A Jongleur Strayed Part 8

ENVOI

Princess, that all this craft of moonlight threw Across my path, this deep immortal smart Shall still burn on when winds my ashes strew: A woman--and yet how much more thou art!

THE MAGIC FLOWER

You bear a flower in your hand, You softly take it through the air, Lest it should be too roughly fanned, And break and fall, for all your care.

Love is like that, the lightest breath Shakes all its blossoms o'er the land, And its mysterious cousin, Death, Waits but to s.n.a.t.c.h it from your hand.

O some day, should your hand forget, Your guardian eyes stray otherwhere, Your cheeks shall all in vain be wet, Vain all your penance and your prayer.

G.o.d gave you once this creature fair, You two mysteriously met; By Time's strange stream There stood this Dream, This lovely Immortality Given your mortal eyes to see, That might have been your darling yet; But in the place Of her strange face Sorrow will stand forever more, And Sorrow's hand be on your brow, And vainly you shall watch the door For her so lightly with you now, And all the world be as before.

Ah; Spring shall sing and Summer bloom, And flowers fill Life's empty room, And all the singers sing in vain, Nor bring you back your flower again.

O have a care!--for this is all: Let not your magic blossom fall.

BALLADE OF LOVE'S CLOISTER

Had I the gold that some so vainly spend, For my lost loves a temple would I raise, A shrine for each dear name: there should ascend Incense for ever, and hymns of golden praise; And I would live the remnant of my days, Where hallowed windows cast their painted gleams, At prayer before each consecrated face, Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

And each fair altar, like a priest, I'd tend, Tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the tapers to a constant blaze, And to each lovely and beloved friend Garlands I'd bring, and virginal soft sprays From April's bodice, and moon-breasted May's, And there should be a sound for ever of streams And birds 'mid happy leaves in that still place,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

O'er missals of hushed memories would I bend, And thrilling scripts of bosom-scented phrase, Telling of love that never hath an end, And sacred relics of wonder-working grace, Strands of bright hair, and tender webs of lace, Press to my lips--until the Present seems The Past again to my ensorcelled gaze,-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

ENVOI

Princesses unforgot, your lover lays His heart upon your altars, and he deems He treads again the fair love-haunted ways-- Kneeling within that cloister of old dreams.

AN OLD LOVE LETTER

I was reading a letter of yours to-day, The date--O a thousand years ago!

The postmark is there--the month was May: How, in G.o.d's name, did I let you go?

What wonderful things for a girl to say!

And to think that I hadn't the sense to know-- What wonderful things for a man to hear!

O still beloved, O still most dear.

"Duty" I called it, and hugged the word Close to my side, like a shirt of hair; You laughed, I remember, laughed like a bird, And somehow I thought that you didn't care.

Duty!--and Love, with her bosom bare!

No wonder you laughed, as we parted there-- Then your letter came with this last good-by-- And I sat splendidly down to die.

Nor Duty, nor Death, would have aught of me: "He is Love's," they said, "he cannot be ours;"

And your laugh pursued me o'er land and sea, And your face like a thousand flowers.

"Tis her gown!" I said to each rustling tree, "She is coming!" I said to the whispered showers; But you came not again, and this letter of yours Is all that endures--all that endures.

These aching words--in your swift firm hand, That stirs me still as the day we met--- That now 'tis too late to understand, Say "hers is the face you shall ne'er forget;"

That, though s.p.a.ce and Time be as shifting sand, We can never part--we are meeting yet.

This song, beloved, where'er you be, Your heart shall hear and shall answer me.

TOO LATE

Too late I bring my heart, too late 'tis yours; Too late to bring the true love that endures; Too long, unthrift, I gave it here and there, Spent it in idle love and idle song; Youth seemed so rich, with kisses all to spare-- Too late! too long!

Too late, O fairy woman; dreams and dust Are in your hair, your face is dimly thrust Among the flowers; and Time, that all forgets, Even you forgets, and only I prolong The face I love, with ache of vain regrets-- Too late! too long!

Too long I tarried, and too late I come, O eyes and lips so strangely sealed and dumb: My heart--what is it now, beloved, to you?

My love--that doth your holy silence wrong?

Ah! fairy face, star-crowned and chrismed with dew-- Too late! too long!

THE DOOR AJAR

My door is always left ajar, Lest you should suddenly slip through, A little breathless frightened star; Each footfall sets my heart abeat, I always think it may be you, Stolen in from the street.

My ears are evermore attent, Waiting in vain for one blest sound-- The little frock, with lilac scent, That used to whisper up the stair; Then in my arms with one wild bound-- Your lips, your eyes, your hair.

Never the south wind through the rose, Brushing its petals with soft hand, Made such sweet talking as your clothes, Rustling and fragrant as you came, And at my aching door would stand-- Then vanish into flame.

CHIPMUNK

Little chipmunk, do you know All you mean to me?-- She and I and Long Ago, And you there in the tree; With that nut between your paws, Half-way to your twittering jaws, Jaunty with your striped coat, Puffing out your furry throat, Eyes like some big polished seed, Plumed tail curved like half a lyre . . .

We pretended not to heed-- You, as though you would inquire "Can I trust them?" . . . then a jerk, And you'd skipped three branches higher, Jaws again at work; Like a little clock-work elf, With all the forest to itself.

She was very fair to see, She was all the world to me, She has gone whole worlds away; Yet it seems as though to-day, Chipmunk, I can hear her say; "Get that chipmunk, dear, for me----"

Chipmunk, you can never know All she was to me.

That's all--it was long ago.

BALLADE OF THE DEAD FACE THAT NEVER DIES