unconfined, That cross the soft young grasses swept, And on its southward journey kept, Bringing me news of flowering plain, And hillside floods let loose again, Calling, "How deep thy wounds, how sharp life s sting, Wake and make answer to the Spring!" Ah, not in vain the cry of Spring, Clamoring to me like some wild thing, For all the rapture of the sea And all the golden ecstasy Of leaves and grass and flowers withal Lift me to wing forth at its call: How hug despair, how heed life s sting, Intoxicate with breath of Spring! 286 3n a Portuguese arDett A VISION I KNOW not what the radiant vision wore, It was some sheeny drapery, of the hue That edging sunset clouds when day is o er, Faints into lilac on the twilight s blue ; The color of the heather sunlit through and through. I know not what, divine withheld, she thought, She had a look of rapture in her eyes, As if from looking eastward she had caught, Glad intimations from the morning skies, That held her soul enthralled with mystic prophecies. I know not where the radiant vision went, She left no flowers that I her way might trace, As loved of Dis, and yet I am content, She will come back the heart of spring to grace, And with the hyacinths take her hyacinthine place. a Portuguese <$arDen TWO MOODS TO-DAY I AM exultant souled to-day, I am a comrade of the sun, And ride the sky, with blue o errun In the sun s own imperial way I am exultant souled to-day. I watch the linden blossoms sway, Their scents intoxicate the air; I quaff it, and forget despair, And the wild will of joy obey I am exultant souled to-day. I am the sun, the sky, the day, I feel impalpable, divine, Their beating hearts beat unto mine; Bid me "God speed" upon my way, I am exultant souled to-day. 288 Jn a Portuguese YESTERDAY So blue the sky of yesterday, Into its bosom I was drawn, And heard the music of the dawn, And held the golden East in sway So blue the sky of yesterday. So matchless, sun of yesterday, I caught the rapture of its pace, And followed, till aflood in space The apocalypse hid earth away So matchless, sun of yesterday. The apocalypse hid earth away ; I held the keys of life and sight. Oh sun, new sun just risen to light, Though a new heaven may lie thy way, I wing the heaven of yesterday. 3n a Porttigue0e Garden 289 TO A FRINGED GENTIAN WHY should I sigh that summer flowers are dead? For fair as any summer flower that grew, Thou art, gentian, brimming with the blue Of the immeasurable deep o erhead. Thou grewest, shadowed in thy mountain bed By the empurpled peaks, and bright with dew, Catching the golden light that flickered through, In shy wild grace, I saw thee lift thy head ; O sky-fringed rapture, thou mayst well be fair, Who liv st mid forest hushes, and its sighs, And hear st the whippoorwill s divine despair ; No wonder that in thine aerial guise Thou shouldst, unconsciously, "the Heavens de clare" Who boldest Heaven in thy cerulean eyes. 290 Un a Portuguese <2>arDen MAGNOLIAS THE full moon o er the dazzling hill-tops sails And shines translucent on the grass below And I half listen, as once long ago, On the Campagna, for the nightingales ; The nightingales sing not, but cross the vales Divinely borne by perfumed winds that blow, Laments of whippoorwills onwafted go To where, full opened, the magnolia pales ; Flooded with splendor the magnolias vie With flowers of Rome ; and the ensilvered hills Might be her classic throne, save that near by Their tangled deeps enbosom whippoorwills. And yet what matters it, far hills or nigh, When the same white May moon the whole world thrills ? 3n a Iportuguese <$arDen 291 LILACS ADOWN a way with lilacs lined I went, The purple of their plumes just breaking through, And half-forgotten dreams within me pent, No longer phantoms, back to beauty grew : And what I mourned as dead sprang into life anew. Shadows of leaves the wind blew to and fro Were drifting, golden, o er the sun-drenched ground, And the whole heavens above and earth below With silence seemed a-throb, as if Spring found The music flooding it, too exquisite for sound. The mists shone on the hills like happy tears ; The white clouds overhead went flocking by ; I caught a scent that came cross gulf of years, Diviner than of lilacs growing nigh ; I was a child again, that had not learned to sigh ! Thus, Spring on Spring, when into purple glow I see the lilacs opening, day by day, Back, cross the stormy gulf of years I go, And age, .and grief, and failures, drop away : Oh, life so bitter sweet I am a child in May. GLADIOLUS I QUESTION not they bear a fitting name, These bladed lilies, as with spears aglow, Lifted in martial order, row on row, I watch their blossoms into color flame ; Some into blush that e en roses shame Some dusky red, some that from orange grow To a faint saffron and then fainter go Into the mystic pallors death might claim. At sight of them I hear adown the years Rome s warriors answering to the battle cry And clash of arms, and thud of feet, and cheers Of the wild multitudes that when drawn-nigh Turn frightened, as the smoke of battle clears, And from the awful scene of carnage fly. 3n a Iportugue0e (SterDen 293 And yet since so allied the lilies grow, Why should I but of death and warfare dream? It is the lilies, not the swords, that gleam And turned from tumults, cross the seas I go To where the peaceful Roman lilies blow On the Campagna and where light winds seem, Waked into music with the sun s first beam, Wafting them, golden-rhythmed, to and fro ; Turned to their signals. Hark ! I hear the sound Of birds exultant singing in the ways Where once rang bugles, and see, morning crowned, Leaned on the skies as in the olden days, The distant dome of the Cathedral, drowned In sapphire-shining deeps, of sapphire haze. SWALLOW, dear swallow, sharp-winged, sailing by, Stay yet, and through the golden sunshine pass, And dart from tree to tree, above the grass, That we, too soon, may not for Summer sigh. Entreat the lingering thrush that mounts on high, Though morning-glories bloom no more, alas ! Unto the heavens to sing its morning mass And drench again the dawn in ecstasy ; Unthinned the quivering leaves, and all aflame The lilies in the field are not o erpast ; Skim low, and brazen sunflowers put to shame Usurping reign of rose too fair to last. Take thy short flights before mine eyes the same ; Thou, who art Summer s lover, hold it fast. Jn a Portuguese (^arUen 295 Thou heedest not, O swallow, my desire, For summer has escaped thee, nor couldst keep, And swift, as to o ertake, I see thee sweep And trail thy shadow cross the sunset s fire ; Thou wilt go on with wings that never tire, Out toward the horizon, when from infant sleep, The moon will cling to bosom of the deep, And the last flickering light of day expire. Ah, if thou hitherward again couldst race, And breathe to me that thou hadst chanced to stray, The ether traversing, to that bright place Through which the summer went its shining way, If broughtst not back summer in thine embrace How welcome thou, I should not bid thee stay. 296 3fn a Portuguese harden Nay, never through the purple air canst glide, And through the twilight s gloom retrace thy ways And find the summer pathway through the haze, Hung o er the forests, that thou swepst aside, The sunset s flame that lured thee long since died, And left no traces of their golden blaze ; And through a newer summer s perfect days Thou wilt once more with perfumed south winds ride. Swallow, oh, swallow, fickle though thou art, Still, still I hold thee dear, who mad st bright track, Flinging the morning s tears from off thy heart, Nor knew st them tears, nor even knew st thy lack, And yet of radiant summer mad st a part, And bore it out, yet cannot bring it back. 3n a Portuguese <$arDen 297 ON A STORM-BEATEN SEA CLIFF FAR from the crowded city and the sound Of its unending traffic, and the glare Of its paved avenues and alleys, where The stones grow hot above the smoking ground I sat and watched the sea with waves, foam crowned, That, flinging rainbows, chased each other there And drank in the intoxicating air As if elixir of the gods were found The cool soft grasses clustered at my feet And fleecy clouds trailed silvery toward the west, And I forgot awhile the fevered heat Of the great city s heart, nay, as each crest Plunged to the sea again in its retreat, Forget all else, save its divine unrest. 298 3n a Portuguese <5acDen Nor yet could turn away, for, masts aglow, I saw a distant ship sail radiant On, and still on, to where the sky down-bent, And out through the inseparate azure go And vanish from my sight; and singing low The waves still frolicking untamed, unspent, Like chosen envoys from the Paternal sent. That would keep covenants in ebb or flow : And then behold, the great sea far and nigh, Blown by the wind, and wrapt in noonday shine, Leaped into emerald surges that rolled by, And I could hear, up from the shore s white line A rushing rapture breaking to a sigh, Nor knew, if from the sea s glad lips or mine. 3n a IPortugitese harden 299 Cliff born and nurtured, on their wind-rocked bed The wild rose and the alder were asleep, Watched by the efflorescent moon, whose sweep Lay past the Pleiades, dimlit o erhead. Across the sky a shining shroud was spread, As the sun lying in state, and upward sped. I heard the waves eternal chorused sweep, Into eternal imploration led. Bright dreams and vague regrets held me in sway, Too bright, too vague for moonlight to trans late, And grief and transport that behind me lay Came rushing back, confronting me with fate ; Nor could sharp weaponed grief, my soul dismay Since Love unslain, could transport recreate. 300 3n a Portuguese arOen IN A SUBURB ALMOST in sight the busy city ends ; Yet here the wild flowers in profusion blow, And grass-grown valleys stretching outward go Where here and there the shining river bends ! Alight with golden fires September spends Her gorgeous days, whose morning vapors go Snatched by the reckless sunshine s reckless glow, And to its noons unshadowed splendor lends. No noises of the city can be heard, Nor faintest movement of the breathless air, But drifting up, with pinions scarcely stirred, Great butterflies their gauzy triumphs bear ; And hark the song of a belated bird Winging the hill peaks with its breast aflare. Jn a Portuguese (DarDen 301 The lapsing hush is broken but by call Of locusts trumpeting an ambushed foe, And swish of waters, in whose tidal flow The very ripples as they rise and fall, Are held by its soft murmurings in thrall. And sinuous stemmed, the floating lilies show They sleep, and dream ; and phantomed faint below The sky dreams with them, sun, and clouds, and all.- The thistle disks, with millions silver rays Like crescent moons abloom, are shining near, And lamps unflickering, all along the ways On mullein spikes, are burning vestal clear, And once more caught to rapture as it sways, That scarlet bird flecking the atmosphere. 302 3n a Portuguese All the day s gold in dazzling attar shines Round foreheads of the hills ! Sublime, they lie Chosen Apostles of the One Most High, Written upon the earth in massive lines Sloped down from heaven, whereon each crest reclines. And through the silence not a breath or sigh Disturbs the infinite dream ; e en bees go by Wafting beatitudes in noiseless signs. With all the beauty that the wild flowers wear, With the sky clasped to bosom of the stream, With lilies floating passionately fair, And the hills blazing, it would almost seem, Lifting mine eyes thereto, they might declare I had been face to face with the Supreme. Kn a pottugue0e arten 303 MILTON LIKE the eternal raptured undertone That shakes the seas great soul from strand to strand The voice of Milton, mighty o er the land Has shaken the realms of music zone on zone. Down silent years its echoes have been blown By breath of Immortality, to grand And grander ring, till England can command The worship of the world for England s own: Milton whose song Heaven s innermost Heaven could dare Milton enthroned as king mong deathless ones Hark, like a rush of planets dazzling fair We seem to hear it as it onward runs ; Runs on sublimely till in upper air, Flame-winged, flame-lit, it passes suns on suns. 304 3n a Portuguese <SarDen AFTER THE BURIAL BRING me some Lethean draught, that I may know A slumber, sound, as in my childhood s years ; Forget awhile to weep, who drown in tears, And hear no more the sighing night winds blow : The whippoorwills that through the moonlight g Sing maddeningly, and all the pallid spheres Flicker and flare, until the night appears Like a colossal presence draped with woe ; Some Lethean draught not poppies, for their red Might feed the fires that burn my pulses so ; I hear a sound of rushing wings o erhead ; And neath the moonlight s constant shifting glow I cannot, cannot sleep She sleeps instead O wanton whippoorwills, sing low, sing low. 3n a Portuguese <$arDen 305 What draught is there that could this anguish slake Or from my brain these visions seem to woo? Or hide the throbbing moonlight from my view? If I should sleep awhile, I might awake, While o er and o er again my heart would break, To hear the whippoorwills complain anew, And endlessly, and endlessly pursue, Those mounting wings I could not overtake. Ah! had I lotus flowers, who still must weep, Like summer roses, on my breast to wear, Something diviner even than childhood s sleep Might fall on me adown the moonlit air: Oblivion, so deep, so heavenly deep That Death itself, to gauge it would not dare. 306 in a Portuguese arDen BROWNING OH England, Mother of that flame-crowned race, High priests of Song, who nurtured on thy breast Live on immortal, Browning with the rest, Proud of thine ownership lift up thy face His birthday on Time s shining page to trace, Whose song, like thunder of the heavens, has pressed Magnificently onward East and West. Till in Fame s citadel it has found place. Fitting his advent to the world of men The nightingales should chorus near and far Who into Epics sang them back again, Enrapturing Springs that ages cannot mar, And set thy heavens to music with a pen Dipt in the flooding splendor of a star. 31n a Portuguese aatDen 307 EDWARD EVERETT HALE TO A GENIUS O SOUL that hast sublime achievements known, Sailing superbly onward planetwise, Sending thy perfect light across the skies, Teach me, a language lofty as thine own ; Lift me to air of that resplendent zone Where thought on thought shall sublimated rise And find their golden way to paradise, Into divinest measured music grown! Down in the lowly valleys where I bide. \, Naught can desire appease, to reach thy height * Thou who art with the stars and suns allied And knowest the ineffable, of light. Go circle space thou canst the worlds outride, Who art Apostle of the Infinite. 308 3n a Portuguese TO A CHILD OF YESTERDAY BELOVED ! Thou wert but a child when I knew thee ; That fearless went forth into mists of the years. Hast thou felt thrust of the weapon that slew me? Hast thou known struggle and blood-sweat and fears, And the wild rain of tears? Thou who wert glad with the gladness of morning, Coming toward April with on-flying feet, Hast thou of blackness of midnights had warn ing? Hast thou grown faint, with the desert sun s heat That on desert sands beat? Yet, what if the whirlwinds of living have rent thee What if thy soul has been shaken with sighs? Haply the lightning that scathed thee, has sent thee Sight of the hilltops on breast of the skies Unto which thou shalt rise. 3n a Portuguese harden 309 Oh, the glory of morning still lies upon thee Healing as hurt, hides in mists of the years Thou hast drawn strength from the hilltops that won thee Risen from whirlwinds and lightnings and tears Into calm of the spheres. 310 nn a Pottugue0e <$arDen O ER the whole earth a quivering silence steals ; The air is sultry and the springs are dry, And gorgeous butterflies drift languorously, And the pale sweetbriar droopingly reveals Its scorched and wilted foliage, as it feels The blazing sky s insistent scrutiny; And the bold thistle, even, seems to sigh ; And, blanched with heat, its purple heart con ceals ; The brazen sun seems brazenly to glance With lured eye, unchanging day by day ; Fierce watching, as to see the mists advance And flocks of phantom swallows sail away, Ere it shall fling to earth its last red lance And, fire-soul d, beauty of the summer slay. 3rt a Portuguese <$atDen sn WHAT WILL IT MATTER? WHAT will it matter in some future day, If shining stars lit my unreasoning heart, Or worn-out worlds in darkness broke away? Whether I sailed life s sea with map and chart, Or tossed unguided till I reached the shore? What will it matter when I toss no more? What will it matter when I lie at rest, Whether I dreamed and soared, and was con tent, Or felt love s sword sharp turned within my breast, And out of heaven to fires of torment went? Whether I died ten thousand deaths before What matter, when I shall have died once more? What will it matter in death s happy sleep, If the inconstant world I loved too well Or too much hated? If I tried to keep Pace with great souls, and won the race or fell? If blind with life I missed its key divine, What will it matter when the key is mine? a YESTERDAY AND TO-DAY YESTERDAY morning I looked forth and said I cannot mend life, I have broken the thread And what should I gain when the whole world is dead ? The hills in the distance were covered with snow And the world although dead, seemed alive in its woe And the wings of thy soul as if wounded, drooped low. Ah was it but yesterday morning I said I cannot mend life, and the whole world is dead With millions hearts beating, and God s over head ? Kn a Portuguese arDett MARGARET WHAT if Beloved I never had known thee? Searching the sunshine and searching the air What if the west wind never had blown thee, Sun-kissed, and smiling, and fair? Hither to me, who while waiting thee long Picked up a reed to blow forth a song With which souls of reeds throng. I blew on the reed, but I never could capture List ning for sound of thy music-shod feet, A song that had lilt of an infinite rapture Fitting thy coming to greet. For song after song from the reed that I blew Fell athrob through the air, like the drip of the dew And to threnodies grew. I turned from the songs and the reed also, know ing That out of some, daffodil April dawn caught The west wind would blow thee a bird s song in blowing With a sky-note from heaven it had brought. Oh not for thine ear, the reed s songs I blew But the daffodil-dream of that bird as it flew Making rainbows of dew. a LIGHT, flaming on the hills And fire-fogs drifting by, And through the thin rifts, sudden thrills Of the enturquoised sky. The dead sun s vivid sign Set in the heavens o erhead, And a young moon s ensilvered line Phantomed upon the red. Soft winds in flower pursuit Rapturing across the vales Music as from an unseen lute Or Lesbean nightingales. Blossoms on bush and tree And grasses dewy bright, And lines of foam upon the sea Like shining drifts of light. Glory that lingering stays, Color, transfiguring air, And blown by breath of th Spring to blaze The universe aflarc. THEODORE ROOSEVELT HIS EXCELLENCY S SOLILOQUY (At Oyster Bay) I HAVE been chosen to be the nation s head, I, who hear constantly the forest s call, Who am by mountain forces held in thrall, Am called the city s bounded streets to tread ; To watch the thoroughfares lest herein led Evil, fierce-fanged, my people should appall. I am their wills embodiment o er all I must keep guard to shield from thing I dread. I flinch not at the task nor turn my face, I, servant of Jehovah, am content To wield his righteous sword and take my place With those to whom through ages he has lent Courage and strength and holiness and grace To hold undaunted, duty s battlement. 316 3n a Portuguese I flinch not at the task, and yet I know With quickening of the blood, how cross the plain The loosed winds blow, and how like a wild strain Of rushing music eagles swirling go, Beating their upward way ; and dropping so The cares of state awhile, chance I may gain, From thought of God s immense, new power to reign And a diviner guardianship bestow. And since mid multitudes my feet are set, I turn me from the mountain peaks aflare Back to Humanity, nor can forget He who once bore it, held it flawless, fair ; I will lead up his way, nor will I let My spirit faint though countless scars I bear. 3n a Poctugue0e (gatDen 317 Country ! wonderful in might and power, Akin to England, yet with loftier skies, With glacial splendors and with suns that rise Transfiguring thy cataracts hour by hour To myriad rainbows tumbling into flower, 1 gird me with the faith that in me lies At call of thy brave sons, stanch-soul d to rise And bove the vapors of misgiving tower. I know how great a thing it is to hold Grip of a nation wearing crown of fame, And pledge thy sons of high resolve made bold Covenant to keep, unheeding praise or blame. And borrowing from the rulers chosen of old, Faithful to serve them, in Jehovah s name. 318 jn a Portuguese <$atDen A SONG (TO A SINGER J. P. M.) NOT with thy lips thou sang st to me From gaugeless deep that in thee lies More music haunted than the sea But sweeter than a nightingale Whose silver notes through moonlight trail Thou sangest with thine eyes. Not with thy lips, thou soul of fire, But like a star that breaks the skies At the empurpled Night s desire, The impulse of whose golden flare Sudden enharps the circling air Thou sangest with thine eyes. No sound of earth can drown the song, For mystical as south winds sighs, That sylvan ways of summer throng, And flute-breathed, through the sunlight bear The forest pines divine despair, Thou sangest with thine eyes. Not with thy lips thou sang st to me; But from the deep that in thee lies More music haunted than the sea : Like some wild thing a-swirl on wing That is ablaze with joy of Spring Thou sangest with thine eyes Thine April eyes. 3n a Portuguese (SarDett 319 INDIAN SUMMER THE lowering skies have lost their sullen gray, And a great blaze of blue is o er them thrown And Autumn smiles, as if the glory flown Came back to dazzle in its olden wav; And wakened bees, no longer loath to stay, Through the warm noontide s mystic tunes intone And haunt the rays, down from the sun s heart grown, As on some phantom lute beguiled to play. It might be June dreamed back to earth again, If morning-glories pink-vined bells would chime, Or if the buttercups held golden reign, For a late oriole stays the heavens to climb And a wild rose burns red. Autumn, all vain Thou cheatest thyself, but thou canst not cheat Time! 320 3n a Portuguese AN APRIL CHILD INTO an April world your first-born came, Stretching his arms aloft, as if to bring Into his tiny palms the soul of Spring And grasp the light with which it was aflame: Listen ! So soft his breathing, it might shame Even the lightest zephyrs, as they ring Flower bells to call the flowers to worshiping, Or the faint sighs that opening hyacinths claim No longer will infinitudes surprise. Ocean and air and sky will seem divine, And in the coming days, when new suns rise. Earth will be halo d, and within its shine, From out the azure deeps of those young eyes, Heaven will look forth, as if vouchsafing sign. 3n a Portuguese <$arDen 321 AN AUGUST SONG I HAVE no heart to sing, For swallows outward wing, And deeper shadows on the grasses fall ; And whippoorwills through longer twilight call, And summer s wine is nearly drained withal, How can I, can I, sing, Swallows on wing? The hills that lie in dream, Still bathed in summer s gleam, Although divine with sapphire, seem to sigh; The heavens they breast look infinitely high The fairest flowers that decked them, have gone by; How can I, can I, sing, Swallows on wing? The evening star, more clear, Glitters like a great tear Wept for the day the day that earlier fleets; There are no longer the impassioned heats The summer s heart ; ah, me, so slow its beats, How can I, can I, sing, Swallows on wing? 322 Un a Portuguese YE WHO WOULD IN YOUR MARBLES LIVE YE who would in your marbles live, beware Lest in your souls some hidden flaws ye bear. For statues that ye dreamed were chiseled fair Will in some reckless curve the truth declare. Kn a Portugue0e (fcarDen 323 HE painted faces fair, supremely fair, Faultless in drawing and with coloring fine, A hint of Genius in every line, But never one that could an aureole wear ; Circes, and women with their bosoms bare, And sea nymphs rising from the foamy brine With wanton locks outflung, as to entwine Around men s souls and, strangling, drown them there : O Art, transcendent Art, if in thy guise The senses can be moved, how canst thou keep Thy holy garments from the grime that flies Thickening earth s air? Go and hurl fathoms deep Brushes that cannot paint in women s eyes Beatitudes that to the saints might leap ! 324 3n a Portuguese <$arDgn A PORTRAIT OF A FRIEND AFTER MANY SITTINGS ODD as a species, not for oddness sake, And never pleased the common ground to take ; Disdaining all conventional display, And full of moods, as is an April day ; Frowning and pensive, smiling and disturbed, With a strong will, that never has been curbed : Yet as the April s splendor Is always tender, The little children linger at his knee, Because he, too, a little child can be: Standing apart As one distinct ; kissing the lips of Art And yet, because in harmony most rare With Nature, owning Nature is more fair ; Ennobling life with finest sentiment, And looking in the eyes of Truth, content. As some grand painting, that, in sunlight hung Discloses to the world, with subtile power, The essence of some dreamer s songs unsung, The perfume of some soul s immortal flower : So standing thus apart, As one uplifted to the eternal heart, Man s possible, with God s doth seem to blend No limit and no end. a Portuguese arDen THE LADY TO THE. SCULPTOR PERCHANCE when you have put my soul to test And smiling think its tortuous ways you know, Some splendid moment of desire may grow Swift lifted to my face from out my breast, Into a look where some high dream expressed Shall shine out clear. Then ere the moment go Sheath it in marble ; fix the rapture so That they who see, shall know me at my best. But could you when another mood is mine And an insurgent grief held me in sway Within the marble s frozen calm confine The swelling flood and bid it therein stay? Would not your genius, appalled, divine The marble pain would break itself away? 326 3n a Portuguese atten TO THE SOUTH WIND ETHEHEAL minstrel wandering through May, Spirit, whose breath is wafted far and nigh, Thou art an echo of the inviolate sigh Creation drew, on its perfected way ; Winged with the heat, thou callest on the day, With bloom s omnipotence, to make reply, And as the steed of swallows, racest by Lest the pursuing Summer should gain sway ; As Spring s ambassador, thou canst unfold Secrets of eagles dwellings and of vales ; And trail st through grasses, all a-quiver with gold, In murmured transport as of nightingales ; Span st earth and sea, but canst not, canst not hold Yon hurrying cloud that past the sunset sails. a portugue0e TO THE WEST WINDS DIVINE Apostle of the Summer, blow ; The rose is waiting thee, and in the grass Thy purple lovers long for thee to pass And thine old rapture, at their presence, show ; I see thee, coming o er the hilltops, slow, As listening to the oriole s morning mass, Nor yet hast whispered to the vales, alas, The forest secrets that they fain would know : Haunt sylvan dells, and, from the exiles there, Bring the wild odors on thy swiftening way, And into reckless, golden riot, bear The calm, unwavering sunshine of the day ; Thou, who hast power to kiss the Summer fair, Prove Sorcerer, and kiss one that will stay. 328 3ht a Portuguese <$atDen AN OLD COMPANION TRANSCENDENT South Wind, hast thou come to bring A message from that radiant long ago? Bring then the old dreams back, that I may know Thou art, in truth, the evangel of the spring; Loosen the mists that round the mornings cling, And to the summer drawing nigh breathe low That o er its unclosed roses thou wilt blow And fan to gorgeous bloom with thy warm wing. Thou art unchanged, chasing in thy wild play The sun s resplendent locks that flood the sky And stream, untamed, across the fields of May ; And I wait breathless, as thou wanderest by, The recognition, who couldst once convey The rapture of an Eden, in a sigh. 3n a Portuguese atDen 329 A SUMMER SONG A MEADOW lark singing the flash of a wing, A vista through treetops of measureless blue, A golden meshed gossamer caught from the Spring, Summer, sunflooded and you. The glint of a river hills stretching in line, Soft grasses, wind wafted, a-shine with the dew, A tangle of blossoms on branch and on vine, Summer, flower-breasted and you. White clouds sailing outward the Sun at its noon, The heavens all a-quiver June blazoning through, My soul like a wild bird, in swirl of a tune, Summer the tune s swirl and you. 330 3n a Portuguese harden ONE SUMMER DAY O SUMMER day, Thou canst not, canst not go away, For memory of thy birds and flowers, And thine intoxicating hours, Vivid within my heart will stay : The winds, that clover scented, blow The marguerites with hearts aglow, All, all, will stay; Thou canst not, canst not go away, O perfect summer day! O summer day, Thou canst not, canst not go away, Forever in the sunshine drowned, Forever with the roses crowned, Thou canst hold even Time at bay. The transfixed noon with light ablaze, The horizon lined with tender haze: All, all, will stay ; Thou canst not, canst not go away, O perfect summer day! 3n a Portuguese <arDen 331 TO A DEAD DAY DEAR day, whose skies arch still celestial blue, Peerless, enchanting and mysterious day, Thy roses through the eternal years will stay Forever perfumed and forever new; Thy nightingales that singing skyward flew; Thy sun s gold heart that scattered ray on ray, As if with light the grasses to downweigh; Nothing will change, nothing the joy undo. Out of his fairest heaven God fashioned thee, O thou one perfect day ! and well I know, Though there shall bloom no more such flowers for me, Though never more such haunting strains shall flow From other nightingales, I hold the key To that vast door through which Love s feet may 332 an a Ipottuguege acDen TO A BRONZE SEA-GULL OH, sea-gull metal bound ! Breathe in your sculptured calm that "death is sweet," For as perchance your wet wings skyward beat, In life s supremest moment you were crowned Through dazzling glimpse of heaven, with si lence most profound. Haply within your breast, The passion of unresting waves is pent ; And as from blinding spray you whirling went, Your majesty of daring was expressed (Reaching too high for motion) in this nobler rest. Ah ! glimpse of heaven once won Triumph of silence, who would dare gainsay? If our own fetters could be torn away The pent up, mad ning pain of life were done And ecstasy of death would flood us like the sun. Kit a Portuguese (gatPen I CANNOT SAY I CANNOT say, oh, Life, I am content, Although the world is so supremely fair, Yet when I fain would soar, the mists ensnare, And ere I reach the Sun, my strength is spent ; Through all its labyrinths I have been sent, And in its tortuous paths have reached to where I know there is no gauge to Love s despair, And from its deep abysses no ascent. What wantest thou, my Soul? Since I have spanned All human agonies, what more needst dread? Art thou so dull thou canst not understand Because, unhealed, my wounds have constant bled, Caged, fettered, songless, by hope s wings un- fanned, I want, forevermore, I want my dead. jfn a Portuguese <>artien And yet, poor craven soul, wouldst call thy dead Chance from the Apocalypse? Hush yester night When the great sun dropt down its dying light And bathed the world in jasper and in red, Ashamed of puerile tears and doubts, I said, If such earth s glory why shouldst grudge the sight To thy beloved of yonder Heaven, alight With the effulgence streaming round God s head? Ah ! well for me, that I can nought decide, We shall be left no choice, my soul and I, We bruise our wings, yet cannot override The bars that separate the earth and sky, And I I shall not know, till I have died How far, O soul, and whither, thou shalt fly. 3n a Portuguese arDen 335 EASTWARD EASTWAHD I turned mine eyes, though hope was done, From whence the Springtime came, new hope to bear, And saw a vision, than the Spring more fair, Float outward past the sun. Adrift upon the sky the pale moon lay, As silver witness signaling the night, Yet still with soul transfigured by the light Fearless she went her way. O vision that to-day the dawn enspheres, To-morrow, if beyond the hyacinths blown. If past the sun of Spring; the night winds moan, Mine, mine be all the tears. 336 Jn a Portugue0e TO THE RISING SUN THOU ageless Sun, uprising warm and clear, As set to watch from out the heavens above Take hence thy light, it will not reach me here, I see but my dead Love. Although thou hurl st thy million rays below, Death has eluded even thy sharpest dart ; Withdraw thy weapons, thou hast missed the foe To plunge them in my heart. Thou ageless Sun, thou soulless golden blot, With thy full splendor, from the heavens above, Thou strik st the coffin lid I see thee not ; I see but mv dead Love. 3n a Portuguese (gatPen 337 TO THE ECLIPSED MOON THICK veiled, and blushing like a bride, O Moon, Superbly sailing o er the dusky sky, Hast seen a fiery planet drawing nigh That lent thee glow, red as the sun at noon? Or hast thou in the sudden joy of June With the sweet rapture of its kiss grown shy, Hidden thine o erwhelming ecstasy In a strange shadow that will pass thee soon? Divine pale moon, the passing shadow o er, With thy transcendent silver all agleam, Thou goest on thy way supreme once more And flood st the sky, that shining makes the seem More beautiful than e en thou wert before Wakened from mystery of a wondrous dream. 338 3n a Portuguese <0arDen THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE WITH a transcendent smile Love came to me And held me, willing captive, through the days, Leading o er flowering fields and sylvan ways, That I his infinite domain might see: Innumerable birds, wild-winged and free, Swept, singing, eastward past the sun s full rays, And jonquils with their golden hearts ablaze Flashed, with the joy of Spring, their joy to me: On, on and on, I wandered, at Love s side, Until far out beyond the horizon s verge, The darkness dropped the sun itself had died ; And losing foothold, I was gulfed in surge Of grief s o erwhelming sea. "Love, Love," I cried, "Hast thou betrayed with rapture, thus to scourge?" a ortuue0e <DarDen 339 Love drew me to the shore, and though the night Was lingering yet, and though I still heard moan Of that insurgent sea, the heavens had grown Lambent, as with a planet s soul in sight. "O Love," I whispered, "though I swoon with might Of swelling tides, thou the same tides hast known ; Which path thou choosest I will make mine own Lead on, thou canst the sun that died relight." Behold, I have kept faith with Love, although O er countless Calvarys my fet have passed, For always on their up-reared crosses, glow, Of his seraphic presence has been cast ; And mightier than grief s awful undertow Love has uplifted, yea, and held me fast. a Portuguese <$arDen IN BLOSSOM TIME IT is the carnival of spring, the golden time That Aphrodite held most fair ; When leaves transparent glisten in the air And scents of wild flowers through the sunshine climb. When hilltops catch the dazzling light And spill it broadcast ; where like yellow suns The dandelions shine ; and o er the soft grass runs, Kissed by a zephyr lightly wandering by, A tremor exquisite. And meadow larks, with wings awhirl on high, Sing choruses exultant as they fly, And nothing, nothing is amiss in all the earth or sky. 3n a Portuguese arten 341 The blossoms, with which trees are crowned, With their insistent blushes, film the air And through the rose mist gleaming here and there A loosened petal flutters to the ground. The swallows, busy building, dart away, With prescient knowledge happy twittering ; And milk-white in the pastures young lambs play. Chasing the shimmering shadows, light clouds fling, The overflowing brooks run sparkling by, Half-wakened bees on lilac bosoms lie, And nothing, nothing is amiss in all the earth or sky. 3*2 Jn a Portuguese arDen Beauty reigns absolute: The fir trees shine, Tipped with pale emerald, and pines line upon line; Caught in the glow, Repeat their litanies, in whispers hushed and low ; The violet horizon in the distance dips, And a sky-raptured lark from out the chorus slips, Plunging the ether, and is lost to sight. The carnival is at its height, And, lo! I know, I know By nature s power to recreate, whose witnesses crowd nigh; By all the blossoms at my feet, and meadow larks on high, By a new ecstasy of hope that will not let me sigh, That nothing, nothing is amiss in all the earth or sky. In a Portuguese (garden 343 THE SONGS OF THE SILENCES i FROM the deeps of burning color o er the skies of morning spread I have heard the mighty transport of the sun that leaps o erhead, And across cerulean spaces, that the noontide splendors span, Caught the tunes, Chance, rapturing ages, echoed from the reeds of Pan. i i Through the purple hush of twilight that across the ether springs I have heard the mystic wafting of the fireflies glittering wings, And enrhythming the darkness, as a lark s song rhythms light. Heard the golden scintillations of the stars em blazoning night. 344 3(n a Portugueae <>ar&en From immeasurable distance of a full moon calm and white I have heard th insistent glory dropping from its silver height, And from out the forest pine trees with their ecstasy aflare Heard asolian intimations like a flute s divine de spair. Ah, no more earth s limitations can my daring soul restrain ; Nevermore, who have seen summits, will I grovel on the plain, For, in sublimated moments, by th Eternal swept along, I have heard the heart of silence, beating suffo cate with song. Jin a Portuguese harden 345 THE SILENCE OF GENIUS WITHIN her being leaped a sacred fire ; She dreamed the dreams that to immortals come, And soared to language than of music higher, Although her lips were dumb. She could interpret the Auroral lights, And the Sea s everlasting undertone, And made the solitudes of far-off heights Companions of her own ! The flowers communed with her ; the west winds sent Divine salutes to her across the grass, And with her listening ear to forests bent She heard the Eternal pass. The glory of the Sun within her dwelt ; The vast of planets she could overcome, And all that was, and is, and shall be, felt, Although her lips were dumb. 3*6 3n a Portuguese (garden TO SAPPHO BELOVED of gods and by the gods inspired Who from thy land s intoxicate ether, drew Immeasurable music, till it grew Articulate to Heaven, Art still is fired, Listening thy lyrics as they go untired The echoing years reverberating through, With longing in some strain to find the clew To Arts supernal, but through gods acquired. What golden passion in thy soul became The voice divine, not mine to hold the key, But chance some mighty love s volcanic flame Sprang skyward into deathless ecstasy Thy Lesbian skies are strange, yet still I claim What songs thou sang st to Greece, thou sang st to me. a Portuguese (gatDen MIDNIGHT OH, for some way To keep these dimly burning thoughts of mine From their strange flickering, till, day by day Grown to pure light, they leap to flame divine, And from new deeps I may find words to tell Of suns ineffable, unreached, that in me dwell. Oh, for a lyre Like that of old, from which the Lesbian drew The golden blaze of an ecstatic fire That into hymn to Aphrodite grew That, still undrowned, floats over Grecian seas And echoes, changeless sweet, in wind-kissed olive trees. Oh, for some sign That, monstrous still with clay, my soul may grow Sublime, exalted as with Thracian wine, To such fair shaping all its scars will go ; That some time o er death s deathless seas will float From out my sun-emblazoned heart a deathless note. A CAGED BIRD SINGING THOU yellow plumaged bird, that sweet and strong Singest imprisoned as if thou wert free, I would some way thou couldst impart to me The golden secret of thy happy song. Perchance in thine unruffled breast may throng Memories of blossoms grown on some far tree That a perpetual summer make for thee, Enflooding thee with sunshine all day long: Glad bird sing on, I would be glad the same, But mockery of thy summer dream have met ; Memories may be thy solace I but aim With my whole soul s insistence to forget So fair the Elysian fields with flowers aflame When I became a captive to regret. a Portiigue0e <>arDen 349 THE GIFT OF A WILD FLOWER DID you pluck the flower for the flower In the grace of an exquisite hour, When your soul soared lofty and free To the Soul you meant it should be? In the grace of that exquisite hour. Did you pluck the flower for the flower, Or did you pluck it for me? Did you pluck it because it was white, In a dream of impassioned delight, Or because in its heart you could see What a sublimate summer might be? In the grace of that exquisite hour Did you pluck the flower for the flower, Or did you pluck it for me? If you plucked it, the shy, white thing, With a heart like a bluebird s in spring, What matter whichever it be? It is part of the spring s decree. In the grace of that exquisite hour You gave two souls to the flower, And one one floated to me. 350 Kn a Portuguese IN A FOREST BETWEEN the somber trees, the yellow light Drifts into yellow streams, whose ripples go Drenching the ground where the wild hyacinths blow Until the deepest hidden dells grow bright ; The blue heavens, here and there, break into sight Through leaf-fringed openings, while orioles go And to the sun their glittering bosoms show, Cleaving the noon-day silence in their flight ; An unseen presence seems to haunt the shade, Where purple deeps, to deeps more purple cling, Whose voice, mysterious borne through every glade, Mysterious melodies is murmuring, As if JSolian tunes that once Pan played Were set afloat again by breath of Spring. 351 HOW I LEARNED TO SING A CHILD, first thing I knew Strange visions came and went and lifted me Into a deep unresting ecstasy, Where with each thought that grew I felt my soul escape. Such little thing To cleave the ether like a bird on wing, It seemed to me, and so, I learned to sing. I searched the summer sky, Mysterious voices murmured in the air, My heart the splendid music seemed to share And made divine reply. I heard strange measures through the azure ring, I thought it was the sun s heart answering, I listened all intent, and so, I learned to sing. Later, life mastered me, I kissed the frozen lips of mute despair, Yet still the visions stayed, as if to bear My shattered harmony Up grief s whole scale. Love s joy became Love s sting, Then knowledge broke my heart, and so I learned to sing. 352 3n a Portuguese aartien I KNOW NOT WHY I KNOW not why Some voices thrill me so. Touching some palms Sudden my pulses passionately fly And I forget the calms Of false content, and want to do, and be Something divine that they may give their hearts to me. A subtle pain Troubles my soul to infinite desire, Some chord mysterious that has silent lain Flashes to fire, And mornings grow more bright and moons more fair, I climb love s mystic height through music s sweet despair. Ah, could I keep My soul to heights I dream, then I might know What gods have known and be attuned to sweep Of planets as they flow, And in sublime discovery of their swing From love s new altitude to love s new knowl edge spring. 3n a Portuguese (harden 353 TO OXCE more, only once more, if I could be Flooded with joy that shines in thy young eyes, And turned from weeping, let my soul baptize In its unfathomed sea, How passing sweet, Love s shining shores relit, To drown in it. So thought I yesterday, in craven mood ; To-day I can my craven thoughts forego, And watch thy smiling face, who love thee so, Its rapture understood, Nor grudge the rose blooms strewn thy pathway o er, But fling one more. Thou art so fair, the rain will pass thee by ; Over thy path, I dream, the arc will shine; Lift up thy happy eyes and mark the sign, Thou wert not born to sigh. Go, nor need st shun what shall be thine to meet ; Go Life is sweet. jn a Portuguese THE VIRGIN TO HER SON ON CHRISTMAS DAY I LIFT mine eyes, O Christ, to thee, To thee, my splendor browed, Who with Jehovah, holdest heaven in sway, Yet smilest unto me. Around thee multitudes of angels crowd, Flinging their palms down in thy way, And singing thee, upon this festal day, Their loftiest songs of praise. And yet I held thee, when I knew earth s ways, A child, all warm upon my breast, And hushed thee, star watched, into rest My sinless one ! Now thou mak st luminous heaven s uttermost height Winged with the glory of eternal light My shining one ! Thou art incarnate Love is it to show Unto all heaven thy love thou smilest so, My Lord, my Christ, my King, my Son? an a Portuguese (garden 355 I draw me nearer unto thee, To thee, my heavenly eyed, For to the place kept vacant at thy side, With shimmer of thy wings, thou beckonest me. I am thy mother, and I gave the name That all thy hosts proclaim, And cherubim and seraphim make way, That I may touch thy garment s hem to-day. I knew thee with thy wounds, thy foes, Thy human woes, My sinless one. Now thou mak st luminous heaven s uttermost height Winged with the glory of eternal light, My shining one ! Thou art incarnate Love Is it to show Unto all heaven thy love, thou smilest so. My Lord, my Christ, my King, my Son? TO A YOUNG POET I KNOW thee not, and yet I know Thou art a minstrel, holding flute That deep-breathed, thou hast learned to blow And in thy silver songs pursuit Hast wakened echoes high and low That else were mute. I only know with splendid might The golden noted measures fall, Flaming their way like liquid light, From out thy heart, to hearts of all, And that thou canst on music s height The world enthrall. an a Portuguese (garDen 357 THE WAY TO ARCADY NAY, tell me not the way, I said, To Arcady to Arcady, For I have learned its way to tread ; Not always with the blue o erhead, For oftentimes the path has led To wild flowers blooming o er the dead ; Then, smitten with scent of violets, Swept into singing with regrets, If singing, I could pain defy, I know the way to Arcady To Arcady. The way is full of thorns, I said, To Arcady to Arcady, Beneath the heavens whose sun has fled ; I wear their crown upon my head, Yet if my soul with wings upsped Sails to the singing overspread, I am content, though through despair I plunge, to reach the rapture there ; Although engulfed in tears I lie, I weep, on shores of Arcady Of Arcady. 358 Jn a Portuguese <$ac&en Nay, tell me not the way, I said, To Arcady to Arcady, For I have learned its way to tread ; I wear Love s crown upon my head, I am content, though brows have bled, Though tears must evermore be shed : I know the ecstasy divine, Born of the pang for Love is mine, If Love can so Love s pangs defy I know the way to Arcady To Arcady. 3n a Portuguese (gacDett 359 AT THE BIER RED on your bosom you wear Rose that at sunrise blew, Sleeping all unaware ; Beloved, I whisper to you This is my soul s adieu. Dear, when the roses first came, One, breathed my passion to you ; This, with its petals aflame, As if drenched with my heart s blood through, This, is my soul s adieu. Heard you the angels wings beat Down through the fathomless blue? You have o ertaken them, sweet ! Angel, that sunrise updrew, This is my soul s adieu. 360 jfn a Portuguese Garden A VISION LURED by mysterious voices clear and strong, I sailed the ether upon wings of fire, Holding intoxicate with flight, life s lyre Swelling and vibrant with imprisoned song ; I smote the strings that dazzling seemed to throng Down from the sun whose glory drew me nigher, And soundless raptures answering my desire Into a vivid rainbow swept along: soul, rejoice! for in that arc sublime That ran cross heaven like lightning, golden, fleet, The rhythmic silences broke into chime Than Phrygian music more divinely sweet : And bove life s lyre, above the pulse of Time, 1 heard the pulse of the Eternal beat. 3n a portiigiie0e (SarDett SGI SUNSET that lingerest, blood red in the West, I am so shadow haunted, thou so bright, From the full blaze of thine exceeding light I turn me for a while, mine eyes to rest, Fade, fade, and flaunt no more thy blazoned breast ; And let me be companioned with the night And its calm stars, that as they steal to sight May bring me solace in some way unguessed; Fade swiftly, and shut out the world from me ; Thy light like a sharp sword above me gleams, For in the desert of my soul I see Shining above me, mirrored by thy beams, From its vast ruin borne at thy decree, Mirage of buried city of my dreams. 362 3n a Portuguese THANKSGIVING LORD God of Hosts, we set this day aside In which to thank Thee, for the wondrous ways Thou hast vouchsafed fulfillment to the days, And the lands golden harvests multiplied, For peace and progress reigning side by side ; For truth s increase, that civic movement sways ; And for the light of Christ, that changeless stays Starring the ages, race on race, to guide: We thank Thee, Oh, Thou Giver Infinite, For the great boon of life yes, and for death The splendid pause, ere an unfettered flight For Love that the whole world encompasseth ; And for the promised Heaven, whose uttermost height Is luminous with lightning of Thy breath. 3n a pottugue0e Garden 363 TO PAIN TIGER, hot-breathed, that clutchest at my heart, And cruel watchest bleeding drops that fall, Loose me, and let my soul escape the thrall That keeps me from my pangless love apart ; Loose me, and sleep awhile ; why shouldst thou start, And with the threatening of thy fangs appall? My dead is dead beyond the reach withal Of wounds like mine, to fester and to smart. Even in thy grasp, it eases me to know Thou canst not longer my beloved affright, And that thou, fierce-eyed, will not dare to go Where he lies beautiful and still and white. Thou art Death s ally, Love s relentless foe, How cope with thee who murderer art by right? 36* an a Portuguese <$atDen TO DEATH BREAK swift the chain that binds me to the rack, O thou divine sweet Death, and let me be From the vast agony of Life set free ; Freeze down my eyelids, that on desert track, My feet late trod, I can no more look back, And unto me, in hushed benignity The gift, thou gavest my beloved, decree, Who went his way, beyond the zodiac ; And yet I have so loved the flowerlit ways, And swathed in purple all the peaks in sight Companioned by them, through the lonely days, Dear Death, ere thou shalt bear me into night, Once more, to them I fain mine eyes would raise, That I might take with me their heavenly light. 3n a Portuguese @arDen 365 THE DECREE OF LOVE LOVE drank the dregs of a consummate woe And grew intoxicate with its despair. Innumerable discords filled the air, And Music fled and knew not where to go. "O Angel of the Past," Love whispered, "show The Demon of the Present what a snare Is set for jubilant feet, what masks men wear Who seem to live, and yet but grave-damps know. Lo ! shattered at my feet, empty of wine, Life s goblet lies ; yea, empty even of lees. And yet what revelations have been mine, What sunlit calms, what thunder-riven seas ! It is not love," Love said, "that is divine ; It is the eternal anguish Love decrees." 366 3n a pottugue$e TO PAN PIPE me a song, O Pan, On a reed by a river found Where never a hope was drowned ; On a reed from a river that ran With the Sunrise forever o er it ; But joy of the heavens that bore it; Pipe it to me if you can. Pipe me a song, O Pan, A song with an impulse as high As the music that dropped from the sky When the lark s wild rapture o erran ; A lark, with a Sunrise o er it, But joy of the heavens that bore it ; Pipe it to me if you can. Pipe me a song, Pan ; Pipe to this sad soul of mine A song, than the lark s more divine, That Love in Love s Eden began ; A song with the Sunrise o er it But joy of the heavens that bore it; Pipe back to me if you can. Kn a Portuguese <&arDen 367 MY HOPE AFLOOD with life, before I knew its name, I hold it fairest gift, so well I know That in the Springtime, when the wild flowers blow, With all its forces I shall be aflame. I own eternal things, for I can claim Thoughts winged like winds that through Im- menses go, Searching the uttermost places, high and low, That, born of Heaven, Earth s breath can never tame: I am content, that dark of Death must be, Because in splendor of the Eternal scheme Death has been given place ; but I can see A lovelit Heaven bove winds that blow, agleam ; And know, if here or there, earth-bound or free, I am Immortal, child of the Supreme. 368 3n a Portuguese O BUTTERFLIES elusive, hovering nigh The overblown wild roses, that reveal The shrunken and tarnished gold they wear, as seal Of the fierce sun s insistent scrutiny. Drifting adown the ether silently, Ye hear the thistles sigh as with appeal For their lost purple, while the wild bees steal, Rivaling your place on their blanched breasts to lie. Beneath the brazen sky ye slow advance From flower to flower all through the languid day, As if their drooping souls ye would entrance ; Drift on, drift airy on, on and away, For soon, too soon, the sun with blood-red lance Will ruthless, summer, ye are part of, slay. a Portuguese (garEen 369 AN EARLY BUTTERFLY THOU glittering, gauze-winged harbinger of May, Never through saffron meshes of its light To see another morning s sun, rise bright, And sail forth zenithward upon its way, Hast thou no gossamer desire to stay? Or wilt thou be content, from untired flight, Within some lily s bosom shrouded white To find thy grave, when thou hast lived thy day? The secret thou wilt gain I fain would know, Nay, I half envy thee thy coming sleep, For with unhealed regrets and stygian woe, I, who so covet sunshine, am a-reek, Whilst thou, with ecstasy unchanged, wilt go From tryst with life thy tryst with Death to keep. 370 3Jn a Portuguese <atDen TO A BUTTERFLY IN THE CITY BRIGHT vision sailing through the city s street, Basking in sunshine of the autumn day, Didst hither from thy purple castle stray, Enticed by rhythmic chime of busy feet? The deafening noises clanging round thee beat ; In wild amaze I see thee search the way To find thy happy mates in airy play; But, crushed in whirl, death signals thy defeat. Defeat? Rather let me believe, nay, claim, That when thou went st, by airs elysian fanned, Thou wert uplifted with thy soul aflame, And touched by some ethereal spirit hand A music-breasted nightingale became, And hast ere this the blue, victorious scanned. 3n a porniffue0e Garden 371 TO A BUTTERFLY ON THE SEASHORE WHEREFORE, O butterfly, hast left the rose, The rose that all too soon will blush no more? Thou sailest, solitary, past the shore, Lured to the sea, the sea whose ebbs and flows Make massive music, and whose salt breath blows, And alien startles thee, as turn st to soar. Haste ! hear st thou not, the white shells hover ing o er The muffled rushes of eternal woes? Dreamer of roses, gossamer delight, Back to the flowers, if thou must wander, go ! Go live thy day with all thy dreams in sight ; Thou art thyself a gauze-winged dream, that, lo! Shouldst vanish blissful ere the purple night, Since of the dead rose thou wilt never know. 372 3n a Portuguese <$arUen THE MADONNA MOTHER of all the mothers born to weep Since in that shed at Bethlehem thy breast Pillowed Christ s golden head, wert thou not blest? Yea ! though thou saw st Him crucified to keep Love paramount, that thou could st bridge the deep Of thine own woe with resurrection s test, And scape Demeter s anguish of unrest, Who stayed, for Proserpine, the season s sweep? O pitying one, that leavest a trail of light, Outshining gates of Heaven, that thou mayst bring Earth s broken-hearted mothers to the Light, Hast thou not seen within thy luminous ring A little child holding thy garments tight Who was so beautiful I called him Spring? Jn a Portuguese <$ar&en 373 MUSIC, IN AN AVENUE I KNEW the Minstrel not, and yet I knew He played on pipes of Pan as he went by, And that a passion boundless as the sky Ran like a golden flame, his measures through. I thought, this Minstrel will the gods pursue Till they await his coming, nor deny That their melodious ways together lie, The while he dreams some deathless note to woo ! On, past me, like a nightingale he swept, While the June air a-throb with music swayed, On, through the avenue where the stone hounds slept ; And as the western glory on them strayed, I think they roused, but a fierce silence kept, Quelled by the magic of the strains he played. 374 3n a Portuguese <$arUen They who play pipes of Pan are never spent, And I shall hear, from some resplendent height That he will reach in his imperial flight, Rapture on rapture by the Minstrel sent ; Elect to race with gods, behold he went Flying upon his way toward Love and Light, That are their fairest goals, and tuned to sight Came face to face with the Omnipotent. Flute on, Minstrel in thy wondrous June ! And all the lilies, listening thee, will blow, And cross more silver seas will sail the moon, Till with song-bladed wings thy soul shall go And out of some near Eden snatch a tune, That all the coming centuries shall know. Jn a Portuguese <$artien 375 TO A FLOCK OF DOVES OH doves, that in my childhood wakened me As cooing from the long low roof ye swept, How often to my window have I crept The heaving of thy snowy breasts to see, And watched ye fluttering by to some near tree With throats agleam, while ye still cooing kept, Then startled turn, as if your young still slept, And plunge yourselves in morning s radiancy. Oh doves, divine, sweet doves, ye have flown by ; Wherefore did I not then your wings implore And hide me from Life s awful scrutiny, Or to a refuge on some Sinai soar? Oh dove, come back and teach my soul to fly, And lend your peace, ye doves, your peace and more. 376 3n a Portuguese THE ENCHANTED LAND THOU enchanted land, thou land of dreams, In which with childhood s fabled gods I dwelt, From those immortals unto whom I knelt, The golden light of revelation streams ; 1 see upon their mighty foreheads gleams Of that Elysian sun, neath which I felt I too was of their race, ere time had dealt Its weaponeal blows, and left these scars and seams ; It is the coming Spring that stirs my veins And bears to a dull red life s smoldering fire ; I hear the echoes of Olympian strains, And as the flower-shod Spring draws nigher and nigher, From that far dreamland, ere Spring wholly reigns, Hark, the faint music of Apollo s lyre. fln a Portuguese harden 377 A RHAPSODY I LIE in a dream, Spring scents blowing o er me, Elysian expanses stretched endless before me, And hear, as from Eden, evangels implore me. Through the outswept horizon, in golden air show ing, Shine wind-wafted palm trees, and white lilies blowing. And my soul seems enwinged, toward eternal light going. I lie in a transport ah, is it but seeming? Shall I waken unlit, by the glory down stream ing? Then let me remain, on divine brink of dreaming. 378 3n a Portuguese IN MID-OCEAN MILLIONS of emerald waves that light the sea Beckon me back to that imperial shore Where August wildflowers glitter as of yore ; I, turned to that, where blooms the fleur-de-lis. Beyond the sheen, I know how radiantly Enamored butterflies, through sunshine, soar And bees with golden shackles wander o er Their gaudy prisons, reckless as if free. The ship I tread seems breathing as it plies ; I feel its great heart beat like some live thing ; I watch the sea it wounds, that, half healed, lies Trailing behind to where I fain would wing, And sweeping past all these immensities, In sight of hilltops hear the thrushes sing. 3tt a Portugue0e harden 379 An endless bosomed sea, stretched east and west, Still palpitating with the unweaned night, A monstrous waste of waves, nought else in sight Save the great sun just rising, as in quest Of the drowned universe: Lo, crest on crest Of the dark waves, breaks into silver light, And I am lifted out of half-affright, To where my soul and morning are abreast ; Yet speed, brave ship, speed onward to that shore Where sing the nightingales neath perfect moons, And let me see upon the grass once more The August sunshine wooing August noons, And in some sylvan glade hear o er and o er The forest harps whisper JEolian tunes. 380 3n a Portuguese artien MARGUERITES I PLUCKED the marguerites I loved so well, With yellow petals that seemed one by one Like dazzling rays drawn downward from the sun And circling set, till to these flowers they fell. "O signals of the past," I said, "go tell The birds high singing, with the Spring o errun, Ye will be breathless when Spring s self is done, Who heard their playmate answering from the dell." Careless I pass, though gorgeous to behold Myriads of wildflowers that the light winds swing. For these, brimmed with the noon s incarnate gold, That to their sunrayed hearts the old light bring, Till I can see, as years had backward rolled, That star-voiced child still, star-voiced, chasing Spring. 3n a Portuguese (DatDen ssi UNFETTERED THE insistent sunshine has impassioned brought Anemones and violets to sight; And from their fragrances the birds in flight Have a divine intoxication caught, And into their impetuous songs have wrought New fire of ecstasy ! Lilies grow white And flash to silver bloom, in dazzling light Of the imperial days, and skies wear naught Of fleece or shadow, but serene and fair With azure palpitate. Illumined swing The ruby fringes budding maples bear, And the warm vapor rising seems to bring Mysterious murmurs pulsing through the air Like the winged rapture of escaping spring. 382 jn a Portuguese <$arDen DAFFODILS Beneath the irised dawns of early spring, The daffodils have drunken their fill of gold From the great yellow-breasted sun, and hold Their leaf-rimmed chalices aloft, and swing Tall stemmed and slender, as if so to bring Into their deeps the raptures manifold, That spilled from Heaven are to an avalanche rolled From choirs of birds in music rioting: The earth seems borne to one tumultuous song As of a breathless ecstasy possessed, And its warm blood that hurrying sweeps along Runs like a tide through each gold-laden breast, And to these perfumed flowers that spring s heart throng The mighty passion of spring s heart is pressed. Jn a Pottugue0e <!5arDen TO A MARCH BLUE BIRD THOU lover of the April, sweeping by With azure bladed wings, and bosom bright, Thou stayest not, in thine impatient flight, But to the dazzling hearted sun on high, Waiting thy coming in the eastern sky, Thou hurriest to pour forth thy delight. Sing, though not yet, thine April is in sight And thou mayst lure her soundless footsteps nigh; Thou art not daunted, though thou hear st the ring, Above the murmurous voices in the air, Of the March breezes noisy trumpeting; But singest, for her coming to prepare, Seeing adown the mystic hills of spring The streaming gold of thy beloved s hair. SEA GULLS THE sea s salt winds are blowing to and fro The soft young grasses on the headland nigh, And bove the foaming surges swirling by, Out through the opal spray, the white gulls go - Out, tireless out they wheel, until they grow, As past the sunrise in full flower they fly, Into pale blurs of silver lines, that lie Phantomed on the horizon s burnished glow What pilgrimage is theirs, as bathed in light, They vanish from my vision, none can say ; If to some fairy sea that lies in sight Or to their cliff-built nests they take their way ; I only know that guided in their flight Nor winds nor tempests from their goal can stay. 3n a Portuguese aarften 385 A FELLOW CRAFTSMAN THOU fellow craftsman in the world of thought, Who from its everlasting deeps hast won Consummate visions radiant as the sun ; Hast thou in some transcendent moment wrought A dawn s resplendence into verse, or caught The rapture of a thrush when day was done And felt it through thy veins enflooding run To scarlet rhythm? If so, thou needest naught. If so, then all the jeweled pomp of kings Would not entice thee larger grandeurs thine Who canst send forth thy soul upon its wings And sweep out past the stars and in a line Put goldener fires than shine in Saturn s rings. If so, thou hast quaffed Heaven, in Heaven s own wine. 386 3n a Portuguese <$ar&en THE CORONATION LONDON, JUNE TWENTY-SECOND LONDON ablaze in its June pageantry Consummate bloom and color everywhere, With ensigns streaming through the yellow air, And measured thud of horses, far and nigh, And lines of stately chariots rolling by, And glittering stars that into rainbows flare That foreign potentates and princes wear, And England s King and Queen, neath En gland s sky ; On, on, and on, in royal state they came, Summer s omnipotence at golden crest; And crowds, in thoroughfares with flowers aflame, Eager to watch their coming, breathless pressed, While from their lips sprang forth, with one ac claim A mighty transport echoing East and West. Kn a Portugue0e (garden 387 And music swirled, and through the air up flew, Higher and higher and higher, and still more high, Until it smote the bosom of the sky And into an o erwhelming rapture grew, As if, the music played the ages through At all the Coronations, flooding by Into the chorus as it crashed on high, Had Time escaping, leaped to sound anew ; On, on, Archbishops gorgeously arrayed, Envoys and Papal Powers and soldiers massed, To beat of drums, and blare of bugles played, Triumphal borne, the King and Queen went past, The tribute of a Kingdom still unpaid, To claim, their Seals of Sovereignty at last. 388 3n a Portuguese <>arDcn O ercanopied with June, on, on they went Into the Abbey, wherein have been crowned All England s Kings, and where, new kingdoms found, They sleep upon its breast magnificent ; The royal pair, as if for Sacrament, Waited enrapt ; and all the air was drowned In a vast hush, like music slipped from sound, While the Archbishops, splendid laden, bent, And mid the Prelates, with their ritual power Amid the mighty, mighty with renown, The whole high heaven, as prescient of the hour, Upon the twain, dazzling enthroned, looked down, And saw them each each England s flawless flower Regal receive, the baptism of a Crown. 3n a Portuguese (gartien 389 AFTER THE CORONATION THE splendid coronation rites are o er; The Te Deums sung; and the young King and Queen Crowned and anointed mid the pomp and sheen, Have left the Abbey to its hush once more: The streets are filled with people ; din and roar Of London s traffic has been changed to scene Of unaccustomed revels, and between The Mall and Strand, thousands and thousands pour. St. Paul s is bathed in light ; the summer air Is like a prism, ashine with every hue; The city s heavy smoke lies here and there, Like amber mountains, piled against the blue, And songs in snatches, are heard everywhere With notes of happy laughter rippling through. 390 Jn a Portuguese harden And dotted over London s mighty breast, Like mimic stars, in glittering points of gold, The wonders of the countless shows are told : A child s balloon escapes ; music is pressed From toy harmonicas, and all unguessed Puzzles are shown, that lure both young and old To watch their solving by the Fakirs bold, In gorgeous oriental costumes dressed : The sea of pleasure rushes madly on, And cares are half forgotten in the glow ; And even England s yeomen have been won From fields, where violets and hawthorne blow, And hills with heather purpling in the sun Boldly, through labyrinthine snares, to go: 3fn a Portuguese (Satden 391 Gayer and gayer still, the streets have grown ; The crowds have quaffed the sparkle and the gleam Of June s imperial wine, and as in dream With tireless feet tread ways with flowers be strewn : The Sun that through the days has riotous shone, Has sent down, now and then, a scarlet beam That lit the Abbey, standing forth supreme, As if to massive flame it had been blown : The city s noisy murmur ebbs and flows, Cannons afar off* boom, and near bells ring, Life into tidal exultation grows, The multitudes rejoice the planets swing: And this, O England, is thy matchless show, London thy people, and thy new crowned King. 392 3n a Portuguese AT THE LAST I IF this is the end, what is left me to say? I have loved, I have dreamed, and have soared, and have wept, And the world will not know when I sail past the bay Since mine eyes on invisible beacons were kept That my passionate heart drop by drop bled away. II The world will not know, nay, it never has known, That my soul has swept morning from east unto west Upon what pinions lifted, through what ether blown What knowledge have I who have lain breast to breast With the transcendent sun on its transcendent throne. 3n a Portuguese ffatDen 393 in If this is the end, what is left me to say? I have been to the gateways of asphodels borne And the world will forget when I sail past the bay Though my footprints have paths to Gethsemane worn That my passionate heart drop by drop bled away.