Maurine and Other Poems Part 17

Terrible thoughts and fierce desires Trouble its mad heart many an hour, Where burn and smoulder the hidden fires, Coupled ever with might and power.

It hates, as a wild horse hates the rein, The narrow track by vale and hill; And shrieks with a cry of startled pain, And longs to follow its own wild will.

Oh, what am I but an engine, shod With muscle and flesh, by the hand of G.o.d, Speeding on through the dense, dark night, Guided alone by the soul's white light.

Often and often my mad heart tires, And hates its way with a bitter hate, And longs to follow its own desires, And leave the end in the hand of fate.

O mighty engine of steel and steam; O human engine of blood and bone, Follow the white light's certain beam-- There lies safety and there alone.

The narrow track of fearless truth, Lit by the soul's great eye of light, O pa.s.sionate heart of restless youth, Alone will carry you through the night.

NOTHING NEW.

From the dawn of spring till the year grows h.o.a.ry, Nothing is new that is done or said, The leaves are telling the same old story-- "Budding, bursting, dying, dead."

And ever and always the wild bird's chorus Is "coming, building, flying, fled."

Never the round earth roams or ranges Out of her circuit, so old, so old, And the smile o' the sun knows but these changes-- Beaming, burning, tender, cold, As Spring time softens or Winter estranges The mighty heart of this...o...b..of gold.

From our great sire's birth to the last morn's breaking There were tempest, sunshine, fruit and frost, And the sea was calm or the sea was shaking His mighty main like a lion crossed, And ever this cry the heart was making-- Longing, loving, losing, lost.

Forever the wild wind wanders, crying, Southerly, easterly, north and west, And one worn song the fields are sighing, "Sowing, growing, harvest, rest,"

And the tired thought of the world, replying Like an echo to what is last and best, Murmurs--"Rest."

DREAMS.

Thank G.o.d for dreams! I, desolate and lone, In the dark curtained night, did seem to be The centre where all golden sun-rays shone, And, sitting there, held converse sweet with thee.

No shadow lurked between us; all was bright And beautiful as in the hours gone by, I smiled, and was rewarded by the light Of olden days soft beaming from thine eye.

Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d for dreams!

I thought the birds all listened; for thy voice Pulsed through the air, like beat of silver wings.

It made each chamber of my soul rejoice And thrilled along my heart's tear-rusted strings.

As some devout and ever-prayerful nun Tells her bright beads, and counts them o'er and o'er, Thy golden words I gathered, one by one, And slipped them into memory's precious store.

Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d for dreams!

My lips met thine in one ecstatic kiss.

Hand pressed in hand, and heart to heart we sat.

Why even now I am surcharged with bliss-- With joy supreme, if I but think of that.

No fear of separation or of change Crept in to mar our sweet serene content.

In that blest vision, nothing could estrange Our wedded souls, in perfect union blent.

Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d for dreams!

Thank G.o.d for dreams! when nothing else is left.

When the sick soul, all tortured with its pain, Knowing itself forever more bereft, Finds waiting hopeless and all watching vain, When empty arms grow rigid with their ache, When eyes are blinded with sad tides of tears, When stricken hearts do suffer, yet not break, For loss of those who come not with the years-- Thank G.o.d, thank G.o.d for dreams!

HELENA.

Last night I saw Helena. She whose praise Of late all men have sounded. She for whom Young Angus rashly sought a silent tomb Rather than live without her all his days.

Wise men go mad who look upon her long, She is so ripe with dangers. Yet meanwhile I find no fascination in her smile, Although I make her theme of this poor song.

"Her golden tresses?" yes, they may be fair, And yet to me each shining silken tress Seems robbed of beauty and all l.u.s.terless-- Too many hands have stroked Helena's hair.

(I know a little maiden so demure She will not let her one true lover's hands In playful fondness touch her soft brown bands, So dainty-minded is she, and so pure.)

"Her great dark eyes that flash like gems at night?

Large, long-lashed eyes and l.u.s.trous?" that may be, And yet they are not beautiful to me.

Too many hearts have sunned in their delight.

(I mind me of two tender blue eyes, hid So underneath white curtains, and so veiled That I have sometimes plead for hours, and failed To see more than the shyly lifted lid.)

"Her perfect mouth so like a carved kiss?"

"Her honeyed mouth, where hearts do, fly-like, drown?"

I would not taste its sweetness for a crown; Too many lips have drank its nectared bliss.

(I know a mouth whose virgin dew, undried, Lies like a young grape's bloom, untouched and sweet, And though I plead in pa.s.sion at her feet, She would not let me brush it if I died.)

In vain, Helena! though wise men may vie For thy rare smile or die from loss of it, Armored by my sweet lady's trust, I sit, And know thou art not worth her faintest sigh.

NOTHING REMAINS.

Nothing remains of unrecorded ages That lie in the silent cemetery of time; Their wisdom may have shamed our wisest sages, Their glory may have been indeed sublime.

How weak do seem our strivings after power, How poor the grandest efforts of our brains, If out of all we are, in one short hour Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal s.p.a.ces, Time and decay uproot the forest trees.

Even the mighty mountains leave their places, And sink their haughty heads beneath strange seas; The great earth writhes in some convulsive spasm And turns the proudest cities into plains.

The level sea becomes a yawning chasm-- Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Forces, The sad seas cease complaining and grow dry; Rivers are drained and altered in their courses, Great stars pa.s.s out and vanish from the sky.

Ideas die and old religions perish, Our rarest pleasures and our keenest pains Are swept away with all we hate or cherish-- Nothing remains.

Nothing remains but the Eternal Nameless And all-creative spirit of the Law, Uncomprehended, comprehensive, blameless, Invincible, resistless, with no flaw; So full of love it must create forever, Destroying that it may create again Persistent and perfecting in endeavor, It yet must bring forth angels, after men-- This, this remains.

LEAN DOWN.