Poems of Power Part 14

Dear G.o.d, if in that other world unseen, Not rest we find, but new life and progression, Grant us a respite in the grave between.

SONG

O praise me not with your lips, dear one!

Though your tender words I prize.

But dearer by far is the soulful gaze Of your eyes, your beautiful eyes Your tender, loving eyes.

O chide me not with your lips, dear one!

Though I cause your bosom sighs.

You can make repentance deeper far By your sad, reproving eyes, Your sorrowful, troubled eyes.

Words, at the best, are but hollow sounds; Above, in the beaming skies, The constant stars say never a word, But only smile with their eyes - Smile on with their l.u.s.trous eyes.

Then breathe no vow with your lips, dear one; On the winged wind speech flies.

But I read the truth of your n.o.ble heart In your soulful, speaking eyes - In your deep and beautiful eyes.

MY SHIPS

If all the ships I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the harbour could not hold So many sails as there would be If all my ships came in from sea.

If half my ships came home from sea, And brought their precious freight to me, Ah, well! I should have wealth as great As any king who sits in state - So rich the treasures that would be In half my ships now out at sea.

If just one ship I have at sea Should come a-sailing home to me, Ah, well! the storm-clouds then might frown For if the others all went down, Still rich and proud and glad I'd be If that one ship came back to me.

If that one ship went down at sea, And all the others came to me, Weighed down with gems and wealth untold, With glory, honours, riches, gold, The poorest soul on earth I'd be If that one ship came not to me.

O skies, be calm! O winds, blow free - Blow all my ships safe home to me!

But if thou sendest some a-wrack, To never more come sailing back, Send any--all that skim the sea, But bring my love-ship home to me.

HER LOVE

The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman's love I liken to.

The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every gra.s.s blade on the plain - A woman's love is nothing more.

The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away - A woman's love is like to this.

G.o.d made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part.

We must not blame, but pity her.

She leans to man--but just to hear The praise he whispers in her ear; Herself, not him, she holdeth dear - O fool! to be deceived by her.

To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, Then throws them lightly by and laughs, Too weak to understand their pain.

As changeful as the winds that blow From every region to and fro, Devoid of heart, she cannot know The suffering of a human heart.

IF

Dear love, if you and I could sail away, With snowy pennons to the winds unfurled, Across the waters of some unknown bay, And find some island far from all the world;

If we could dwell there, evermore alone, While unrecorded years slip by apace, Forgetting and forgotten and unknown By aught save native song-birds of the place;

If Winter never visited that land, And Summer's lap spilled o'er with fruits and flowers, And tropic trees cast shade on every hand, And twined boughs formed sleep-inviting bowers;

If from the fashions of the world set free, And hid away from all its jealous strife, I lived alone for you, and you for me - Ah! then, dear love, how sweet were wedded life.

But since we dwell here in the crowded way, Where hurrying throngs rush by to seek for gold, And all is commonplace and work-a-day As soon as love's young honeymoon grows old;

Since fashion rules and nature yields to art, And life is hurt by daily jar and fret, 'Tis best to shut such dreams down in the heart And go our ways alone, love, and forget.

LOVE'S BURIAL

Let us clear a little s.p.a.ce, And make Love a burial-place.

He is dead, dear, as you see, And he wearies you and me.

Growing heavier, day by day, Let us bury him, I say.

Wings of dead white b.u.t.terflies, These shall shroud him, as he lies

In his casket rich and rare, Made of finest maiden-hair.

With the pollen of the rose Let us his white eyelids close.

Put the rose thorn in his hand, Shorn of leaves--you understand.

Let some holy water fall On his dead face, tears of gall -

As we kneel to him and say, "Dreams to dreams," and turn away.