LIFE AND DREAMS 
 
 POEMS 
 
 By E. L. E. 
 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 Copyright, 1895, ^"^ 
 
 G. W. Dillinghain, Publisher, 
 
 Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co 
 
 MDCCCXCV. 
 \All Rights Reserved.'] 
 

CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 
 Page 
 
 Invocation 9 
 
 A ReaLcm for Song 1 1 
 
 The Violin .... 
 
 
 
 
 • 13 
 
 The Voices of the Wind . 
 
 
 
 
 15 
 
 Dancing at Dawn 
 
 
 
 
 16 
 
 The Lark .... 
 
 
 
 
 17 
 
 The Nightingale . 
 
 
 
 
 18 
 
 Why the Nightingale Sings 
 
 
 
 
 19 
 
 In Pleasant Valley 
 
 
 
 
 20 
 
 Autumn Travelers 
 
 
 
 
 22 
 
 A Humanitarian . 
 
 
 
 
 ^2> 
 
 The Alpine Horn 
 
 
 
 
 24 
 
 Night 
 
 
 
 
 25 
 
 The Old Garden .... 
 
 
 
 
 26 
 
 Midnight Revelry 
 
 
 
 
 27 
 
 Maiden Reveries . 
 
 
 
 
 28 
 
 Love's Absent© . 
 
 
 
 
 29 
 
 m 
 
VI 
 
 Contents, 
 
 Morning 
 
 Recognition 
 
 My Dream . 
 
 To Janie 
 
 On Her Photograph 
 
 Jaine .... 
 
 April 1892 
 
 To an Unanswering God 
 
 An Answer . 
 
 The Soul's Journey 
 
 Death's Mystery . 
 
 Resignation . 
 
 Calling on Death . 
 
 Clairvoyante 
 
 Anguish 
 
 Death Found 
 
 Madness 
 
 Death Waits 
 
 Death the Consoler 
 
 Sargent's Picture 
 
 Sonnets 
 
 Evening in Pleasant Valley 
 
 Day and Night 
 
 My House of Dreams . 
 
 The Haunted Garden . 
 
 The Old House . 
 
 Late Happiness . 
 
 The Enchanter's House 
 
Contents. 
 
 The Place of Dreams 
 
 My Lady's Chamber 
 
 Going with Death 
 
 Longing for Death 
 
 Starlight and the Moon 
 
 Heavenly Promises 
 
 The Silent Guest . 
 
 At Death's Door . 
 
 Deatli's Messenger 
 
 The Palace of Death 
 
 The Retreat 
 
 Consolation 
 
 Threnody 
 
 Returned 
 
 Cytherea 
 
 The Trespass 
 
 The Winds . 
 
 Echo . 
 
 May 
 
 June 
 
 The Protecting Oak 
 
 The Oak's Plea for Violets 
 
 The Voice in the Oak 
 
 Sunrise , 
 
 A Poet's Choice . 
 
 Love Unattended 
 
 Resignation . 
 
 Lilies and Roses . 
 
 VI 1 
 
 Page 
 88 
 89 
 91 
 94 
 95 
 96 
 
 97 
 
 99 
 
 100 
 102 
 106 
 no 
 
 113 
 116 
 118 
 119 
 121 
 123 
 128 
 128 
 130 
 132 
 
 135 
 136 
 138 
 
 139 
 141 
 
 143 
 
vm 
 
 Contents, 
 
 
 Page 
 
 The Withered Rose 
 
 . 145 
 
 Love and Sorrow . . . . • 
 
 . 147 
 
 Silent Companionship .... 
 
 . 149 
 
 Arachne's Robe 
 
 . 151 
 
 The Laurel 
 
 • 152 
 
 Worldly Goods 
 
 . 154 
 
 My Quiet Hours ....•• 
 
 . 155 
 
 Autumn Revery 
 
 . 158 
 
INVOCATION. 
 
 What thou hast promised, when thy Soul 
 Awoke, thou must fulfill. To sit 
 Beneath the solemn dome where Life 
 Is hid in shadow, hearing there 
 The litany of Death. Thou art 
 Within the great Pavilion, where 
 They rest who come from battle. Here 
 They put their armor off, and have 
 New robes ; learning to bend the knee 
 Before the royal messenger. 
 Think not thy Soul can enter Heaven 
 Alone. The mighty gates move on!}'- 
 With golden keys. So keep thy faith 
 With him who guided thee. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 A REASON FOR SONG. 
 
 At Dawn a bird sang- loud ; but hushed 
 Her voice at noon ; and when the Day 
 Declined, her song- again rang soft 
 And clear among the boughs where she 
 Was hid. 
 
 " Who is this singer ?" said 
 A sleepy Owl who waited night. 
 "This is no time for music, when 
 The shadows lengthen in the West, 
 And all the earth is growing dim." 
 ** I am too late for wedding songs," 
 The singer said, '' for nests were built 
 
 [II] 
 
12 
 
 At morn. But I can sing- to them 
 Who sit alone — their young ones gone, 
 Sighing for loneliness." 
 
 Then said the Owl : *' There is no need 
 For singing in the Day. When Night 
 Has come, I can call out my notes 
 Of consolation. I will cry 
 That Night is better than the Day ; 
 For then we sleep — and so forget." 
 ** But I must sing." the the other said, 
 *' For all the morning I was sad. 
 And sang not. Now I would bring joy 
 To them who are like me, bereft 
 Of nestlings and of nest. For I 
 Am sitting alone on a windy bough 
 And the Day is ending ; but yet 
 My heart is bursting with song !" 
 
13 
 
 THE VIOLIN. 
 
 Bring- my old Violin. I might again 
 
 Evoke the Spirit that has dwelt there since 
 
 The wood was taken from the tree, and made 
 
 A chamber for the Soul of melody. 
 
 If I can wake her from her slumber, she 
 
 Will bring the rapture of the early hours, 
 
 When I with her soared to the skies. Then, Life 
 
 Was fair. I had not known the stress of Love 
 
 And Madness. Now, the Spirit may not come 
 
 For me. Yet will I call. Give me again 
 
 My Violin. The strings may break beneath 
 
 My passionate touch ; and there may only come 
 
 A sighing from the depths. But yet I know 
 
 That still my Spirit dwells within. 
 
H 
 
 II. 
 
 Above the rest I fly, on Music's wings. 
 
 She came to me when she had heard my voice, 
 
 And so together we attain the skies ; 
 
 And in and out among the stars we go, 
 
 Leaving the other louder instruments 
 
 To follow us in upward, echoing flight. 
 
 The soft harp trembles far below. The Voice 
 
 Of man in vain calls after us. We soar 
 
 To Heaven's gate, and join the Lark. When we 
 
 Have reached the borders of the firmament. 
 
 The wings of Music droop. We must return 
 
 To Earth. So down the skies we come, all faint 
 
 With ecstacy;and Souls are hushed to hear 
 
 Our dying fall. 
 
15 
 
 THE VOICES OF THE WIND. 
 
 The West wind has no voice. The South 
 Is full of melody. The North 
 Is vague. And all the East is full 
 Of memories. Would that I sat 
 Protected from the voiceless West. 
 It chills me, for it whispers naught. 
 Let me come rather to the top 
 Of sun-kissed hills, and feel the South 
 Breathe Music. Let me go again 
 Across the Desert, where the palms 
 Have caught the East wind. Let me feel 
 I am not quite alone. The winds 
 Were my companions. Now will I 
 Invoke them. South and East I love. 
 Let West and North blow elsewhere. 
 
i6 
 
 DANCING AT DAWN. 
 
 When harps and viols cease, and lights are dim, 
 
 And the fair guests have left the hall, I come 
 
 And walk an old-time minuet with him 
 
 Who stood behind the dancers, cold and dumb, 
 
 While the bejewelled night was in its prime. 
 
 None saw him, for his mantle is of mist 
 
 That hides its wearer, till arrives the time 
 
 Before the dawn, when we no more resist 
 
 Life's call. So when the guests are gone, we dance 
 
 Together in the silent room, all bare 
 
 Of splendor and of light. And when wc glance 
 
 In the long mirrors, we alone are there; 
 
 And we are like the Spirits of the Dead, 
 
 Who lead the minuet, when Life has fled. 
 
THE LARK. 
 
 He sings without the gate. Within 
 
 An angel listens. When the song 
 
 Is done, he brings the singer where 
 
 His Master sits. Then He, with eyes 
 
 Uplifted from his missal, says : 
 
 "Why bring this earthly songster here, 
 
 Where choirs of angels all day long 
 
 Make Heaven ring ?" The angel said : 
 
 '' There is no Lark in all the choir. 
 
 I thought you would be glad." But, no : 
 
 " The Lark's Song," says He, " is too clear. 
 
 Above the viols and the harps 
 
 It would be thrilling. Leave the Lark 
 
 Outside the gate." 
 
 So now he sings 
 Just where the angels catch the notes, 
 When harp and viol tremble low, 
 
i8 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 He sought a red rose ; for his song 
 
 Was made for such a flower. Not one 
 
 Was left in all the garden. So 
 
 The night was passed in silence. When 
 
 The Diwn had come, a white rose blushed 
 
 And shamed the silent Niglitir.gale. 
 
 So then his song at morning was 
 
 The sweetest. Roses white were glad ; 
 
 Red roses paled with jealous}-. 
 
 But 3^et at night he sang no more. 
 
 A blush had changed the Nightingale 
 
 From a dark lover of the night 
 
 To morning's friend. But rivalry 
 
 Divides white roses from the red. 
 
19 
 
 WHY THE NIGHTINGALE SINGS. 
 
 Where learned the Nightingale his song ^ 
 Not from the Brook, nor from the Wind, 
 They have no notes like his. 
 
 They say 
 A spirit prisoned in a Rose 
 Awakes the Nightingale, and turns 
 His heart to melody. For when 
 The Rose is dead, the Nightingale 
 No longer sings. He sits alone 
 In the dark thicket ; and he dreams 
 Of roses all the dying year. 
 But he is dumb. The \\ind may blow 
 On reedy pipes ; the Brook may purl 
 In silver tones ; but never he 
 Follows them in a burst of joy ; 
 The Spirit of the Rose is gone. 
 
20 
 
 IN PLEASANT VALLEY. 
 
 All day their song-, monotonous and sweet, 
 The Orioles rehearse. From robins' throats 
 Fly a full score of brilliant winged notes, 
 Thrilling the maples in their passage fleet, 
 And filling the great Elm with melody. 
 The river, flowing in its shaded bounds, 
 Yields a rich undertone of silver sounds, 
 Forever murmuring it would be free ! 
 Weary, perhaps, of emerald shores and skies 
 Descending to its depths, to there renew 
 Their beauty, and be clad in deeper blue. 
 Weary of clouds, and the night's starry eyes ; 
 And only loneiusf for the wild-bird's wings ; 
 Forgetting how brief the season that he sings. 
 
21 
 
 II. 
 
 Long- time the river has in which to hymn 
 Its aspiration, or its fate lament ; 
 In Spring- or Summer still its voice imspent. 
 Dark Autumn storms the azure skies may dim, 
 Yet they but swell its volume. Winter alone 
 Can hush, with icy hand, its restlessness. 
 Neither its murmured jo)^ nor its distress 
 Can reach that heart of frost ; only a moan 
 When some swift skater careless breaks his way 
 Down to the gloom. 
 
 But spring can melt the frost. 
 Then leaps the river gladly. Soon is lost 
 The memory of bondage, and all day 
 We hear complaint of Summer — staring skies. 
 And flying clouds, and the night's million eyes. 
 
22 
 
 AUTUMN TRAVELERS. 
 
 The rainy nights have come. The lonesome woods, 
 
 Abandoned by the fire-flies and the moon, 
 
 Stretch vaguely their dark branches in the mist 
 
 By paths uncertain we have found a roof, 
 
 Whose hospitality will shelter us 
 
 Till morn. So from the darkness and the night 
 
 We enter into light and cheer. Yet all 
 
 The while we hear the whisper of the rain ; 
 
 Like the sad spirit who has come with us 
 
 Even to the door, but cannot farther pass. 
 
 We would not open to him ; and we feel 
 
 He should have stayed among the lonely trees. 
 
 And found a shelter. The thick cypresses 
 
 Would welcome him, and keep him in their depths. 
 
23 
 
 A HUMANITARIAN. 
 
 The winter rain is freezing as it falls. 
 In my old garden one poor sparrow calls 
 At the high window ; but I open not. 
 He may be cold, but I have long forgot 
 The language of Complaint. To me his note 
 Means nothing. Still, I hope his feathery coat 
 Will keep him warm ; and some kind soul will give 
 Spare crumbs ; then if, by chance, the bird should 
 
 live 
 Till Summer comes, that in my garden old 
 He will not stay too long, nor be too bold. 
 The sparrows are a predatory race ; 
 Yet from their depredations, by God's grace, 
 I have been long exempt. But now, I fear, 
 I must set snares in all the trees next year. 
 
H 
 
 THE ALPINE HORN. 
 
 The melancholy hills at night 
 Gloom silently against the sky, 
 Whose vault seems darkness. 
 Deserted stand they ; watch-fires blaze 
 No longer, and no Echo hints 
 Of expectation. Morning breaks. 
 From firmament to summit shine 
 The herald torches that announce 
 The Day is coming ! Then the horns 
 Wind softly. Deeper, louder, all 
 The hills reverberate, again 
 And yet again announcing— Day. 
 
25 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 A night without a Star has come. 
 Clouds have arisen from the sea, 
 And taken threatening shape. A Dove, 
 That spread her snowy wings across 
 The Eastern heavens, has taken flight 
 And a dark Eagle holds the West. 
 His pinions stretch from horizon 
 To zenith ; and his awful head 
 Obliterates the moon. Below, 
 Where underneath the leafless trees 
 The sad Earth nourishes the worm. 
 We sit among the shades. The Night 
 Enwraps us in her deep embrace. 
 We are forgot by all but Death. 
 
26 
 
 THE OLD GARDEN. 
 
 The ghosts that walk below are Violets 
 
 And Roses, that in this neglected place 
 
 Once grew ; so long ago, they have forgot 
 
 Who was their Lady. So they come for you 
 
 To show how Death in his dark kingdom keeps 
 
 The tender flowers, fair and beautiful 
 
 As when they blossomed here. The Voices low 
 
 You hear in the old trees, the very winds 
 
 May be that blew a hundred years ago. 
 
 They died among the blossoms of the Spring ; 
 
 But live again in leafless boughs, and tell 
 
 Their tale ! But melancholy thoughts always 
 
 Have followed Autumn Winds. So listen not, 
 
 Turn rather to the minstrelsy that lives 
 
 In the charmed pages of your books. 
 
27 
 
 MIDNIGHT REVELRY. 
 
 Deep in the thick woods we had wandered; 
 
 The owls were awake, and the crickets 
 
 Were calling each other. The fairies 
 
 Were just coming home, so I saw them. 
 
 One beauty was decked out in silver ; 
 
 Another was flaunting in purple ; 
 
 And all were en wreathed with bright garlands. 
 
 A night-moth whirled dizzily by me. 
 
 A creature wide-winged, and ecstatic 
 
 With wine or with dew, followed after. 
 
 I thought there was dancing ; but never 
 
 Was certain if whirling were dancing, 
 
 Or dancing meant whirling in circles, 
 
 And nodding across at each other, 
 
 As they did. Some flowers assisted, 
 
 And waved in the night-wind. 
 
2% 
 
 MAIDEN REVERIES. 
 
 We gathered some ferns ; they were fit for 
 The gate of a palace. So stately 
 And hghtly they nodded good morning, 
 We thought they were whispering stories 
 Of forests enchanted, where fairies 
 Come silently dancing at midnight. 
 They decked the broad gate of our palace 
 All day. But at night they had faded ; 
 And so we removed them. A token 
 Of Love unrequited, we brought them 
 As solace to One who was slighted. 
 All night in the rain at her cottage 
 Dark door they were left. In the morning 
 They had not revived ; but she waited. 
 
29 
 
 LOVE'S ABSENCE. 
 
 Love comes not when we call. She goes 
 
 Upon her way, nor turns to see 
 
 Who follows. Where she goes we know not. 
 
 Only that she is gone ; and we 
 
 Alone sit with the shades that haunt 
 
 The chamber where we lived with her. 
 
 To keep us company there comes 
 
 Another, whom we call in vain 
 
 By Love's sweet name. Sorrow is she, 
 
 And on Love's bed she rests, and chills 
 
 It, so we sleep no more therein. 
 
 All night, waking, we talk with her. 
 
 When morning comes, we sleep with Death- 
 
 Since Love returns no more. 
 
MORNING. 
 
 Not when the birds are beginning 
 Their matins; but just as the Dawn 
 Comes tip-toeing over the hills, 
 Weary, I rise from my slumbers. 
 I open the window, and softly 
 Floats from the morning a feather, 
 Dropped in her flight. She has vanished 
 In flying. I follow : and all 
 Through the Day I pursue her. But 
 Never, from Dawn till the Evening, 
 Catch faintest glimpse of her pinions. 
 Gone to the uttermost ether. 
 She hides herself with the planets. 
 Never again will I open 
 My window at Dawn and look forth, 
 Lest I frighten the morning 1 
 
31 
 
 RECOGNITION. 
 
 In morning-, or at evening's twilight hour, 
 I come to her who at my portal waits. 
 Softly I open, that no light or sound 
 May reach her from my Paradise. I touch 
 Only her garment's hem ; and swift she turns 
 To him she cannot see. Then on her brow 
 I place my wreath of amaranth. And she, 
 Trembling, although with blinded eyes, will say 
 " My Master comes !" 
 
 This is enough. I ask 
 No more of that dark outer world. I go 
 Back to my Paradise, and find new bloom 
 On all the trees, new beauty in the skies ; 
 Since in my doorway there is one who wears 
 The flowers I gather, and believes them blest. 
 
32 
 
 MY DREAM. 
 
 I dreamed my Love was dead, and that his bier 
 
 Stood at the portal of my house ; no tear 
 
 Fell from my eyelids, as I stood alone, 
 
 Apart from him. My heart was like a stone, 
 
 For near him wept a Vision of the Sin 
 
 He had embraced. And she had entered in 
 
 The palace of my Dreams, and so I turned 
 
 Away to my lone chamber, where still burned 
 
 Within the fragrant torch that he had brought 
 
 To light our nightly slumbers. I had wrought 
 
 A fairy tale in the broad coverlet that spread 
 
 Its silken wonder over the great bed. 
 
 So there I went alone ; and left with Her 
 
 The corse of my Beloved. Should he stir 
 
 In his last sleep (I dreamed), she would be there 
 
 To quiet him with dagger pricks. Though fair 
 
 My Love had been, yet Death had made him pale; 
 
 And liad I wept, my tears could not avail 
 
 To bring his roses back. So let him lie 
 
33 
 
 Out there with Her! So cruelly, said I, 
 
 In this, my dream of my true Love being dead. 
 
 When I awoke, and found my heavy head, 
 
 Lying on his breast, I said : '' Where is thy Sin ?" 
 
 And he said : " I have never let Her in, 
 
 Though loud she knocked. I am secure with thee." 
 
 So, though my Love be dead, he still shall rest 
 with me. 
 
34 
 
 TO JANIE. 
 
 For thee, no tolling bell, nor sound 
 Of falling- earth, nor deathly ecent 
 Of funeral flowers ; no pageantry 
 Bearing away thy corse. Only 
 The angels tell me thou art gone 
 From earthly sorrows. 
 
 I with thee 
 Knew only T^ife and Joy. Thou hast 
 No grave ; and never may I weep 
 For thee. The hour of our farewell 
 Was known in Heavon alone. But now 
 From Paradise thou seest me here 
 Awake within my tomb ; and tears 
 Fall from thine eyes. Then flowers spring 
 About me, and my rest is deep. 
 
35 
 
 ON HER PHOTOGRAPH. 
 
 " If those dear lips conld speak !" So do I grieve, 
 
 Looking upon the shadow which she cast, 
 
 While she stood smiling in the sun. 
 
 But they are silent ; and the eyes meet not 
 
 My questioning. They look beyond me— sad, 
 
 As if they saw a world of loneliness 
 
 Beyond the Dreams of Girlhood. Does she see 
 
 How Love shall fail, and she alone with Death ? 
 
 She looks away from me, and has no word. 
 
 Although I cling to her with eyes that shoiiM 
 
 Withdraw her Soul from silence. 
 
 I forget 
 This is her shadow ; and can never tell . 
 That she has passed the Gate of Dreams, 
 And Death is not a Solitude. 
 
36 
 
 JANIE. 
 
 Here is her little chair. vSometimes 
 
 I see her sunny figure, as she sat 
 
 With Book of fairy-tales-or doll ; 
 
 Her baby-cheek all flushed, while near 
 
 I read my Shakspeare, or hemmed slow 
 
 A ruffle — often for the doll. 
 
 It is a vision only. She 
 
 Is dead ; and I am here alone. 
 
 I have her jewel-box. It holds 
 
 The rings and chains she w^ore in days 
 
 Of Youth Triumphant. I can see 
 
 Her shining beauty rise again, 
 
 When I look on these jewels. Eyes 
 
 Like starry night — her fleeting smile — 
 
 The loveliest mouth in the world — 
 
 It is her own sweet face I see. 
 
 But always 'tis a vision ; for 
 
 My child is dead. 
 
 This tress of dark 
 Gold hair was once a part of her, 
 And now remains an atom here 
 
Z7 
 
 That was Essential to Being ? 
 It cannot be. vSo all the rare 
 And ever-changing loveliness 
 Which met my mortal eyes was then 
 A passing vision. 
 
 When I say 
 She died, I only mean her soul 
 Withdrew, and so the Vision sunk 
 Away from sight. And I look out 
 With tears upon the empty world. 
 Dear Janie ! Come again to me ! 
 Return, although the fairy tales 
 Are ended, and the gems you wore 
 Are laid aside. Come as you are, 
 Changed to my sense ; robbed of the power 
 Of Beauty Incarnate. Souls must wear 
 Fair shapes invisible ; and I 
 Will know, although I cannot see, 
 You are as beautiful as when 
 The Vision of your Youth illumed 
 My troubled years. Come, even though 
 I faint amid the silence. Death 
 Abides with me until you come 
 Attain. 
 
3^ 
 
 APRIL, 1892. 
 
 It was the Easter morning ; and she looked 
 
 On roses in their beauty. But she turned 
 
 Her eyes away and vsaid : " Bring no more flowers." 
 
 For suddenly the glow and scent were gone 
 
 From roses and from life. We do not know, 
 
 But struggling in her breast there must have been 
 
 A premonition of the end ; for this 
 
 Was her farewell. And though we stood with hearts 
 
 Hopeful, waiting to lavish flowers on her, 
 
 The evening fell, and she was far away 
 
 Beyond the sound of voices calling. Yet 
 
 They knew it not ! Still foolishly they said, 
 
 "To-morrow she will smile !" 
 
 But the next day 
 They heaped the roses on her desert grave. 
 
39 
 
 TO AN UNANSWERING GOD. 
 
 Where is my little girl ? 
 
 She went away 
 One evening in the purple gloom that fades 
 After the sunset. Then a star came out 
 And sparkled in the dusk ; but she returned 
 No more. I called her in the spaces dark 
 Where Daylight vanishes ; and on the Sea 
 I followed the faint mists that fled from shore 
 To shore. Yet still I clasp her not. I only see 
 The shining star that was not there before. 
 I come to you — God whom I worshiped — whom 
 I fain would love. Tell me : Where is my girl ? 
 If you have taken her, and think to buy 
 Consent by the creation of a v.'orld, 
 You do not know the way to win a soul. 
 
40 
 
 AN ANSWER. 
 
 In heaven's happ}' sunshine she may be 
 
 Singing in a celestial company ; 
 
 But yet, her voice will break with tears, I know, 
 
 When she remembers I am here below. 
 
 About her there may lovers be always. 
 
 Her beauty and her innocence to praise ; 
 
 Yet she will miss the words her mother said, 
 
 With tender kisses on her dear one's head. 
 
 In lovely gardens she may walk ; the air 
 
 Of Paradise play in her golden hair, 
 
 Sweeter than any earthly breeze that blows. 
 
 Her feet may crush the lily and the rose ; 
 
 Yet she will long to come to me. who wait 
 
 In the dark Valley— when the stars are late. 
 
41 
 
 THE SOUL'vS JOURNEY. 
 
 Back to our Venice, where the green tide flows 
 
 And ebbs all day and night, my Spirit goes. 
 
 The tall towers lean against the sky, and seem 
 
 To look in the dark sea, whose changing gleam 
 
 Is shot with color from the red and gold 
 
 Of the great sails. They cluster, as of old. 
 
 Along the quays and bridges ; still 
 
 They fringe the gardens and old walls. At wil 
 
 They rest against the palaces ; and find 
 
 At the church door a shelter from the wind. 
 
 Again I float upon the great lagoon 
 
 At evening's quiet hour. And when the moon 
 
 In melancholy splendor rises low 
 
 Above the sands of Lido, then we row 
 
 Over the purple water, where the rose 
 
 Of sunset still gleams red. The current flows 
 
 Against our boat with murmuring sound 
 
 That might be sirens' whispers. All around 
 
 The air is sweet with flowers, and sea-scent 
 
42 
 
 The dusky wings of Africa have lent 
 The twilight. Or at morning's hour I go 
 To the far Islands, whose old towers below 
 In the blue sea reflected, sadly tell 
 Their story of forgotten pride. 
 
 Ah, well ! 
 Let them drop crumbling in the lapsing tide. 
 My eyes are dim, I cannot see how wide 
 The splendor of the morning reaches here. 
 Each sparkle on the Sea is but a tear. 
 At morning or at evening, 'tis the same. 
 The sea and sky of Venice bear her name, 
 Writ all in tears. 
 
 May be the Tuscan hills 
 Ring not so with sweet music— that which kills 
 Me with its Sorrow. I will see again 
 From high Fiesole, in the dark plain, 
 Tne shining Arno. All the olive trees 
 Are laden with pink blossoms ; and the breeze 
 Blows over gardens full of lilies. Here 
 I came with Her ; and I can see her — clear 
 The Vision — in her straw hat trimmed with flowers, 
 Coming up from Florence. 
 
 Those happy hours 
 
43 
 
 Forever fled ! Ah, no ; 1 cannot stay- 
 By Arno's waters. Let me go away ; 
 And where old walls of Rome repeat a great 
 O'erwhelming history, I may find rest 
 From memories that pierce my anguished breast. 
 But roses nod across the broken walls ; 
 On the long grasses, gentle sunlight falls; 
 And I have found a broken statue, where 
 She leaned her head, with its rich golden hair. 
 The broken arches and the stately pines 
 Are full of Voices ; while the rich light shines 
 On its great tombs, and the far violet hills. 
 Always the free air wanders where it wills ; 
 So with it I will go. All Italy 
 Is full of Sorrow. I \wi\\ cross the sea, 
 And breathe the desert air. 
 
 In this Dark Land 
 The skies are hidden by the whirling sand 
 Arisen from Sahara's barren rocks. 
 I cannot breathe. In my entangled locks 
 The winds of Hell seem blowing. 
 
 Murder stalks 
 By day in Egypt ; and at night there walks 
 Horror unseen ; I would not see her /wre. 
 
44 
 
 Why bring me to the Pyramids and show 
 
 Me how the Sphinx has dwindled ? I might go 
 
 And ask my question. But my heart beats thick 
 
 And slow ; my shivering Soul is faint and sick 
 
 With terror. Let me leave the land of Death 
 
 And Crime ; and feel again the cooling breath 
 
 Of the wide Ocean. Its expanse vShall be 
 
 The symbol of my Immortality. 
 
 No more on Earth m}^ Spirit goes in quest 
 
 Of Life. The Sea shall give me rest. 
 
45 
 
 DEATHS MYSTERY. 
 
 All Italy was but a tomb ; 
 
 The olive trees being past their bloom, 
 
 We came so late. And everywhere 
 
 A secret horror brooded. Fair 
 
 And beautiful our Island slept 
 
 In the blue sea. And some one wept. 
 
 I was not mad ; but in my Soul 
 
 A mad, bewildered image stole. 
 
 It was myself, in that Dark Land, 
 
 Where graves are dug in drifting sand, 
 
 Calling aloud for Her whose smile 
 
 Haunts the old Palace on the Nile. 
 
 But where is she ? The Earth no more 
 Holds her dear body. O'er and o'er 
 I asked in Italy. A bird 
 Sang in the orange groves, and heard 
 
46 
 
 My voice. He grieved with me all day. 
 At night, the sea moaned loud alway. 
 But still, no answer. Then I knew 
 Nature had lost my Dear One, too. 
 They said Death held her ; and my fears 
 It might be true had dried my tears, 
 And driven my soul to frenzy. Then 
 I sought in all ways known to men 
 For her. But everywhere the Dark 
 Was round about me. 
 
 Vanished spark 
 Of Life, that shone but yesterday, 
 And seemed immortal ! Where away 
 Hast flown ? The universe is gloom. 
 I lie in the thick shadow of a Tomb. 
 Infinite Silence broods above 
 My anguish. If great God is Love, 
 Where is He ? She would be with Him. 
 That may be. But my eyes are dim 
 With tears. And in my sober hours 
 I know the God who kills the flowers 
 Must be a cruel God. Not He 
 Can rule us. Better far that she 
 Were really dead beneath the sod. 
 
47 
 
 I thank the heavens, there is no God ! — ■ 
 ***** 
 
 Each day rose darker than the last ; 
 
 Each night fell blacker. And so passed 
 
 My Life in Italy. And then 
 
 A breath came from the great Unseen 
 
 Wafting me far to other lands. 
 
 But whether amid Desert sands 
 
 Or blossoming fields ; always there came 
 
 On every wind my Darling's name, 
 
 Echoed from the remotest space 
 
 When I had called her ; and her face 
 
 Swam ever on my vision. Tears 
 
 Fell always ; so that I was blind 
 
 To outward forms. My broken heart 
 
 Held only memories. Apart 
 
 From her, I lived no more. A pain 
 
 Forever pierced Life through, again 
 
 And yet again ; as in that Hour 
 
 Supreme, when I had felt the power 
 
 Of madness. Yet I never ceased 
 
 To call on her. Despair increased 
 
 The strength of Will, that carried me 
 
48 
 
 Through gulfs of Darkness. And a sea 
 Was roaring round me ; so I heard 
 Its mighty thunders. Then came word 
 That she was found. A silver Voice 
 Re-echoed it. 
 
 Let hearts rejoice 
 On hear say evidence : But I 
 Would only hold my hands and cry : 
 " Give me the clew ! Even if it lead 
 Through the dark grave and Hell, the speed 
 Of Light shall seem too slow for me I" 
 
 What angel in an ecstasy 
 Found that fine thread which she had spun 
 When she was rapt away ? 
 
 The Hours run 
 In golden circles. Day and night 
 Are one to me. Both flow in light, 
 I hold the chain that binds her fast 
 To Life. She did not die. She passed 
 A little space away from me, 
 
49 
 
 But now has come again. I see 
 Her, and I hear her voice. She gives 
 
 The lie to tales of Death. She lives. 
 
 She says, God does not kill the flowers. 
 They wither in the noon-day hours 
 When the great sun is fierce. Then He 
 Takes their sweet breath. 
 
 And so, I see 
 How flowers die. But yet, I know 
 Not why the sun should fade them so. 
 
50 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 Too far have I been wandering. My feet 
 Have trod the desert ; and the seas I crossed. 
 Athirst I have been, and none gave me drink 
 Weary, and never found the rest I sought. 
 So now I will return. There is a door 
 Stands always open. Let me go, and find 
 If still within there is a chamber left 
 For me. It need not be hung all in silk 
 And perfumed ; for no princely guest am I. 
 A lowly bed will then suffice. There would 
 I yield my spirit up to Death ; and hear 
 The voices of the early morning call 
 Across the cool and dusky fields. The rest 
 He gives to his Beloved shall be mine. 
 
51 
 
 CALLING ON DEATH. 
 
 I follow Death with no uncertain step ; 
 
 I know the way he went, and nearer draw 
 
 To him. He bears no cruel dart ; but balm 
 
 For my deep wounds. No more my tears shall fall ; 
 
 For he will lead me from Life's lonely maze, 
 
 Where wavering shadows weave their snares, 
 
 To the fair company of blessed ones. 
 
 Turn back, oh Death ! and meet me, ere I faint 
 
 In the grim darkness of the tangled world. 
 
 I am without support, for Love has gone 
 
 To thee. And in the Night's obscurity 
 
 Despair may steal away my thoughts, and leave 
 
 Me more than desolate. 
 
 So turn, great Death, 
 And take me from the perils of my state. 
 
52 
 
 CLAIRVOYANTE. 
 
 What lies across the border I can tell ; 
 
 For I have seen without the light of sun 
 
 Or star, the large, vague fields that lie beyond. 
 
 Loved ones are there, though clothed in shrouding 
 
 mist ; 
 Sweet faces veiled, and beckoning hands that 
 
 through 
 The darkness glimmer, while I strain my eyes 
 With longing. 
 
 For I fain would go and be 
 With them who have gone from me. Never have 
 They need of sun or moon. They know the ways 
 Of Life and Death, and walk therein between 
 The Earth and Heaven. And in their Dark, among 
 The shining worlds, always I see, and hear 
 Sometimes the Voices calling low to them 
 Who hear not. But the Dead are there. 
 
53 
 
 ANGUISH. 
 
 Celestial wisdom says : " Call not on Death ; 
 But for a space endure the fear of ills 
 Unknown, and darkness. 
 
 I will bring a light 
 Setting the snares at naught. Forth shalt thou go 
 From this deep labyrinth. In meadows fair, 
 Where rich flowers bloom in living colors, there 
 Shall Blessed Ones come to thee, while Death finds 
 In distant fields his harvest ripe." 
 
 I cannot 
 Heed the voice of Wisdom. Always I go 
 Calling blindly still on Death. For Love with him 
 Has gone. And though the Blest await me, where 
 Life's flowers bloom fair — I would go where Love 
 
 went, 
 Borne on Death's bosom to the skies. 
 
54 
 
 DEATH FOUND. 
 
 Within the lonely wood I found 
 No myrtles ; but the hemlock grew 
 With fragrant boughs ; so to my door 
 I brought its boding shade. Now, when 
 The Day with sky of flame has passed, 
 I may distill a cup, and drink 
 With Socrates — calling on Death. 
 And he who waits my voice will come, 
 And I shall drink no more. My Soul, 
 Going out to him, shall know not thirst 
 Nor pain. 
 
 Descend, cool Night, and bring 
 Thy stars. Although the myrtle blooms 
 In other gardens, here with Death 
 I rest, beneath the hemlock tree. 
 
55 
 
 MADNESS. 
 
 His Soul has fled. The Essence delicate 
 
 Of Mind and Being-— that which made 
 
 Him dear to us— has gone to mingle with 
 
 The evening mists that float about the world. 
 
 What here remains is but an empty vase, 
 
 That holds not even the fragrance of a thought. 
 
 So let us bury him, with sound of harps 
 
 And horns ; for he was skilled in music. Once 
 
 He was a harper to the King, and sat 
 
 Among great men. 
 
 We will not look again 
 On him. The light has left his countenance ; 
 He cannot stir an eyelid ; and his mouth 
 Is dumb. Put on him seemly robes ; and let 
 His narrow house be built. 
 
56 
 
 DEATH WAITS. 
 
 The world a moment pauses. Shock 
 And stir of Life's achievement hushed ; 
 And Thought bowed down in silence. Then 
 The Soul is heard, and the low voice — 
 Drowned all the day in seas of sound — 
 Communes with Heaven. 
 
 The Sun, obscured 
 By beaten dust of worn highways, 
 Gleams in that moment on the hills ; 
 And in the depths of silent streams 
 The stars are seen. 
 
 Then the World moves : 
 And silently the Soul withdraws 
 From the thick turmoil. She awaits 
 Beyond the bounds of Time, till Death 
 Shall touch again the world with peace. 
 
57 
 
 Who may repeat what he has heard 
 In that still hour ? The Lily's breath 
 Is not more delicate, when Night 
 Enwraps her beauty. He who knows 
 The secret of the flowers would 
 In vain attempt betrayal. So 
 The word that steals from Soul to Soul 
 May not be uttered. 
 
 Death has brought 
 The story of Immortal Love 
 For Life's enchantment. Only he 
 Whose lips are touched with heavenly fire 
 Can tell it to a World. But still 
 The heart may hold her treasure, safe 
 As the rich perfume in the flower. 
 
 III. 
 
 He who would save his soul from Death 
 Shall lose his crown of life. For Death 
 Gives the reward. 
 
 Await him not 
 With fear ; but go in that dim path 
 Where thou shalt come upon him. There 
 
58 
 
 He sits among- the flowers, and holds 
 
 His festival with Nature. He 
 
 Will w^elcome thee ; and songs of swans 
 
 Mingling with passing breath of rose 
 
 And lily, shall enchant thy soul. 
 
 So give thyself to Death. Think not 
 
 Life has a garland for thee. Hope 
 
 Clings always so to Life ; but Death 
 
 Alone fulfills his promises. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Always Death waits for thee. He sees 
 
 Thy coming from afar ; and counts 
 
 Thy laggard steps. The richest flowers 
 
 That nod along thy path, he set 
 
 To watch thee, and remind thy soul 
 
 Of him. The thorns that pierced thee were 
 
 The thorns of Life. So why delay 
 
 Thy progress ? Morn and Noon are gone 
 
 And Evening darkens. Come to Death 
 
 Before Night siezes thee. For then 
 
 Thou shalt behold him dimly. So 
 
 Thy Soul will shrink away from him, 
 
 And thou shalt be the prey of fear ; 
 
 And Death will miss thee in the dark. 
 
59 
 
 DEATH THE CONSOLER. 
 
 Above this busy little world 
 There lies another, large and dim 
 And silent. When I send a thought 
 Into its vastness, sometimes I catch 
 The echo of distant thunder. 
 So vibrates my question — hazarded 
 Where vision is lost. But answer 
 There is none ; imless it happen, 
 When the mad Day is stilled, and Night 
 Stands quietly above his bier — 
 The whisper running round the world, 
 From Star to Cloud, and in the grass 
 And tree, comes from that upper world 
 And means but — " Peace." 
 
6o 
 
 In lonely places coming- with Death 
 From the great highway, where the din 
 Of Life has bruised thy aching heart, 
 Thou shalt be healed. Again thy brow 
 Be lifted in the morning light ; 
 And when the Evening comes, sweet sleep 
 Kiss thy pale lids. For so Death gives 
 To his Beloved rest and strength. 
 Here shalt thou see the Dawn, beyond 
 The circling woods, and Evening's glow 
 On the still waters ; but the glare 
 Of Noonday shall not beat on thee. 
 Thou art within the silent House 
 Whose walls were built foi thee. 
 
6i 
 
 Within the vase the flowers that bloomed 
 
 In winter, with their roots confined, 
 
 Now it is summer would reach out 
 
 And feel their mother Earth, where dews 
 
 Shall nourish them ; and sun and shade, 
 
 Alternate, give them color and strength. 
 
 So we transplant them, and our house 
 
 Is empty of their beauty. Yet 
 
 We grieve not, for we know they live 
 
 In a rich garden, where the weak 
 
 Are given support ; and where they climb 
 
 Among the fairest roses of the year, 
 
 Second to none in loveliness. 
 
 We shut the empty house and go. 
 
62 
 
 SARGENT'S PICTURE. 
 
 Like and unlike ; for then I was 
 
 A shadow in Time's mirror. Now 
 
 I stand in the great sunlight ; real 
 
 And visible to the universe. 
 
 Then, to myself I was a doubt, 
 
 And none could know me. Now I am 
 
 Revealed to self, and every soul 
 
 Who comes within my sphere, can feel 
 
 My truth and my reality. 
 
 I am no more the questioner 
 
 Of Death ; but eagerly I turn 
 
 To Life, to solve my problem. Where 
 
 I dwell Death has no secret. Life 
 
 Is now the mystery. 
 
63 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 Not in the twilight only would 
 
 I dream with thee ; but in the hours 
 
 Of morning, when the dew is bright 
 
 Upon the roses ; and at noon 
 
 When the warm sun is ripening 
 
 The vineyards. These are hours I would 
 
 Not pass alone. Whether in shade 
 
 Of mountam pine, or by the brook 
 
 That runs in sunny meadows, still 
 
 We may together watch the sands 
 
 Flow in Time's glass ; and if, perchance, 
 
 It should be broken, and Time cease 
 
 To count the moments, then would we 
 
 Be conscious of Eternity. 
 
64 
 
 The thunder rolling in the hills — 
 
 The lightning's play — awake me not. 
 
 In the deep vale I sleep secure. 
 
 And there my soul has laid aside 
 
 Her panoply, and rests without 
 
 Defense. And wouldst thou waken her, 
 
 War's dread alarum shalt thou raise. 
 
 Rebellious angels must descend 
 
 The ladder of the skies, and sound 
 
 The clarion of defiance. 
 
 But now we sleep. Yet there are dreams 
 
 Which catch the breath, and stir the pulse, 
 
 And, reaching out, my hand has grasped 
 
 The idle lance, and found it broken. 
 
65 
 
 Bruised am I, yet not broken. Life too hard 
 
 Has pressed me. Death and Grief have wrung my 
 
 heart, 
 And Love has left me desolate. But in 
 My Soul I hold Eternal Strength. It fails 
 Not in the bitter years. With it I go 
 Where I am led ; and find my way still winds 
 Up the steep hill. Long have I left the vales 
 Where flowers bloom and songs are heard. Alone 
 Amid the clouds and sunless mists, beset 
 By voices that remind me of my loss. 
 With many wounds, within I still feel warm 
 The flame of Being. 
 
 Whereso'e'r T climb — 
 Or if I fall — I know I am the same 
 As when the world's foundations were deep laid. 
 
66 
 
 The splendor of my Years is gone. 
 Alone, in the gray light, I watch 
 The vanishing shadows Time has left 
 To me. 
 
 Enchantment weaves her spell ; 
 And in the gathering Dark return 
 The golden days. They seem as real 
 As life was. Yet they say the wand 
 Of Poesy evokes them. They 
 Are not of heavenly origin. 
 But I have heard great Voices tuned 
 To noble themes ; and sweet the air 
 About them, as the musky breath 
 Of Easter lilies, on the morn 
 Their God has risen. 
 
67 
 
 Wouldst call within thy royal tent 
 The children of the Desert— soiled 
 With Dust, and speaking in a tongue 
 Uncouth ? 
 
 They \v<.)uld but stare at thee, 
 And mock the beauty of thy gems. 
 And covetous hands might snatch away 
 The trophies won in thy crusades. 
 Their feet would staia thy golden threshold ; 
 And poisoned breath of ditch and fen 
 Usurp the place of soft perfumes. 
 So let the silken curtain hang 
 Untouched by common hands. Princes 
 May lift it, and commune with thee. 
 
68 
 
 Who am I that I pass my days 
 
 In freedom, while the hapless ones 
 
 Who throng the wayside wear a chain ? 
 
 I am no princess. On my hand 
 
 There is no signet ring of power ; my brow, 
 
 Uncrowned by Beauty's wreath. 
 
 Indeed, 1 am a Servitor, 
 
 And on my breast there is a mark 
 
 Set by the hand of Death, who claims 
 
 My fealty. 
 
 But whom Death chooses 
 He protects from tyranny. So Life 
 Holds me no more a slave. I am 
 Unloosed from custom and from care, 
 Alone I hold my Soul in peace. 
 
69 
 
 The creatures of the dust, that come 
 Sightless into the pleasant world 
 Creep to the shelter of a leaf. 
 Where the great sun cannot consume 
 Them utterly. They know not when 
 The Day has passed, and Night has come. 
 Each Hour is Eternity 
 Until some careless footstep treads 
 Them back to nothingness. But while 
 They lie in the sweet shadow, dreams 
 May visit them, and Love may pass 
 And scatter rose leaves over them, 
 While yet they sleep. 
 
70 
 
 Time has brought gifts to thee — not robbed 
 
 Thy life of that which made it fair, 
 
 As it ha.s done to me. Thou hast 
 
 The dreamer's vision still — who sees 
 
 The heavens peopled with ideals 
 
 Discarded by the world. But I 
 
 Have missed in Heaven what I would fain 
 
 Possess. 
 
 Time stole my Youth ; nor will 
 The breath of Paradise restore 
 Its bloom. Yet patiently I wait. 
 One day thy gaze shall rest on me, 
 And I shall seem a spirit fair 
 And glorious with immortal Youth. 
 So Time, at last, shall be my friend. 
 
71 
 
 Time waits for angels. When he flies too fast 
 They throw a golden net across his path, 
 And he is caught. When him they have entrappecl, 
 Sounding their harps, they fill his drowsy ear 
 With music. So, entranced, he does not know 
 He is a captive. Folded are his wings. 
 The Hours who have attended him sit down 
 Amid the harpings. Then all Heaven smiles 
 That Time has been brought prisoner. 
 
 But I, 
 Who cannot rest, although sweet music sounds. 
 Would break the golden net, and bid Time fly 
 Again, on wide, swift wings. I love the Hours 
 When they are speeding through the spaces vast. 
 And bearing with them Thoughts and pleasant 
 Dreams. 
 
7-2 
 
 Not at the ever-frozen poles, 
 
 Or the Equator's belt, would I 
 
 Abide ; but in the happy zones 
 
 Where Sun and Rain are friends ; and where 
 
 The roses bud and bloom, and fade, 
 
 And live again. 
 
 Regions of change 
 Invite my soul. The brooding thoughts 
 Of melancholy fly before 
 Life's joyous enterprise. So would 
 I speed my sail on seas unknown, 
 And go in search of great Ideals ; 
 As Jason tracked the ancient shores, 
 After the Golden Fleece. 
 
7Z 
 
 EVENING IN PLEASANT VALLEY 
 
 The moon swims in a silver sky 
 Above the misty trees. A cloud 
 Floats near, and for a moment hides 
 Her disc. Then the loud whippowil 
 Calls out ; and the dark river sounds 
 A warning- to the traveler. 
 There is no light, save here and there 
 A tiny spark from household lamp 
 Hid behind glooming elms. And now 
 Beneath the shadowy porch we hear 
 A mournful cricket chirp. Its mate 
 Has been unkind ; and all alone 
 It sits, complaining to the night. 
 Poor, helpless insect ! Shall we bring 
 Thee to our hearth-stone, there to sing- 
 Thy note monotonous ? or shall 
 We leave thee with thy kin ? The world 
 Of lower life swarms with its sins 
 And sympathies. Nearer to nature 
 Must we have dwelt, to understand. 
 
74 
 
 So leave the cricket in the grass. 
 Where nightly dews and morning suns 
 Will bring new friends. 
 
 And now the cloud 
 Has passed. The valley lies again 
 Revealed in beauty. May has come. 
 
75 
 
 DAY AND NIGHT. 
 
 Down the long street we went in silence, while 
 The faithful hound kept closely at our heels. 
 Strange curs came barking. Little children play- 
 ing 
 Looked shyly on us. Here, no rattling carts 
 Nor rolling carriages ; no sound of toil, 
 Or flaunting pleasure filled the ways. Tall trees 
 Stood guarding doors fast shut. No faces looked 
 From windows on the thoroughfares. We saw 
 The lake stretch darkly to the horizon 
 Beyond the village. On its dark green breast 
 No sails of ships, no birds flying over. So, 
 We turned again, and towards the open gates 
 Of our own Cit)', where we dwell always 
 With heavenly visions — took our silent way. 
 
76 
 
 II. 
 
 With stately walls and towers guarding moat 
 
 And drawbridge is our City built. Gray are 
 
 Its palaces ; its gardens full of shade, 
 
 Where many fountains flow always with sound 
 
 And music. All night long the sentinels 
 
 Walk slowly on the walls. They challenge those 
 
 Who come belated. So we enter in 
 
 At sunset from our wanderings. Then all 
 
 The night we hear the chiming silver bells 
 
 In towers. And watching from our palace roof 
 
 We count the planets. 
 
 Or in some dim room 
 With lovely visions pass the fragant night. 
 When morning comes, again we go beyond 
 The city gates, and roam the desert world. 
 
n 
 
 MY_ HOUSE OF DREAMS. 
 
 A city in the clouds is not 
 More unsubstantial than the house 
 Wherein I dwell. Its walls are built 
 Of dreams ; its roof is the blue ether, 
 Thick with stars. And chan^iing- always, 
 I am driven from court to chamber, 
 Searching- a rcsting--place. Ever 
 Beneath me melt the airy floors ; 
 And I am plunged in space, unless 
 1 cling to floating fragments from 
 Dissolving dreams. 
 
 What I have done 
 Has not secured a stable dwelling. 
 I built a House of Dreams — and now 
 My House is falling. 
 
 I would not dwell 
 In my ancestral mansion, so 
 I raised a fairy palace, where 
 
I went in company with One 
 Who wandered from a distant star 
 And found a home with me. Our days 
 Were spent in dreaming ; and my House 
 Grew ever strangely beautiful. 
 Illumination from within 
 Made it a beacon. vSuddenly, 
 Dreaming was ended. 
 
 Then we saw 
 Our House in ruins ; and the stars 
 The only steadfast light. And so 
 The wanderer returned ; and left 
 Me to Despair. 
 
79 
 
 THE HAUNTED GARDEN. 
 
 The house where I was born has fallen 
 In ruins. But new walls have risen 
 Beneath the Builder's hand ; and there 
 I dwell. 
 
 The fragrant roses, set 
 In the old garden, are the same 
 My childhood loved ; but my slim trees 
 Have grown so thick they cast a shade 
 Where once the sunshine painted gold 
 On the white lilies. There I love 
 To sit, where I can see my House 
 Illumined by the dying sun. 
 On plinth and column shines a light 
 Emblazoning cold symmetry. 
 And when descending Night enshrouds 
 The lilies pale, and roses lose 
 Their color, — to the great chamber, 
 Where the lamps placed ready for the hour 
 
8o 
 
 Of evening are illumed — I go. 
 The lights are Thoughts held close in years 
 My House was building. Dimly they burn 
 Before the household gods ; but bright 
 And clear they light the Book of Nature. 
 There, I wait the stroke of midnight, 
 When lights are out ! 
 
 My narrow bed 
 Receives the day's worn garment. I 
 Go out again into the night. 
 But though 1 fly to stars, and find 
 The morning's splendor, yet it is 
 My ancient garden where the Rose 
 And Lily perfume the Dark, I love. 
 So there I linger, while the Owl 
 Calls out my Death. 
 
8i 
 
 THE OLD HOUSE. 
 
 It stood in shade. A lantern old 
 Made visible the skeleton 
 Of what had been a house, but now 
 Was empty of its Soul. Within 
 No more Affection lived, or Pride. 
 Only were left poor, pallid ghosts 
 Of Time that had been, and of Love 
 Unfortunate ; except one room, 
 And there a youth at midnight read 
 Old tales and poetry, and felt 
 Life still was in the house. He saw 
 Brigiit figures moving in the room, 
 And heard sweet voices. So the place 
 Seemed all alive. But he was dead. 
 
 In the old house there was a spot 
 Secluded, where the Lady sat 
 Who once had been possessed of all 
 The old domain. Now she was robbed 
 
82 
 
 Of all her titles, and was glad 
 
 To sit in silence, counting hours 
 
 That slowly chimed. Her casement looked 
 
 Upon a faded garden, where no sound 
 
 Broke the sad stillness ; save at night 
 
 A cricket chirped beneath a tree, 
 
 And made her company. So long 
 
 Had she been shut in solitude, 
 
 She had forgot her name, and thought 
 
 Herself a Ghost of Early Days. 
 
S3 
 
 LATE HAPPINESS. 
 
 Who comes so late ? The world is dark, 
 Lit dimly by the distant stars. 
 Long- since the lih'es shut their lids 
 In slumber, and the Vesper hymns 
 Are dying- on the hills. Who comes 
 With song and gleaming torch, to wake 
 Me from my dreams ? 
 
 She brings a train 
 Of fairy sprites, all garlanded 
 With roses, plucked in gardens fair. 
 Beyond the twilight sea. Their harps 
 Sound the sweet melodies they learned 
 In the dark haunts of nightingales. 
 I do not love this company 
 Of joyous elves. Enough for me 
 To take their Lady's hand and lead 
 Her to my lonely chamber. There 
 In silence would I dream with her. 
 B it they who are her ministers 
 
84 
 
 Will not away. They grasp her robe, 
 And hold her in their midst, so I 
 Must open my door to them. Enter ; 
 But quench the flaming torch. Sound not 
 The harp. Wind silently your way 
 In the world's night. You may abide 
 Till morn. But I must dream. vSo late 
 Has happiness delayed. 
 
 Then she 
 Who loves not silence nor the dark, 
 Pleads for the song and dancing torch. 
 *' Long has thy soul been sad," she says, 
 "Sitting with silent dreams. Awake, 
 Even though the night has fallen. Thy house 
 Make fit for me. Let flowers bloom, 
 And music banish solitude. 
 I cannot dream with thee. The night 
 Is brief ; and when the morning comes, 
 Freighted with heavy cares, I go." 
 So I have opened wide my door, 
 And all have entered in, with light 
 And revelry. Fresh garlands glow ; 
 New songs are sung ; and in the court 
 A fountain flows, which yesterday 
 Was choked with weeds. 
 
85 
 
 THE ENCHANTER'vS HOUSE. 
 
 We came to an old garden, where onr house 
 Was set. Our chamber had the morning sun ; 
 And from our window all the heavens were seen 
 At night. This was our world. We were alone; 
 For both were blind. With narrow vision. I 
 Could only see what I might touch. So saw 
 I her, and she became my world. But she, 
 Alas ! had never looked on me. Strange as 
 All else was in that house enohanted, this 
 Was strangest : She could see what lay be5-ond 
 The garden. In the world outside she was 
 No longer blind. Yet she had come to live 
 With me, in loneliness. 
 
 II. 
 
 For my sake she was there ; since she had loved 
 The world of Sense. The Spirit forms, to her 
 
86 
 
 Invisible, seemed cold and voiceless; yet 
 With me a slender thread of consciousness 
 Ran in the currents of her blood. She knew 
 I was not other than I said : A soul of man 
 Made free from earthly clay ; endowed 
 With power and magnificence in realms 
 Unknown to her. A little while, and she 
 May go there. But the days are long- ; and since 
 I cannot on the earth walk with her. she 
 Has come to me, half way between the worlds. 
 So here we live, enchanted each with each, 
 
 III. 
 
 Life is involved. For, far beyond the spheres 
 
 Of darkened Earth, the wells of wisdom flow; 
 
 Where I too long had drunk for happiness 
 
 With Love, So when my blind enchanted one 
 
 Is for an hour sad, I have no power 
 
 To turn me from her sorrowing, and leave 
 
 Her, as a mortal does. But I share all 
 
 Her idle grieving. So I lose the charm 
 
 Of sweet Contentment, till she smiles again. 
 
 Then there are other days, when strange regret 
 
 Assails me. The bright company with whom 
 
87 
 
 I dwelt before I was enchanted, come 
 In swift remembrance. 
 
 So our lives 
 In light and shadow, hasten to the end. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Within our house enchanted, we have power 
 
 To touch the blinded lids of sorrow, so 
 
 The light may shine again for those who mourn 
 
 By empty graves. Together thus we may 
 
 Make the world fairer. And our lonely house 
 
 Shall bloom with flowers, brought by grateful 
 
 hearts 
 That we have eased. What matters it, if I 
 Have missed the glories of my spirit-world, 
 And she is shut away from earthly joy ? 
 And in our chamber other flowers bloom. 
 The air is sweet with them. For Poesy 
 Has spread soft perfume tiiere ; and color rich. 
 So our enchantment deepens. Life and Death 
 Seem one to us. 
 
88 
 
 THE PLACE OF DREAMS. 
 
 There is a chamber where the sun 
 
 Is powerless. Its windows look 
 
 On mountain tops, and bending skies; 
 
 While the cool breath from pines that grow 
 
 In solitude, sweeps through its length. 
 
 There do I go at noonday, when the flow 
 
 Of the great Fountain drowses on 
 
 My ear, and songs are hushed — the world 
 
 Entranced by light. 
 
 I w^ould not be 
 The captive of the sun, and feel 
 His power. So I, escaping, fly 
 To my dream-chamber, where I feel 
 Only the touch of cool, soft hands 
 Invisible ) and heavenly winds. 
 
89 
 
 MY LADY'S CHAMBER. 
 
 A garden where the field- flowers bloom, 
 And roses mingle sweet perfume 
 With violet scents. This is her room. 
 
 Where in the daylight Muses keep 
 Their niche secure, and only sleep 
 At night. And then her rest is deep. 
 
 The Graces take their part, and pass 
 A moment at her dusty glass. 
 Welcome they are not — for, alas ! — 
 
 The roses and the field-flowers bloom, 
 For them whom long ago the tomb 
 Shut in its strange and star-lit gloom. 
 
 So all about them is the air 
 
 Of Death ; and this an altar, where 
 
 The memory of the Good and Fair 
 
90 
 
 Has banished Vanity. Desire 
 
 And Aspiration feed the fire 
 
 That Beauty cannot kindle. Higher 
 
 Than Thought can go, the living flame 
 Ascends. And yet always the same, 
 Whatever be its sacred name. 
 
 And in her lonely chamber, born 
 
 Of Love and Death, Hope smiles at morn 
 
 — Nor is the twilight hour forlorn. 
 
91 
 
 GOING WITH DEATH. 
 
 Though I have said farewell to Life 
 Yet still sometimes I weep. For Death 
 Has hidden Love, and though I follow 
 Him, I cannot find her. When the Dawn 
 Approaches, then I think Love's smile 
 Steals from the skies ; and at the hour 
 Of falling Night, her shadowy veil 
 Floats near me. But I never see 
 Her face, or hear her voice. Yet oft 
 Her sigh sobs on the wind. But where 
 She dwells, I know not. Death, unkind, 
 Has woven a web of mist above 
 My vision. On a darkened path 
 He leads me~still alone. 
 
92 
 
 When I would follow Death, then Grief 
 Fled from me. She was friend to Life, 
 And they are old companions. Now 
 I go alone ; but in my road 
 Grow regal flowers, whose rich perfume 
 Surrounds me like a flowing- sea 
 In which my spirit bathes and finds 
 New promises. Why death should lead 
 Me among flowers, while Life always 
 Cho.se for my path the desert w^here 
 Rough stones pierced my tired feet, 
 I may not know. Perhaps He knew 
 Life had been tyrant, driving me. 
 Unwilling, all my days. So He 
 In pity brought me by this way. 
 
93 
 
 III. 
 
 Sometimes Life comes to tempt my Soul 
 And draw me back from Death. Then I 
 Remember Grief abides within 
 The house of Life ; and I am sick 
 Of tears, and idle moaning-. So 
 I hold my hand to Death, pledging- 
 Anew my all. With him I would 
 Go down to Hell, or rise to Heaven. 
 Either is better than the way 
 Of Life. 
 
 Too cruel is Life's bond ; 
 For he would take away my liberty. 
 My thoughts, and even my love 
 Of Poesy ; and in return 
 Give me my broken dreams ! 
 
94 
 
 LONGING FOR DEATH. 
 
 After Death's freedom Life seems hard — 
 
 A slavery. No rest from Toil, 
 
 No sweet release from care, save in 
 
 Forgetfulness or sleep. Always 
 
 To guard our treasure ; not one hour 
 
 Of perfect happiness or peace. 
 
 How different with Death ! With him 
 
 I knew no care. Forebodings were 
 
 Forgotten, and wrong unknovrn. Let me 
 
 Go back again, and find his house 
 
 New garnished. Let me look once more 
 
 On roses witli no worm upon 
 
 The leaf I Beloved one, come with me 
 
 To that Paradise. 
 
95 
 
 STARLIGHT AND THE MOON. 
 
 A heaven of scintillating stars above 
 Me spread, reflected in the changing sea, 
 Invites my contemplation ; but I choose 
 The shaded grove, where the fair moon alone 
 Looks down through arching boughs. There have 
 
 I dreamed, 
 Bathed in her light serene, with Poesy. 
 The bright stars tremble so, their light is like 
 The fire-flies, — scattered all among the trees. 
 Or dancing down in shallows of the pool ; 
 Always in laughter or in tears ! Perhaps 
 The golden moon was once a silver star, 
 Sparkling and flashing in her course ; but now 
 Her light serene has power to illume a world ; 
 While the faint starlight dances in the sea. 
 
96 
 
 HEAVENLY PROMISES. 
 
 Think not, dark shadow, you shall always haunt 
 The house where I have dwelt. I bring a torch 
 That vshall be lit, when I have caught the spark 
 Struck off in silent thunders in the great 
 Immensities between the worlds. It shines 
 Already in my firmament. And I 
 Reach upward and draw down to me 
 Its lightning. 
 
 Come, thou blessed, ancient light 
 Of Heavenly wisdom ! Touch me with thy flame 
 While I stand waiting ; not in fear, but hope 
 Exulting. So the shadow shall no more 
 Find shelter. And entering, I shall not hreathe 
 Again the heavy air of Death ; but scent 
 Of roses will be everywhere ! 
 
97 
 
 THE SILENT GUEST. 
 
 In Araby the Blest — no need 
 Soft perfumes to distill from flowers. 
 The Valleys enfold a scented air, 
 As the green calyx of a lily holds 
 The blossom. So the dwellers there 
 On heavenly odors nourished are ; 
 Exhaling- sweetness as flowers do. 
 Sometimes they journey in the West 
 And mingle with the Caravan 
 On desert sands. 
 
 Fainting, they ask 
 That perfumed waters may be brought 
 And sprinkled in the dust. Then they 
 Who march beside the Camels wonder 
 What weakness this ma}' be. 
 
98 
 
 II. 
 
 Ill that far country, music sounds 
 Always. The flowing waters, winds 
 Tliat play on harps ^olian, all 
 Great nature's voices touch the soul 
 To harmony. 
 
 So when thy guest 
 Who comes to thee across the waste 
 Of wide Sahara, and the seas. 
 Sits silent in thy tent, bring him 
 Thy simplest pipe, and it will wake 
 His memory, and call him back 
 From dreams. 
 
 Then can he speak, and tell 
 What thou wouldst know : whence he has come 
 And what his errand. 
 
99 
 
 AT DEATHS DOOR. 
 
 The Door was open, and a gentle voice 
 
 Said " Enter. Here all saddened hearts rejoice." 
 
 So without fear I entered ; as one goes 
 
 To a great festival, where the red rose 
 
 Crowns the deep wine-cup. and the feast is spread 
 
 To royal guests. On my long-sorrowing head 
 
 Fell the baptism of joy ; — the welcome blest 
 
 Of those who in the gilded chambers rest, 
 
 After the Day is ended. Music sweet 
 
 Stole to me. Then, about my weary feet 
 
 The golden meshes of a Dream were cast. 
 
 ***** 
 
 So stand I on the threshold ; there held fast, 
 In deep enchantment. In the distance gleam 
 The robes of that fair company, who seem 
 Awaiting me. Yet never can I go 
 Beyond the door. The dying ebb and flow 
 Of Melody and Light about me stream ; 
 But I am still entangled in my dream. 
 
lOO 
 
 DEATH'S MESSENGER. 
 
 I have a Spirit in my house, 
 
 Whom Fortune blindly sent. I prayed 
 
 For Wisdom ; but his name, instead, 
 
 Is Folly. All day long he weaves 
 
 A web of sunbeams ; and I sit 
 
 Rapt by its splendor, while the Hours 
 
 Move noiselessly. But when Night comes, 
 
 Then faded falls poor Folly's dream. 
 
 Among the twilight shadows. So 
 
 I sigh with Folly, till the morn 
 
 Brings back the sun. Then we begin 
 
 Again our Day's delight— the Spirit 
 
 Weaving dreams, and I entranced. 
 
 But wisdom comes at Evening's hour ; 
 
lOI 
 
 So then forgot are Folly's dreams. 
 I weep alone, thinking on Death, 
 Whom I have called in vain. I have 
 Been told how kind he is, bringing 
 Forgetfulness to pain, and curing- 
 Sorrow. '' Oh, would that Death were here 
 I cry. — 
 
 Then soft the answer steals 
 Through the still dusk : '• Within thy house, 
 Thou hast Death's messenger. He weaves 
 Thy winding sheet. His web of Dreams 
 That vanishes at night, is changed 
 By nature's forces to thy shroud. 
 Thou wearest it unknowing. Even Folly 
 Weeps when he sees thy smile." 
 
I02 
 
 THE PALACE OF DEATH. 
 
 A magic wand has raised the walls 
 
 Of my great palace. Chambers dim 
 
 And vacant wait my plenishing. 
 
 In them I dwell, untouched by Care, 
 
 While through the echoing galleries 
 
 Resound the Voices of the Dead. 
 
 When Morning comes, sweet Melody 
 
 Enters with heavenly airs. I go 
 
 From room to room, with Thoughts serene. 
 
 And at the twilight hour I come 
 
 Where the great fountain plays, and hear 
 
 The music of the feast. But yet 
 
 I am always alone, within 
 
 My Palace Invisible, 
 
lo- 
 
 ll. 
 
 Sometimes I hear a Voice that turns 
 
 My Thoughts away ; and holds my Soul 
 
 In solitude, with One who stands 
 
 Invisible beside me. Then 
 
 I know what magic built the walls 
 
 For my defense ; whose strength keeps me 
 
 Secure, although the darker Powers 
 
 Gather about. 
 
 And he who holds 
 My palace 'gainst all enemies, 
 Has called the lightning to subserve 
 My need. Not earthly elements 
 Alone are ministers, who bring 
 Celestial forces ; for they come 
 On the winged thunderbolt. 
 
104 
 
 in. 
 
 What have I given to him who built 
 
 A palace for my days, — who keeps 
 
 At bay the encroaching world, — and brings 
 
 To mortal weakness heaven's strength ? 
 
 Only a sorrowful heart. For that 
 
 Is now my only treasure. All 
 
 I had was lost in shipwreck, when 
 
 The Years, with their fair Argosy, 
 
 Were nearing a pleasant shore. The sea 
 
 Rose in swift anger, and swept away 
 
 My world. So was my naked soul 
 
 Left, shrieking to the Universe. 
 
 Only a broken heart remains ; 
 
 But it may be enough. 
 
I05 
 
 IV. 
 
 Once, in my Early Youth, I heard 
 
 Low songs sung in the hour of dreams, 
 
 By unseen voices. When awake, 
 
 I sang them, over and over, 
 
 Not knowing their meaning. They were 
 
 No childish rhymes. Then I forgot 
 
 The trick of singing. 
 
 Now, that I 
 Have given my heart to Him, again 
 The heavenly Voices sing. Always 
 I hear them ; and my throat is full 
 Of music. When I utter it, 
 I hear the notes of long ago, 
 Distinct and clear ; but now I know 
 It is the Song of Death. 
 
io6 
 
 HER RETREAT. 
 
 Here shall no intruding Thought betray 
 
 The Soul, communing with the Unseen. 
 
 All sounds of outer Life shall come 
 
 In softened echoes. At morn, the songs 
 
 Of birds ; at the still noon, the wings 
 
 Of butterflies ; and at the eve 
 
 The sighing wind : these only shall 
 
 Invade the heavenly silences. 
 
 Rare flowers, that bloom onl)' where 
 
 The Soul is dedicate to Death, 
 
 Shed their exquisite fragrance here. 
 
 They have been brought by loving hands 
 
 To One who dwells in Solitude 
 
 And Twilight ; and she finds them blest. 
 
i07 
 
 11. 
 
 But when the broadened light of Day 
 
 Shall shine upon their beauty, then 
 
 Imperishable will they glow, 
 
 Though she for whom they bloom is passed 
 
 Beyond the narrow gate, among 
 
 The roses of Paradise. 
 
 Not flowers 
 Alone make sweet the air ; for here 
 A fountain flows. Learning hath built it ; 
 Its w^aters, poured from golden lips, 
 Fall flashing down into the silver 
 Pool. Wisdom will offer thee to drink, 
 And if thou art athirst, thankfully 
 Receive. But if thou hast no need, 
 Pass on, nor trouble the clear deeps. 
 
io8 
 
 III. 
 
 She who holds possession here, Lady 
 Of Flowers and Fountain, cannot see. 
 Only her Servant tells her who 
 Is come ; and who is w^elcome. Not 
 Always wise are they who come. They 
 Bring confusion to the blinded 
 Eyes of Love ; and listening to their tale, 
 She knows not whether Heaven be fair 
 Or dark ; whether celestial suns 
 Illume the spaces ; or the stars 
 Beam softly between clouds, so vague 
 Their speech. So let them not reply 
 To her sad questioning. vSorrow 
 And Loneliness have been so long 
 
109 
 
 IV. 
 
 Immured with her, that she has lost 
 
 The memory of joy ; but spirits serene, 
 
 Religion and Philosphy, 
 
 Are welcome here. 
 
 For her defense 
 
 There is a shield, and its reverse 
 
 Is flame. Touch it with thy bold spear, 
 
 And thou shalt know its art. No power 
 
 On Earth can beat it down. 
 
 When she 
 Shall close her door, not one can enter : 
 For her g-reat flaming shield warns him 
 Inopportune, who comes at night. 
 Who passes at the Early Dawn 
 Is made afraid. In broad day, only, 
 The Guest may knock. 
 
no 
 
 CONSOLATION. 
 
 Now cease thy sobbing-. Life is done ; 
 And only Death is here. Compose 
 Thyself ; and strew white roses where 
 The grave is made. 
 
 I would not grieve 
 For what is past. Let bygones be ; 
 But never again invoke the power 
 Of Madness. 
 
 The o'erwrought brain and heart, 
 To suffocation prest, have failed beneath 
 The stress of Grief. How well it is 
 That Death is here. Better to be 
 With him, than suffer Life's long pain. 
 So bring sweet flowers to fill the place 
 Where fortunate Death has come, 
 With rich oerfumes. 
 
Ill 
 
 11 
 
 Not even a faded flower decks 
 
 Thy Life. So let it pass ;— forgotten, 
 
 As rainy nights upon the sea 
 
 No longer sadden us on shore. 
 
 The lily's fragrance, and the rose 
 
 That dies for thee, — affection's gift — 
 
 Are all thou hast in memory. 
 
 Of days to Sorrow given. When they 
 
 Are gone, forget thy tears, and Love 
 
 Shall bring thee flowers : roses fresh, 
 
 And lilies plucked in gardens fair ; 
 
 Where Constancy has watered them 
 
 With heavenly dews. Their morning blush 
 
 And sunset gold are fadeless. 
 
112 
 
 HI 
 
 He who would be Lord of thy life 
 
 Must give with bounteous hand. Thou hast 
 
 A pahice for thy dwelling. There 
 
 Thou shalt have many guests ; and they 
 
 Should drink red wine, feasting on fruits 
 
 Ambrosial. Through the wide doors should pass 
 
 Thy train with music ; and great lights 
 
 Burn their red torches till the morn. 
 
 Thou hast done well to come with him 
 
 Who gives thee all his treasure. Now, 
 
 Thou shalt not lack for ministers 
 
 To do thy will. And Poetry 
 
 Will bring fresh garlands to adorn 
 
 Thy crystal walls. 
 
113 
 
 THRENODY. 
 
 When thou hast called on Death, he was 
 
 Already with thee. All the night 
 
 He followed in thy steps, and seemed 
 
 To tliee a shadow only. When 
 
 The morning came, he held the cup 
 
 For thee to drink. Looking on him, 
 
 Thou didst refuse ; for he was fair, 
 
 As the fair gods in thy old temples, 
 
 " Tempt not my Soul," then didst thou cry. 
 
 " I must not drink the cup of Love !" 
 
 Then Death his mantle drew about 
 
 Him ; while thy Soul, unknowing, shrank 
 
 Away.— Never hast thou known Death, 
 
 Even though he followed thee. 
 
114 
 
 II. 
 
 Since thou hast taken Death for Love, 
 And turned away thine eyes, then look 
 On him who takes away the cup, 
 And turns thy flowers to dust. He is 
 Thy earth-born deity ; and goes 
 Beside thee in the sad turmoil 
 That is thy world. And he is Love, 
 Who makes his spoil of thee. He drinks 
 Thy wine ; and leaves thee to kind Death 
 Let not bewilderment seize on 
 Thy soul. For many take Love's name ; 
 And Death is Love Divine who holds 
 Thee to him. Thou hast called on him, 
 Not knowing he was Love, 
 
115 
 
 III. 
 
 If thon wouldst choose betwixt True Love 
 And Death, thy Soul already hath 
 Made choice. 
 
 Love always was with thee. 
 Always thy Soul went out in search 
 Of Death. Now she has found him, rest 
 Thou also with thy Soul in peace. 
 Let earthly True Love go. Return 
 To dust : and in the secret house 
 Where Immortality is born, 
 Thou Shalt find Life again with Death. 
 Long has he followed thee. Long hast 
 Thou called on him. So let him lead 
 Thee from the world ; while thy True Love 
 Sleeps, drunken with the wine of Life. 
 
ii6 
 
 RETURNED. 
 
 In the wild night I come 
 Upon the winged steeds, 
 Who bear the ancient names 
 Eolus and Auster. 
 Open the portals wide, 
 Again would I enter 
 Into thy chamber. Once 
 I was visibly 
 Lord of all. Now am I 
 Only the ghost of him. 
 Now am I suitor, where 
 Then I was dominant. 
 Now must I ask of Life 
 That which I forfeited, 
 Leaguing myself with Death. 
 Let me once more draw near, 
 Let me rest once again 
 On thy kind bosom. I 
 Am thy risen Lord, 
 Not his pale image. 
 
117 
 
 II. 
 
 Enter, thou might}^ one ! 
 
 Still art thou Lord of Life. 
 
 Eolus and Auster 
 
 Bring thee from Paradise, 
 
 Where thou hast dwelt among 
 
 Roses and lilies. Sv/eet 
 
 Is th}^ kiss as the breath 
 
 Of the Zephyr that floats 
 
 In the gardens at Dawn. 
 
 Wide open the portal ; 
 
 And fair is the chamber. 
 
 Invisible art thou 
 
 To them who would mock thee, 
 
 Conquered by Death. 
 
 Enter, 
 
 And rest thee. No image 
 
 Art thou to my fealty ; 
 
 But brighter thy Presence 
 
 Than when thou wast vested 
 
 In raiment of Flesh. 
 
ii8 
 
 CYTHEREA. 
 
 Beyond the murk of night there shines 
 
 A star. The sea reflects her beams ; 
 
 And I, who turn my face frcm Heaven, 
 
 Can see her in the deep. Although 
 
 She is not Venus' self— so like 
 
 Is she, that I am lost in dreams 
 
 Of deep-sea wonders. I forget 
 
 The tales of sirens who betray, 
 
 And the wrecked treasure lying there. 
 
 But far below the coral reef. 
 
 Where rainbow-shells and flowers of the sea 
 
 Adorn her grotto— there, I think, 
 
 Sweet Cytherea sleeps among 
 
 The emerald shadows. 
 
Ilq 
 
 THE TRESPASS. 
 
 Wandering in thickest dark, I lost 
 
 My way ; so entered at a door 
 
 That opened in a garden wall. 
 
 Then in the midst of lilies fair 
 
 And roses— by their perfume sweet 
 
 I knew them in the dark— I found 
 
 My footsteps straying far 
 
 Along the winding walks of this 
 
 Strange garden. Then I thought to pluck 
 
 The fragrant flowers as I went. 
 
 So was 1 laden with my spoil. 
 
 But when I would return, the path 
 
 Was hid in darkness ; and the door 
 
 Lost in the shadows. So I stood 
 
 Afraid to call, lest one should come 
 
 To chide me for my theft. And now 
 
 The lilies I had gathered drooped ; 
 
 The rich, dark roses had no scent ; 
 
 And scid reflections held my Soul, 
 
I 20 
 
 All the night long-. When Dawn revealed 
 
 The narrow pathway, and the door 
 
 Where I had entered in — lo ! there 
 
 The Gardener stood. Cold words were none. 
 
 Smiling, he said, this was my own 
 
 Domain ; an old inheritance 
 
 Long time un visited. Then shame 
 
 Assailed me, that I had been found 
 
 A robber, dumb with fear, when night 
 
 Held me enchanted in my garden dim. 
 
iU 
 
 THE WINDS. 
 
 When down the Valley the great Winds 
 
 Come with their lordly step, the trees 
 
 Sway with the sound of rolling seas ; 
 
 But the soft notes of birds still come 
 
 From their green depths. They sing the songs 
 
 Of mating and nest-building ; though 
 
 The grand Orchestra of the sky 
 
 Drowns the small hum of insect life. 
 
 In the dark pines the Winds have found 
 
 The stateliest harps on which to play 
 
 Their diapason. But across 
 
 The stream, in the long grass above 
 
 The graves, they go in silence. There 
 
 They sweep away the dews of night. 
 
122 
 
 II. 
 
 About the Church they gather — hushed 
 
 To hear the Voice of God ! They would 
 
 Be reverent. But spoken words 
 
 Are not the spirits' language. God 
 
 Speaks through the winds, and they must know, 
 
 And so when in the Church I hear 
 
 Their voices rising, as they call 
 
 Me to the hills, where God has built 
 
 His temple — I go out beyond 
 
 The drowsy portal ; far above 
 
 The sleeping Valley and the songs 
 
 Of nesting birds ; where Eagles float 
 
 On quiet wings — upborne by Winds 
 
 Where they would fly. 
 
123 
 
 ECHO. 
 
 The one I know lives in a Valley where 
 
 I sometimes go when I am tired of hills. 
 
 And there together we make merry, while 
 
 The hushed stream listens in the rocks. He calls 
 
 Across the fields ; and little children hear 
 
 Him in their play ; and ask each other why 
 
 Spirits invisible mock them always, 
 
 When they would hear the Nightingales at noon. 
 
 Then my dear Echo cries : 
 
 "The Nightingales 
 At noon !" And silvery laughter bursts from 
 
 hedge 
 And tree, as if the birds mocked Echo ; when 
 They really are sleeping in the wood. 
 So all day long we make the Valley ring- 
 With jest andmusic. Then I seek the hills. 
 
 II. 
 In the recesses of the hills I live 
 With a sad spirit, who is grieved 
 
124 
 
 When I have been with Echo in the Vale. 
 
 vShe loves not idle merriment. She breathes 
 
 The finer air above the mingled sounds 
 
 That clash below. And when I come at night 
 
 Back to her wise reproofs, I am ashamed 
 
 That I have wasted all my hours with one 
 
 Who has no Soul. For Echo has an empty mind 
 
 Bereft of reason. He will but repeat 
 
 Words that he cannot understand, so when 
 
 I catch his trick of speech, and laugh with him, 
 
 I seem a Madman and a Fool to her 
 
 Who loves the sober and the wise. 
 
 III. 
 Would that I might my foolish Echo bring 
 From his low-lying Valley. In the hills 
 A Soul might be imparted to him. Here 
 He might dwell among the crags that hang 
 Above the thundering waterfall. And when 
 The eagles cry he can repeat their note. 
 So would he soon forget the voice of mirth. 
 Great Nature's lessons in the hills are full 
 Of solemn teachings. They who hear, although 
 They have been crazed by folly, cannot long 
 Withstand them. They are heard by night and day ; 
 
12 
 
 Even in the silence. So let Echo come, 
 And live with mighty Spirits who abide 
 In the fastnesses of the ancient rocks. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The sportive Echo of the Valley came 
 
 To dwell with me upon the mountain-top, 
 
 Where I had found a cavern in the rocks 
 
 For him. " Here," said 1, '^ shall be Echo's homo. 
 
 To him the barren pines will whisper. He 
 
 Will answer back as gently. When the voice 
 
 Of the great waterfall shall reach him, he 
 
 Will give, in awful tones, the very sound 
 
 Of falling thunder. We shall hear no more 
 
 The tinkling laughter of his native brooks. 
 
 A fit companion will he be for hours 
 
 Of meditation." But when Echo heard the sweep 
 
 Of wintry storms in the ravine, he fled 
 
 Back to his Valley ; where he mocks me still. 
 
 v. 
 Although I am no longer playfellow 
 To Echo, yet I sometimes wander near 
 His shaded haunts beside the running brook, 
 And there I hear him answering the call 
 Of solitary birds, who seek their nests 
 
126 
 
 Among the trees. His voice delusive seems 
 The note of nightingale or wren ; so they 
 Wbo hear him think the one beloved returns 
 From weary wanderings in the sky ; or brings 
 News from the field and groves that lie beyond. 
 Then they wait happy in their nests, and give 
 To Echo sounds of Joy which he repeats. 
 So all the Valley rings with songs of birds 
 And Echo answering, finer than them all. 
 
 VI. '■ 
 
 When I would chide his sad deceit, he tells 
 Me I have lived too long among the clouds. 
 I do not know the sadness of the Vale 
 When he is gone. Abandoned Nightingales 
 Call vainly. Fearful, then they hide away 
 And sing no more. The Brook has not the Voice 
 Of the great Waterfall ; but softly sings 
 Upon its way ; and Echo takes delight 
 In its low syllables. So in the trees 
 He whispers the Brook's song ; and lovely nymph: 
 Dance to its measured rhythm. 
 
 When silent he, 
 Sadly the Brook moves on. The woodland dance 
 No more weaves in and out the golden mist 
 Upon the flower-strewn bank. 
 
127 
 
 MAY. 
 
 The changing season brings 
 New hopes. The robin sings 
 At morning ; and at eve 
 The cuckoo calls. I leave 
 My cares behind. I go 
 From Winter's wind and snow 
 With the young Spring. We find 
 The great world fair and kind, 
 With beauty everywhere. 
 The flower-scented air, 
 The tender sunlight, earth 
 In misty green, give birth 
 To joyous thoughts. We rise 
 With them to April skies, 
 And see the open gates 
 Where sweet Perfection waits 
 The lovely coming May ; 
 She brings the full-robed Day 
 Of Happiness. My Heart 
 Goes out to her. Apart 
 From Sorrow will I stray. 
 In myrtle groves with May. 
 
128 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 The silence of the budding trees is changed 
 To the soft murmur of the crowding leaves ; 
 And from the Valley flies the Spring, o'ercome 
 By Summer's flaunting host. 
 
 The lilies fair 
 Are withered ; pink arbutus gone ; the wealth 
 Of bloom that clothed the orchard fallen to dust. 
 But the sweet honeysuckle tempts the bee,. 
 And early roses are in bud. The Vv^orld 
 Is still a shrine for Beauty's worshipers, 
 And Nature's incense rises to the skies. 
 A deeper joy is in the wnld-bird's note, 
 As all day long, in sunlight or in shade, 
 He sings beside the noisy stream ; while soft 
 And tenderly his mate calls from the nest. 
 
129 
 
 She thinks her song has turned the thunderbolts 
 From their dark ambush in the hills, whence they 
 Descended on the Valley ; — and has brought 
 The sun of June to light their nest. She thinks 
 His voice evokes the tender worms to come 
 Above the ground after the rain, for him 
 To so provide the rest with food. 
 
 Not like 
 A mate I know, who leaves her nest to seek 
 In high-walled gardens tempting fruits that blush 
 And who has made a refuge from chance stroke 
 Of lightning, in the crevice of a tomb. 
 And when at morn or eve she hears the song 
 Of her bright plumed lord, she only thinks 
 He calls her to the shade. 
 
I30 
 
 THE PROTECTING OAK. 
 
 Deep in the forest grow dark ferns 
 
 About the Oak. They hold the dews 
 
 Of morning, though the Hours burn 
 
 The crown of their protector. Winds 
 
 That tear liis leaves and scatter them, 
 
 Reach not the ferns. Only the airs 
 
 That steal through friendly boughs, can touch 
 
 Their beauty ; so they tremble not. 
 
 Only a gentle waving stirs 
 
 The golden butterfly who drinks 
 
 The nectar kept for him. So thou 
 
 Art sheltered from the elements. Thy life 
 
 Is passed in shadow of the Oak 
 
 Who towers in the Sun. 
 
 Who thought the Oak was dead, saw not 
 
 The tender buds beneath the snows ; 
 
 Nor knew the Spring would touch with wand 
 
Enchanted the great rugged limbs 
 Unfolding leaves — a miracle. 
 Winter had taken the Old Year's robe, 
 And on the naked boughs had hung 
 His icicles. The birds had flown 
 To distant palms ; and silence dwelt 
 In the Oak-tree. 
 
 But now it stirs 
 With melody ; and sometimes downward 
 Flutter strange scarlet wings that flash 
 Their color in the shade. 
 
132 
 
 THE OAK'S PLEA FOR VIOLETS. 
 
 The scented Violets grow thick 
 In the deep shadow of the Oak. 
 The Sun has never blanched their hue, 
 Nor stolen their perfume. The wide fields 
 Are sown with daisies. Hearts of gold 
 Have they ; but they are scentless. 
 Transplant the Violets, — and they 
 Will lose their charm, and will not be 
 The rivals of the hardier flowers. 
 Let them remain among the dews 
 Protected by the tree. Gather 
 The daisies for the children. Let 
 Them weave their garlands. But leave 
 The Violets for Poet's eyes. 
 
 Beneath the Oak, the Violets 
 
 Bloom late. The early Spring was cold ; 
 
 And snows have lingered in the Vale ; 
 
So even the Oak put forth his leaves 
 With caution. 
 
 Now he is aglow 
 With Life. The tempest shakes in vain 
 His sturdy boughs. He will not lose 
 One leaf upon the wind. The Sun 
 Can never reach his roots. He stands 
 Fixed in his place, where Nature placed 
 The acorn— a centur}^ ago. 
 But yesterday the violets 
 Were brought by tender airs, and sown 
 Under the grateful tree. 
 
 III. 
 
 They who would pluck the Violets 
 Must come at early morn ; for then 
 They are new-opened ; and they tell 
 Sweet stories of the Dawn. Each day 
 New blossoms look abroad ; and each 
 Has its own tale. 
 
 When Evening comes 
 It is forgot. The flowers dream 
 Among the leaves. Then the great Oak 
 Protects them from malicious Elves, 
 
134 
 
 Who haunt the wood at night ; sheltering 
 
 The horned Owl, whose warning voice 
 
 Bids the intruder fly. Think not 
 
 To find for Violets a bank 
 
 Where they can bloom secure, as here. 
 
135 
 
 THE VOICE IN THE OAK. 
 
 The great Oak budded in deep silence. When ^ 
 The leaves unfolded, trembling in the air, 
 Low whispers stole among them ; and a Voice, 
 From distances unknown, spoke in the tree. 
 " Who art thou ?" said the listening Forest. " We 
 Would know what stranger, sheltered in the Oak, 
 Tells fairy tales to wandering children." Then, 
 " I am the stranger," said the Voice, " I dwelt 
 Within the Oak in other days. I went 
 Away in i\utumn, when the red leaves fell, 
 And dreamed all winter in the southern palms. 
 Now I have come again to live among 
 My native trees. I love this friendly Oak. 
 I murmur in his boughs what I have caught 
 In foreign lands." 
 
 Then said the Forest : " He 
 May tell the truth. He is a Summer Wind 
 That blows in every tree. But when he shakes 
 The Oak, he stirs the leaves to whisper tales 
 Of Fairy-land and Poetry." 
 
Ij^ 
 
 SUNRISE. 
 
 The morning breaks upon the world ; 
 And from the Sea fair islands rise 
 To sig-ht ; and the horizon burns 
 Behind the looming ships, that come 
 From distant shores. 
 
 All night, we looked 
 On darkness, thick with misty shapes, 
 Which had no form. The glimmering torch 
 Held by the Evening Star, sufficed 
 To banish fear. But now the Dawn 
 Has come, and we can see how safe 
 Our anchorage, — the haven gained ; 
 While far across the bar the waves 
 Beat vainly. We have lain secure 
 All night, beneath the friendly cliff. 
 
137 
 
 IT. 
 
 Outside, the robbers of the sea 
 
 Have sailed into the dark. They passed 
 
 Our bark, hid in the shadow ; so 
 
 Were we preserved from perils unknown, 
 
 Yet have we kept our silent watch 
 With the brave Pilot at the helm, 
 Who slept not — though he never called 
 The Hours of the Night, and " All is well 
 But had we known what Danger sailed 
 The seas, while we were safe in shore, 
 We had not kept aloof from him, 
 Who watched the tides, and held us fast. 
 But now the morn is here, we may 
 With him go out upon the main. 
 
138 
 
 A POET'S CHOICE. 
 
 ** Once in a Century the Aloe blooms, 
 
 But every day new Roses greet the world. 
 
 So why await the lingerintr beauty, since 
 
 The sweetest flowers are ready to thy hand ?" 
 
 " I know," the Poet said, " how beautiful 
 
 And how profuse the Roses are ; but I 
 
 Would choose a flower rare and wonderful 
 
 So I will wait another hundred years." 
 
 "But cans't thou live alone while Roses smile 
 
 Around thee ? Their sweet scent must touch thy 
 
 soul 
 With thoughts of Love. So gather them, and dream 
 In happiness until the Aloe blooms." 
 " Ah, yes," the Poet sighed." But Death shall give 
 The Aloe — in the hundred years !" 
 
LOVE UNATTENDED. 
 
 In the great palace where Love dwells, 
 She never is alone. With her 
 A hundred handmaidens abide, 
 To braid her garlands, and to crown 
 With them her flowing hair. They bring 
 Each day a new-made robe, that one 
 Has broidered with white pearls, and one 
 Has starred with golden flowers. So, Love 
 Is always clad and garlanded 
 With beauty. 
 
 One dark Summer morn 
 Love rose from her great ivory bed, 
 And saw her chamber empty. None 
 Were there to greet her, or to give 
 Her robe and garland. Angry, then, 
 She loudly called. No answer came. 
 So in her haste, unclothed, she flew 
 All naked as she slept, across 
 The silent court where fountains played 
 In the faint sunlight. So she ran 
 To find her handmaidens. Bnt they 
 
140 
 
 Had gone. Silent their chamber was, 
 And empty. Withered garlands lay 
 On the cold floor ; and jewels shone 
 On the imfinished robe. Then Love 
 Took in her royal hands the silk. 
 About her shoulders white she wrapped 
 The shining stuff. So now was she 
 Covered ; and her fair limbs were hid. 
 And even in such unshaped attire 
 She was a queen. And when she sat 
 Beside the fountain. One who came 
 To beg a draught of her was glad 
 To find great Love without the robe 
 And wreath prescribed by Law 
 Divine. 
 
 But when another day 
 Had come, her maidens all returned. 
 Affrighted by a shadow, they 
 Had spent the night in tears ; and morn 
 Had found them pale and sad. So they 
 Had fled from Love, who cannot look 
 On pallid cheeks unmoved. But Love 
 Forgave ; for she had entertained 
 The stranger without ministers. 
 
141 
 
 RESIGNATION. 
 
 I cannot dwell beside the stream that flows 
 
 From Paradise. It brings upon its breast 
 
 The fallen leaves of roses, and faded stars 
 
 Of blue forget-me-nots, that grew beyond 
 
 The hills where I am banished. So I build 
 
 My bower beside the quiet pool that lies 
 
 Beneath the cypresses. There blooms a timid 
 
 Weed, that lifts its flowers to my hand. Gathered, 
 
 It is the solace of my days ; for once 
 
 In heavenly fields it grew — my Love of Learning. 
 
 Strange, that I should lament the blushing flowers 
 
 That have no healing in their leaves ; that bloom 
 
 And fade within a day. But so my Spirit 
 
 Grew, nourished by magic charm of roses' breath. 
 
142 
 
 n. 
 
 When I had lost my place in Paradise, 
 
 I missed the gardens, rather than the choirs 
 
 Of angels. For within my bower I have 
 
 A singing bird, whose notes, attuned to Love 
 
 And Sorrow, suit the temper of my Soul. 
 
 When I am called back into Heaven, I will 
 Not let the roses fall ; nor perish the sweet 
 Forget-me-nots. They shall be gathered in 
 Their bloom, and fill the chamber of my Soul 
 With beauty. I will sit embowered among 
 Them ; and I may forget the weariness 
 Of Learning. While I dwell among the cypresses, 
 I always dream of Paradise. 
 
143 
 
 LILIES AND ROSES. 
 
 I have not asked the Stars what Fate 
 
 Is mine. I would not know the hour 
 
 Of Destiny. There is a hand 
 
 That guides me ; and I cannot stray ^ 
 
 Far from the narrow path that leads 
 
 Away from worldly snares. Sometimes 
 
 A wish to taste forbidden joys 
 
 Draws me to wander in the fields, 
 
 That border on my w^ay. I find 
 
 Fair flowers, and gather them. They die 
 
 And I, repentant, turn. My guide 
 
 Awaits me, and his hands are full 
 
 Of lilies. So my Soul ashamed. 
 
 Receives the undeserved award. 
 
144 
 
 II. 
 
 Why should I sigh for roses, when 
 
 The lilies are so beautiful ? 
 
 Their gilded fairness fills my mind 
 
 With peace. But still my heart complains, 
 
 And cries for the red rose, that nods 
 
 Beyond the wall. 
 
 So to my guide 
 I come with prayer : " Go, pluck for me 
 One rose. I will not ask the wealth 
 Of the rose-tree. Only a bud. 
 As yet unblown, shall me suffice." 
 Then from my side he goes afield, 
 And brings what I have asked ; and more- 
 He comes with roses laden. So, 
 Content, I go upon my way. 
 
145 
 
 THE WITHERED ROSE. 
 
 The Daffodils I love, for they 
 Come in the early Year, when Spring 
 Is cold. But the rich scented Rose 
 I worship. Her beauty has the charm 
 Of summer time ; even when the sun 
 And dew no longer can bestow 
 Color and freshness to her cheek , 
 And though her petals fade, within 
 My chamber still the air is sweet 
 With all the old enchantment. vSo 
 I hold my Rose the Queen of Flowers ; 
 Unlike the faded Daffodil 
 Whom I would leave upon her stalk. 
 I press her to my lips, and swear 
 She is the Summer's fairest one, 
 Even dying. 
 
 Her delicate leaves 
 Have never unfolded qiiite ; and deep 
 Within her heart still burns a drop 
 
T46 
 
 Of dew. The Sun has never drunk 
 Of this deep cup ; and butterflies 
 Flew past, not knowing. 
 
 Now, it is night. 
 And vSummer is asleep— while I 
 Have long been dreaming with my Rose 
 I have forgot how fair she was, 
 Blooming at morn ; for Beauty charms 
 Though Death is near ! Her magic spell 
 Is old as time. 
 
H7 
 
 LOVE AND SORROW. 
 
 When Joy has fled, then Sorrow smiles ; 
 For she is constant ; and though Frost 
 Has killed my flowers, and my house 
 Is desolate, with me she still 
 Abides. — Joy is inconstant, yet 
 I loved her well ; though knowing all 
 Her fickleness and her deceit ; 
 For me she loved not. I was born 
 Predestined to be Sorrow's own. 
 Farewell, dear Joy ! Sorrow and I 
 Are one. 
 
 But when the Summer comes, 
 Return again ! — Sorrow herself 
 Will welcome thee. Constant she is ; 
 But Love may turn her heart to thee. 
 
148 
 
 II. 
 
 When Love is joined to vSorrow, who 
 
 Can dwell with them ? Their house should be 
 
 Swept clear of all intruders. They 
 
 Would shut out all the world. Even Joy 
 
 Is given reluctant welcome. Death 
 
 Alone can come and go at will, 
 
 For he is loved of both. vSo I, 
 
 Whose name is one with Death's, 
 
 Take counsel with them. And I find 
 
 Joy has brought Jealousy ; and Love, 
 
 Looking on Sorrow, is insane ! 
 
 Between them, I have hung a screen 
 
 Of climbing roses. May their scent 
 
 Bring pleasant dreams. 
 
149 
 
 SILENT COMPANIONSHIP. 
 
 In the fair garden where I dream, there stands 
 
 A marble figure on its pedestal, 
 
 Enwreathed with vines. I planted them, so they 
 
 Should hide the feet of the old sylvan god, 
 
 Whose head serene, with ctown of sculptured 
 
 flowers, 
 Rises above. This is the only friend 
 To whom I bring the burdens of a Soul 
 Freighted too heavily with grief. Silence 
 And Nature give the sympathy I crave ; 
 And when I lift my eyes I see his brow 
 Soft in the starlight ; while a gentle wind 
 Stirs the dark vine to whisper tenderly, 
 That in my garden I am not alone, 
 With my undying Sorrow. 
 
ISO 
 
 II. 
 
 Sometimes I wish he would descend, and sit 
 
 Beside me ; and that I might feel a hand 
 
 In mine, while the dark Night is deepening 
 
 Around. But never moves he from his stone 
 
 Where the great Master Workman placed him, long 
 
 Ago. So then I lean my brow against 
 
 The friendly vines ; and almost have I prayed 
 
 To this old image. He might answer me. 
 
 Had he a language that could reach the ear. 
 
 Of mortals. But we are dull ; and so we miss 
 
 The meanings of the Gods, unless they play 
 
 On pipes, leading the dance with nymphs, far in 
 
 The shades of groves Arcadian. Often 
 
 We hear their notes at Twilight, or the Dawn. 
 
151 
 
 ARACHNE'S ROBE. 
 
 On days when fair Arachne spins ; and flowers are left 
 
 To droop untended in the sun ; her lover's soul 
 
 Is wrung with sadness ; for the hours to him have all 
 
 Been wasted. Butterflies have flaunted wings of gold 
 
 And silver, shaming the dark texture lustreless 
 
 His Lady wears. Why should she spend the fleeting days 
 
 In irksome tasks, to such a thankless end ? For he 
 
 Who dwells beside the azure lakes, beneath the skies 
 
 Of gold and purple splendor, cares no more to look 
 
 On sober colors, woven in the shade, with toil 
 
 And weariness. 
 
 Far better had it been, if she 
 Had come into the fields, and seen the lilies grow, 
 She might have worn the Ev^ening's veil ; or clothed herseli' 
 In meadow mist. Her lover would have been content. 
 
152 
 
 THE LAUREL 
 
 Where the rude hills have borne the Oaks, 
 
 Among their hardy trunks I saw 
 
 The Lady Laurel, peering forth 
 
 On the highway. Why she should choose 
 
 To keep her tryst with June so far 
 
 From the great cities, where her name 
 
 Would give her precedence, I know not. 
 
 Here the rustics make her room 
 
 Below the honeysuckle, when 
 
 They ask her to their feasts. Scarcely 
 
 Do they remember she is sought 
 
 By Heroes and by Poets. So 
 
 I wonder why she waits beneath 
 
 The Oak, upon the rugged hills. 
 
153 
 
 II. 
 
 The winds among the Oaks have brought 
 Sweet incense to the Laurel. They 
 Have blown across far lands and seas 
 And heard the Lady Laurel named 
 Among great princes. 
 
 Who have asked 
 That she might crown them at the end, 
 Then the world's fight was won ; or hang 
 Her garlands on their tombs. Beauty 
 And strength spring from the scanty soil 
 Wliere skies are pure. 
 
 So here the Laurel 
 Comes ; and breathes the mountain air. She holds 
 Pink flowers to bribe the passer-by, 
 That he may spare her leaves. They are 
 For other hands. 
 
154 
 
 WORDLY GOODS. 
 
 I have been gathering- fallen leaves. 
 A little time they wear the tints 
 Lent by decay; but soon they fall 
 To dust, and wither ; so the wreath 
 I wove of them no more delights. 
 Now will I go with brows uncrowned, 
 And empty hands, since Summer's flowers 
 Are gone. 
 
 And as I walk in Shade, 
 Hearing the voice of Doves complain, 
 I may the Laurel find, that late 
 Retains its beauty. Then will I bring 
 Rare garlands to the banquet, though 
 The fallen leaves are dead. 
 
155 
 
 MY QUIET HOURS. 
 
 Under the pleasant trees that hold 
 The warm sunlight their prisoner, 
 Yielding free passage to the breeze ; 
 We bring our weariness, and here 
 It turns to Rest. 
 
 In the cool shade 
 We breathe sweet woodland scents, 
 And essences impalpable 
 Steal to the blood, and add their power 
 To vitalize. When we have passed 
 An hour in this pure air, we would 
 Not enter again the close-shut room 
 Where we have lived before ; for there 
 Rest vanishes ; and Weariness 
 Seizes again the Soul. 
 
 II. 
 
 So let me raise my tent beyond 
 Man's habitations. I would rest 
 
>56 
 
 Under its airy roof, when night 
 Descends from the far hills ; for then 
 I should not waste the sacred flame 
 Of all-consuming Darkness. Stars 
 Would shine in open spaces. Fresh 
 And strong the winds of Heaven blow 
 About my earthly bed. I can 
 No longer dwell beneath the roof 
 That shelters Care, and Souls bereft 
 Of joy. Only the wilderness 
 Invites the blessed Spirits. There 
 I will stay. 
 
 III. 
 
 Although I go 
 Alone, and they who love me scorn 
 My shifting roof (for I shall follow 
 The changing Year), yet will I find 
 The fairest company beneath 
 The sun. 
 
 Innocent children play 
 Among the shadows. Maidens, youths, 
 And the wisest of all times, are there 
 At Dawn and Twilight. They have come 
 
^S7 
 
 From dwellings that were tombs — like mine ; 
 
 And people now this happier world. 
 
 But the irreverent wSoul that hastes 
 
 To join me in the wilderness, 
 
 Shall miss the path, and vainly seek 
 
 My white tent gleaming in the trees. 
 
158 
 
 AUTUMN REVERY. 
 
 The Summer's glory is gone by, 
 
 And Autumn rains have spoiled the trees ; 
 
 Yet the soft loveliness that rests 
 
 In faded colors, and the mist 
 
 O'erhanging, but not veiling all 
 
 The beauty of the grove, makes me 
 
 Reflect. 
 
 This is the conquering grace 
 That steals into man's heart— the glow 
 And finer essence that remain 
 When Youth is gone. 
 
 I would not here 
 Repeat the whisper of the rain ; 
 Nor tell what it hath told all day, 
 Falling in quiet pools wherein 
 The shadows only flit. Yet while 
 It trembles, chilled by haunting looks 
 Of cold November, there are dreams 
 Of spring among the thin, bare trees ; 
 
159 
 
 And through the creeping mist I see 
 The floating visions dim of long 
 Ago. And Death — the mystery — 
 Forever weaves his spell about 
 My dreams. The rain — the sighing wind- 
 Can tell no more in their soft tones 
 Than Death has told me, in the days 
 When summer still was here ; when gold 
 And purple shot the evening sky 
 With splendor, caught from fading worlds 
 Like mine, that rolls in dusk. 
 
 THE END. 
 
W: 
 
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