No More Learning

In a point to aeons withdrawn. . . .
A scarce visible speck of light,
His own sun like a mite,
And the blur of his own little dawn.


II

Now the Dreamer, who rode by night
In the car of the Spirit thro' space,
Came in the blue of June morning,
In a mood betwixt pity and scorning,
To the populous market-place.

Afar in the infinite blue
Hung the snow-capped mountain-ranges;
But round him moved the press
Of the city's business
In kaleidoscopic changes.

For the square was all life and all colour,
All confusion and clamour,
As dealers showed the paces
Of colts, untamed in the traces,
To the rap of the auctioneer's hammer.

He saw there the dusty sheep
Trotting blindly amidst the throng;
The swine with quivering snouts,
The boys who urged them with shouts,
The hawkers of picture and song;

The brown-skinned peasants trudging
By their slow-paced bullock wains,
With children asprawl the load,
And wives who scolded and rode
With an eye to their husbands' gains;

The hooknosed Orient merchants,
Who came in the caravans
And bargained over the prices
Of silks and carpets and spices,
Pearls and feathers and fans;

The clumsy sailors in ear-rings
From the echoing harbour beach,
With parrots and shells for their wares,
The light of the sun in their stares,
The sound of the wind in their speech.

And the shrill-voiced changers of money
Who sat with their clerks at the tables. . . .
And it seemed to him all no matter
As he gazed . . . like the evening chatter
Of starlings under his gables.


III

And lo! hard by at a pillar
Two learned Sophists disputed,
Taking the turn of speech
And disciples applauded each
Or else each other confuted

With babble and clenching of fist,
And thrusting of face into face,
And saying "Demus hath reason"
Or "Lycas hath conquered. The season
Of Demus hath passed, and his place

"Is with us no longer. " And mildly
The grave-eyed Dreamer watched them
Shouting and seething and ranting.
But, when they perceived him, panting
(For a sudden impulse snatched them)

Ran up a crowd of both factions
And cried, "Oh! Master, befriend us,
For we all of us know thou art wisest,
That thou speakest the truth and despisest
No man and his need. Therefore lend us

"Thy wisdom in this our dilemma. "
And the Dreamer answered, "I hear. "
So they told him with quibble and chatter. . . .
And it seemed to him all no matter
Like the croaking of frogs in a mere.


IV

And behold! there ran thro' the market,
Hard by where the Dreamer stood,
A natural, void of desire
Save for warmth of the sun or of fire
Or for softness abed or food.

Naught held he dearer in mind,
Save the branched lightning veins;
And in naught more strongly rejoiced
Save the sound of the thunder deep-voiced
Or the fertile flash of the rains

Or the seas climbing into the harbour;
And so thro' the market he ran
Happy and careless and free
(Him no man heeded for he
Was a boy who would ne'er be a man)

Munching the gift of a cake,
A pilfered apple or fig,
Or danced with his shadow awhile,
Smiling a secret smile,
Or twirled a hued whirligig.

And the Dreamer called to him, "Come! "
As he skipped in the sun with his Shadow.
And the boy came doubtful and shy
With a timid foot and eye,
As a young horse comes in a meadow.

And the Dreamer touched his cheek
And murmured, "Be not afraid,"
And the boy took heart and smiled,
For the voice was tender and mild,
And then half sadly it said,

"Oh! ye who have called me the Master,
The Teller of Truth, and the Wise,
Oh! ye who have strayed in the dark
Give ear to my saying and mark,
For I give you a pearl of price,

"A dark saying, and a hard saying
To those who read it aright--
This natural, whom ye see,
Is wiser, Oh! blind ones, than ye,
And thus have I learned in the night. "




DIALOGUES.




The Parting of Lancelot and Guinevere.

(Mallory paraphrased. )


"Be as be may," said Lancelot,
"I go upon my quest. "
So mounted he and rode alone
Eight days into the West.
And to a nunnery came at last
Hard by a forest ride,
And walking in the cloister-shades
Was by the Queen espied.
And, when she saw him, swooned she thrice
And said, when speak she might,
"Ye marvel why I make this fare?
'Tis truly for the sight
Of yonder knight that standeth there,
And so must ever be;
Wherefore I pray you swiftly go
And call him unto me. "
And to them all said Guinevere
When Lancelot was brought
"Fair ladies, thro' this man and me
Hath all this war been wrought,
And death of the most noblest knights
Of whom we have record.
And thro' the love we loved is slain
My own most noble lord.
Wherefor, Sir Lancelot, wit thou well,
As thou dost wish my weal,
That I am set in such a plight
To get my dear soul heal.
For sinners were the Saints in Heaven
And trust I in God's grace
To sit that day at Christ's right hand
And see His Blessed Face.
Therefore I heartily require
And do beseech thee sore
For all the love betwixt us was
To see my face no more.
But bid thee now, on God's behalf,
That thou my side forsake,
And to thy kingdom turn again,
And keep thy realm from wrake.
My heart, as well it loved thee once,
Serveth me not arights
To see thee, sithen is destroyed
The flower of kings and knights.
Therefore now get thee to thy realm
And take to thee a wife
And live with her in joy and bliss,
And pray God mend my life. "
"Nay, Madam," said Sir Lancelot,
"That shall I never do,
For I should never be so false
Of that I promised you.
But unto the same destiny
As you I will me take,
And cast me specially to pray
For you, for Jesu's sake.
In you I take record of God,
Mine earthly joy I found,
And had you willed had taken you
To dwell on mine own ground.
But sithen you are thus disposed
And will the world forsake,
Be now ensured that I likewise
To penance will me take,
And so, if haply I may find
A hermit white or grey
Who shall receive and shrive me clean,
While lasteth life will pray.
Wherefore I pray you kiss me now,
And never then no mo. "
"Nay," said the Queen, "Oh! get thee gone,
That can I never do. "
So parted they with wondrous dole
And swooned for their great teen
And to her chamber scarce on live
Her ladies bare the Queen.
But Lancelot woke at last and went
And took his horse from keeping,
And all that day and all that night
Rode thro' a forest weeping.




The Hermit and the Faun.


A hermit knelt before his door
Long-bearded, bald of head,
When a laughing faun peeped thro' the brake
And these the words he said,
"My mother was a water-nymph
And in these woods I grew,
The faun, Amyntas, is my name,
To what name answer you?
How came you to this lonely hut,
Why kneel you in the dust,
With scalp as bald as a beggar's bowl
And beard as red as rust?
Why make you with those knotted claws
Your gestures strange and sad?
The sheep-bells tinkle from the plain,
The forest paths are glad. "

"Oh! creature of the wood and wild
You may not know my name,
It was forgotten long ago
For it was one of shame.
Therefore I made a vow to dwell
Upon this forest brink
And take the ripened nuts for food
And catch the rain for drink,
To scrape wild honey from the rocks
And make my bed on leaves
Because of the hot sins of my youth
Whereat my spirit grieves. "

"Not such as you, Oh! ancient man,
Our joyous Satyrs here:
Old men are they all laughter-mad
Who wallow in good cheer.
Amid lush grasses soft and cool
They make their feasting ground,
With smilax and with bryony
Their rosy pates are crowned.
You see them thro' the forest trunks
Great rolling gladsome shapes,
Who prop themselves on skins of wine
By purple piles of grapes.
Their huge brown bellies quake with mirth,
Their ancient eyes are bright,
And there they sit and roar old tales
Far, far into the night.
Then tipsy with the heady juice
Each falls into a heap,
Till white-horned morning bids him wake
With all the land from sleep. "

"Oft lying in this lonely hut
On panting summer nights
I watched the stars like silver lamps
Hung from those purple heights,
And heard the forest-depths behind
Fill with disquieting noise
Like frightened cries of flying girls
And shouts of eager boys,
And saw white shapes go flitting past
Like runners in a race
And caught faint murmurs, sighs and laughs
From all the forest place.
And oft a distant sound of shouts
Came with the soft night airs,
And I . . . lest evil might befall
Got swiftly to my prayers. "

"And tell me now, Oh! ancient man,
The God to whom you pray,
These woods know none but mighty Pan
Whom all our folk obey.
His altar stands by yonder plane
And there the shepherds bring,
Toiling up from the fields below,
Each day an offering,
A lamb or else a yearling kid,
A bud-horned lusty fellow,
Great cheeses, grapes, or bursting figs,
Or apples red and yellow,
Or melons ripened in the sun
A foot from end to end.
Such gifts the shepherds bring to Pan
That he may be their friend.

"He is our Father, Lord of all,
From the meadow to the Pass,
So . . . pray you to a painted bird,
Or green snake in the grass? "

"Rash Thing, beware," the Hermit cried,
Like agates were his eyes,
"The God I serve you do not know
A strong God, just and wise.
For He will purge your streams and woods,
And smite both hip and thigh
Your Satyrs, amorous bestial sots,
Your careless company
Who wanton in the thymy ways
In which these woods abound,
And kiss with soft empurpled mouths,
Luxuriantly crowned.
My soul is filled with prophecy;
Dimly I see a bark
Which runs by some low wooded isle;
The night is warm and dark,
And from a promontory rings
A sudden bitter cry,
It smites the lonely helmsman's ears
And tingles in the sky.
'Oh! Traveller, tell in every land
These tidings strange and dread,
Let all the peoples wail and weep,
For Pan, great Pan, is dead. '"

Amyntas pursed his pouting lips
And shook his curly head,
"Farewell, old man, the forest calls;
I like you not," he said.
"Your flesh is dried, your ribs are lean,
You are too lank and sere,
Your voice is harsh, your words are grim
And do not please mine ear.
The great god Pan is all I need
And all I wish to know,
My Father Pan, the shepherd's god,
And now, old man, I go. "

Behind him closed a greening brake,
And, after many a hail,
He joined his gay companions
And gambolled in a vale.




Love's Defiance.


"Light of my life lie close
Oh! Love, I have found you at last;
Let me hear your low sweet voice
The knell of the aching past.
The lashes lie on your cheek
Oh! lift them and show me your eyes;
Twin stars in a mortal face,
They are soft, they are kind, they are wise. "

"Heart of my hungry heart
My hero whose hand is in mine
If we fall let it be to the pit,
For to-day we have touched the divine.
Time has stood still to-day. . . .
This day which has squandered its sun.
It has been all glory and gold
All perfect days in this one. "

"Light of my life, my love,
My lady of dreams, lie near,
The evening sighs thro' the pines,
Hark! do you feel no fear?
The light of love flashes out. . . .
Oh! wonder so old and so new--
I am strong with the strength of that name,
Dear, when I look at you. "

"Heart of my beating heart,
My friend whose forehead I kiss
In the days which were not days,
Weaker was I than this.
In the years which the locust ate
My spirit clove to the dust,
But now--come fate--I am bold,
I build on a higher trust. "

"Light of my life, my Queen,
Let us quarrel no more with life--
The tears--or the final truth--
We are victors now in the strife.
With its purer days of joy
With its prison anguish too,
All myself, and the past of myself,
My darling, worship you. "

"Heart of my singing heart,
My lover, my lord, all hail!
Fear shall be underfoot,
I feel that we shall not fail.
In the shadowy land we leave
The grim wolves raven and bark,
But our hearts are steadfast at length
And our faces turn from the dark. "




The Playmates.


"Oh! Mary, Mary, my Mary, oh!
You looked so bonny then.
Will you no give me your little hand,
The sweetest hand I ken? "

"Oh! I will give you my little hand,
I'm sweir to say you no,
Oh! I'll now give you my hands both
My friendship for to show. "

"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie dear,
The tears stand in these eyne.
Will you no give me a kind word
For the sake of old lang syne? "

"Oh! I will give you a kind word
Tho' I have little skill,
For the time that we were children
And played upon the hill. "

"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lass o' gold,
Will you no give me a kiss?
My heart, I think, is like to break
If you refuse me this. "

"Alas! and if I must refuse
You will not think me bad.
That your heart should break for my sake,
In truth it makes me sad. "

"Oh! Mary, Mary, my lassie oh!
I will be true as steel.
Will you no give me your promised word
For the love that I do feel? "

"Indeed--indeed--I like you well
Aye, better than my brother,
But I canna give you my promised word
For--I must wait for another. "




DRAMAS.




June and November.


On a day, long ago, I was just a child,
I walked with my lover, my arm in his arm,
Half of me was sad and half with joy was wild,
The wind was so soft and the sun was so warm.
I walked with my lover to his pretty nonsense listening,
And I pressed my beating heart against my lover's side;
And tho' my voice was steady my traitor eyes were glistening,
I showed to my lover all I wished to hide.
His vows were so tender, his speech was so fluent,
He whispered his sorrow if ever we must part.
My heart in my bosom fluttered and played truant,
So I gave it him all . . . my innocent heart.
On a green bank amidst the purple irises,
And the shadow of a pine-wood across it was flung,
I gave him soft words, I gave him my kisses,
I gave him myself--myself that was so young.
On a day, long ago, (pity to remember
How the wind was soft, how the sun was warm,)--
Then it was June and now it is November,
Then I knew no evil nor thought of any harm.




A Foolish Tragedy.


In the capital of Valladolid
There lived a highborn maiden
In a white house in a steep street
With green doors and shutters,
Her lips were like scarlet poppies
And her hair like a black waterfall,
And behind her ear she wore
A flower of red geranium.

And her Spanish lover sighed
And in his love he cried,
"Heaven were nearer
If she were dearer,
She is the most wonderful and beautiful thing
In the capital of Valladolid.

"If I could persuade her father,
That fierce and rich old Councillor,
Not to despise my suit
But let me speak to his daughter,
I would esteem it more
Than the rank of a Grandee of Spain,
A cargo of spices from Java
Or a galleon laden with silver. "

Under a brazen crucifix
And the outstretched arms of our Saviour
(And over her ivory shoulder
Her black hair poured like a waterfall)
To Mary, Mother of Heaven,
Prayed the foolish maiden,
"Mary, send me a lover,
Young and tender and handsome. "

It chanced on a day of festival
In the capital of Valladolid
That their eyes met at a crossing
And their two souls rushed together.
By the greed of a bought duenna
And the interchange of love-notes
And the help of a hempen ladder
They arranged a meeting at midnight.

Her father, the rich old Councillor,
Looked out of a second-floor window
And passed his sword thro' the body
Of one who climbed up a ladder.
His fingers loosed the rungs
And down he crashed to the pavement.
And out of his handsome body
His startled spirit departed.

And the Spanish maiden cried
And moaned until she died,
"My lover dead,
My honour sped. "
So ended a foolish tragedy
In the capital of Valladolid.




Alone!


I

Alone and built of a pallid stone
Across the levels looked her house
And tattered plot, where nought had grown
But withered trees which creaked their boughs.
No fruit or blossom or petal blown
Was there to gladden mournful eyes,
But all was drab and monotone
Beneath a reign of leaden skies.
A red, red weed was all the flower,
Which crawled serpiginous about
The marsh, unchanged from hour to hour
Until the evening blotted out
The landscape which she called her own.

And, save for a ridge of bent and sand,
Which rose between them and the sea,
The marshes stretched on either hand,
And, ever looking, wearied she
Of low sad purple and sombre brown
And, where the rivulets trickled down,
Moss-tracks of vivid green,
And stiff grey grasses which bend and sigh,
As the marsh wind wails and passes by,
And quagmires in between
The firmer ground--and over all
She heard the curlews' dreary call
As they piped eternally.


II

In the days of grace, in the good days gone,
She had set him up on a golden throne,
The face of a god and a heart of stone,
But now she must live alone,
Alone, alone, alone
In a little grey house of stone
Which stares o'er the marshes towards the sea
Where the great grey waves roll sullenly
Night and day for ever and aye
With mournful voices which seem to say
"Alone, alone, alone. "


III

She laid her down on a sandy ledge,
Alone,
And buried her face amid the sedge
And mourned till eve for a broken pledge,
Alone,
And the great grey sea began to moan
Gathering noise from depths unknown
And boomed with a hollow undertone
"Alone, alone, alone. "


IV

Up came the night with funeral wing
The ominous depths o'ershadowing,
But she lay a dumb insentient thing--
Alone with a heart of stone,
With neither tears nor hopes nor fears
And the booming swell like a monstrous knell
Tolled strongly in her ears.


V

Alone, alone, alone,
She who had loved and known
On other nights like this
Strong arms about her and many a kiss
And words of gentle tone.

Alone, alone, alone,
A woman she had known
Like a figure carved from stone
Held a letter in her hand
She scarce could understand
Of words which hardly could be read
"Goodbye--There is nothing to be said. "

* * * * *

Ah! God, if she had known.

Alone, alone, alone,
She who had longed for love by stealth
As a gold-mad miser longs for wealth
Or a poet longs for fame,
Her seared numb body had just an ache
For a pitiful pitiless last mistake
And the smirch upon her name.


VI

A shrill chill wind blew out of the West
As a young child wails for a Mother's breast,
It broke the swell and whitened each crest
And moaned "I come with a strange behest;
The dead are happier. They are at rest
Alone, alone, alone,
Each under a graven stone,
Where the poppies are red
In the homes of the dead
And their scarlet petals spill
And the seabirds scream
As they wheel and gleam
And the seawinds whistle shrill.
The dead are happy, for they are free
They have said farewell to misery,
Alone
Each under a stone;
But the hearts which mourn for a faithless friend
Can never, never, never mend,
And so they break for friendship's sake
Alone, alone, alone. "


VII

The sea wind blew like a wild lament
For loved ones dying or love mis-spent
And still in her hollow of sand and bent
She lay alone, alone,
And stared out into the keening blast
Not heeding the future or mourning the past,
For past and future were one.


VIII

Ah! pity her, who needed it most--
But in the village along the coast
Are those who tremble and moan,
Seeming to wait alone
For a dreadful something unknown,
As the tempest travels gathering force
And sobs and howls and raves and roars
And laughs like a demon band,
And the great waves clamber into the bay
With voices triumphant which seem to say
"Hurrah! Hurrah! we have found a prey
But we seek another on land. "

Ah! shivering fisherwife in your shawl,
Perhaps they have found a prey
Who leap and shout in the bay,
And you will weep for the grief of it all
For many and many a day.


IX

All night the moon peered wan and pale
Thro' rifts in a scudding storm-rent veil
O'er a moving mountainous waste.
All night did the climbers rear and roar
And fall with a crash upon the shore,
League on league of them coming in haste
Till they broke and leapt no more,
Leaping and shouting until they broke
Upon the screaming shore.
And the simple hardy fisherfolk
Kept watch and slept no more,
As the wicked wind raved down the street
With gouts of foam and slings of sleet
And battered at every door.

All night the tiles like chips of straw
Were borne, and the air was filled with the roar
Of the monstrous symphony.
But its music lulled as the morning came
And touched the East with a rosy flame,
And whitened a hard clear sky,
And the tide drew out far far to the sea
Which shouted less tumultuously,
Tho' its voices were heard for a sign,
As it beat upon the barrier rocks
With the baffled rage of the Equinox
In a spouting misty line.


X

After a night so fierce and foul
What wonder such a day?
The wind, which shrieked like a tortured soul
Last night across the bay,
Blew high and keen like a violin
And dashed the blue with spray.

After a night so mad and wild
An afternoon of blue,
Of glinting, winking, glad blue waters
And breakers only a few,
Of light and azure undefiled
With scarce a cloud in view.

And at the hour of evening prayer
Came three who roamed the shore,
The sea was older, colder, and greyer,
And moved and murmured more.

Amid the waste of heaven and sea
A body lay alone,
Half in a pool and half on the knee
Of an ancient mossy stone.

The sea had saved a poor little fool
From life and all its harms,
Her body lay in a lonely pool--
Not in a lover's arms.

And on her cheek the mask of peace
And on her lips the smile
Of those who mourn and find release,
Who know, not love, the vile.




The Wraith.


A pale wraith stood in the dim grey dawn
Beside his old love's bed
Wavering like a film of lawn
And wrang his hands and said,
"Oh! I have come to make my prayer
For I cannot take my rest
When I think of the red crown I called your hair
And the cold stone in your breast.

"Out of the eyeless hopeless dark
The nights that are black and grey
Never a moon or faint star-spark
Or a lonely glimmer of day.
Oh! my love, I have come, love,
From the ebony gates of death
For the sake of the red crown I called your hair
And the jasmine of your breath. "

But his voice was lost like a mouse's scream
In a lonely empty house,
And the woman lay in a tender dream
Of love and orchard boughs,
Her cheeks were flushed and twice she sighed
As she turned upon her bed
And she had no thought for the thing that cried
Or the utterance of the dead.




The Two Murderers.


"Yes, it was I that killed her
I did it with this knife,
Her that was more to me once. . . .
Well, just the whole of my life.
Take me away and hide me,
Or kill me afore I'm mad. . . .
It's rummy to think of me hanging
Who was such a quiet lad.

"I met her here on the tow-path,
Same as I used in May,
There wasn't no moon yet, only
The scent of the new-mown hay,
And I says--well--I thought for a moment
The happy times was near,
'The light that shineth in darkness
Is the light of your eyes, my dear. '

"Murder! a court full of lawyers. . . .
And justice guaranteed. . . .
And the judge will hang the prisoner
'For a cowardly cruel deed. '. . .
Murder! --excuse my laughing! . . .
It's a kind of catch in the breath. . . .
'But there's words more harsh than a rope is
And looks more bitter than death. '

"Murder! My Lud, if ever
Their ledgers are balanced true
Which of the pair? . . . Oh! I reckon
That she killed something too.
. . . Is it the scent of a woman's hair
Or the scent of new-mown hay? . . .
Don't stand there shaking and staring,
For God's sake take me away. "




REFLECTIONS.




The Wind and the Hills.


We will carry our ills
To a height of the hills,
Lying down, lying still
In the lap of a hill.

The wind blowing keen
Shall again make us clean,
Both body and spirit;
As it passes we shall hear it.

The time is of thunder
And fields new turned under,
Of budding and waking;
Of thorn-blossom flaking.

Of longing and questing;
Of carol and nesting;
Of white birds on the wing
Over seas blue with spring.

But you read in the pages
Of the books of the sages,
And save that dark curtain
They know nothing certain,

Except that dark portal
Which waits all things mortal--
And conqueror or prophet
Comprehend no more of it.

Yet the wind travels so
That it surely must know;
It has gone the world round
Till it came to our ground.

And the hills, which stood fast
Ere the first axe was cast
And have seen so much history,
May have fathomed the mystery.

But the hills on our borders
Are silent old warders,
And the winds which rejoice
No articulate voice.

Oh! ye pure larger airs
Ye will scatter our cares--
Mighty bastions of ours,
Uplift that which cowers,

For behind your grave brows
Are a thousand strong "Nows--"
And the wind has a "must"
In its rude healthy gust.

How it braces and rightens
That wind to make Titans!
Its strenuous wooing
Says, "Up, lads, and doing. "

So leaving the high down
Like giants we stride down;
While the valleys before us
Resound to our chorus.

Having been each a seer
To whom all things were near,
Not resenting or grieving
But simply believing.




The Happy Ones.


They awaited with head erect
Whatever fate could befall them;
Tried but the good to recollect,
Cried for the truth to call them.
To be loved by the children of other suns
And send a message to find them,
This is the fate of the happiest ones
Tho' the mortar of life may grind them.
They were like swimmers breasting the waves
In the troughs of a stormy channel,
They are silent now in their lonely graves,
But the world has become the panel.
They wore the truth like a bridal dress
And sorrow like wedding apparel,
Tho' the placid laughed at their foolishness
And the cynic sneered from his barrel.
Or like the wandering Ishmaelites,
Who found no city to dwell in,
Whose lonely hearts ached for pleasant sights,
Whose graves were the places they fell in,
Rock their pillow and sand their bed,
As the sun of the desert paints them;
The fierce kites screaming overhead,
And the hands of all men against them.
But a word goes out and over the earth,
From the silent burying-places,
Like a gentle rain in a land of dearth,
And lights up the tired faces.
It brings a roof and a sweet abode
To many a soul that is vagrant;
Their names are blossoms along the road
And their lives are for ever fragrant.
We who sorrow are brothers of theirs,
Because of their beautiful sorrows,
Wheat will grow up among the tares,
And young corn grow in the furrows.




A Question.


Why do you prate to me
Of deeds unjust and just,
Moved by a story of good
Or a monstrous tale of crimes--
Me that can have no loves
But star-eyed queens long dust,
Me that can mourn no griefs
But the tears in poets' rhymes?




The Earth.


The Earth and her travail are ancient,
Her gods have but reigned for a while--
The moon-crowned Queen Astarte,
The barking god of the Nile.
Her temples were raised and builded,
And crumbled again to the dust--
Her worships have been and vanished--
But the heart of the Earth is just.




Aspirations.


For that Thou pointest further still
Than that dumb hand upon the hour
Nor givest the boon to sap the will,
I thank Thee, wise and tender power.

For that Thou givest my soul some pride,
Not grudging sorrow for a mate,
For this my wild and lovely bride
I thank Thee, just, compassionate.

For that Thou givest my soul some strength
Of that high strength which rules the stars,
To brave the time and wait the length,
I bless Thy name and kiss my scars.




Romance.


Know the decree that natures such as mine
Must clasp the World and find her half-divine,
Hyperion-souls which need no anodyne.
Once more, once more ye come, ye lovely shapes,
Voicing the magic "Ye are Gods, not Apes. "
And oh! the Glory over seas and capes.
In memory only! --What that memory gave
Of our young day, so brief and yet so brave,
Will lead us half reluctant to the grave.
Tho' it existed not--lived never--only came
From some vast depth of dateless woe and shame
Striving to give its high desire a name,
The glory dies not; leaves us tired and still;
We cannot follow, even if we will;
The Afterglow! Ah! there--beyond the hill.






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