Songs of the Silent World, and Other Poems Part 5

_Purple the night, and high were the skies, and higher The eyes that leaned like the stars of my soul, to me.

Whom loveth the Queen? Him who hath right to crown her.

Who but the King is he?_

_Sultry the day, and gold was the hair, and golden The mist that blinded my soul away from me.

Dethroned for a dream, for a gleam, for a glance, for a color, How could the crowned be?_

_Life goeth by like a deed, nor returneth forever.

Death cometh on, fleet-footed as pity should be.

Hush! When she waketh at last and looketh about her, Whom will a woman see?_

Thus in her cell, Deep in the summer night, sang Guinevere-- A little, broken, blind, sweet melody-- And then she kneeled upon the convent floor, And, peaceful, finished all her prayer and slept; For she had naught to say G.o.d might not hear.

SUNG TO A FRIEND.

The tide is rising, rising Out of the infinite sea; From ripple, to wave, to billow, Past beryl and gold and crimson, A prism of perfect splendor; What shall the white surf be?

The sacred tide is rising, Rising for you and me.

Defiant across the breaker, Wave unto wave must answer, The sea to the sh.o.r.e will follow; When shall the great flood be?

The tide must turn falling, falling Back to the awful sea.

Thus far shalt thou go, no farther.

The color sinks to the shadow, The paean sobs into silence, Where shall the ebb-line be?

By the weeds left blazing, beating Like heart-throbs of the sea, By the law of the land and the ocean, By the Hand that holdeth the torrent, I summon the tide eternal To flow for you and me!

INCOMPLETION.

Perhaps the bud lost from the loaded tree The sweetest blossom of the May would be;

Or wildest song that summer could have heard Is dumb within the throat of the dead bird.

The perfect statue that all men have sought May in some crippled hand be hid, unwrought.

Which of our dearest dead betook his flight Into the rose-red star that fell last night?

The words forever by thy lips unsaid Had been the crown of life upon thy head.

The splendid sun of all my days might be The love that I shall never give to thee.

RAFE'S CHASM.

CAPE ANN, SEPTEMBER SURF. 1882.

White fire upon the gray-green waste of waves, The low light of the breaker flares. Ah, see!

Outbursting on a sky of steel and ice, The baffled sun stabs wildly at the gale.

The water rises like a G.o.d aglow, Who all too long hath slept, and dreamed too sure, And finds his G.o.ddess fled his empty arms.

Silent, the mighty cliff receives at last That rage of elemental tenderness, The old, omnipotent caress she knows.

Yet once the solid earth did melt for her And, pitying, made retreat before her flight; Would she have hidden her forever there?

Or did she, wavering, linger long enough To let the accustomed torrent chase her down?

Over the neck of the gorge, I cling. Lean desperately!

He who feared a chasm's edge Were never the one to see The torment and the triumph hid Where the deep surges be.

I pierce the gulf; I sweep the coast Where wide the tide swings free; I search as never soul sought before.

There is not patience enough in all the sh.o.r.e, There is not pa.s.sion enough in all the sea, To tell my love for thee.

GALATEA.

A moment's grace, Pygmalion! Let me be A breath's s.p.a.ce longer on this. .h.i.ther hand Of fate too sweet, too sad, too mad to meet.

Whether to be thy statue or thy bride-- An instant spare me! Terrible the choice, As no man knoweth, being only man; Nor any, saving her who hath been stone And loved her sculptor. Shall I dare exchange Veins of the quarry for the throbbing pulse?

Insensate calm for a sure-aching heart?

Repose eternal for a woman's lot?

Forego G.o.d's quiet for the love of man?

To float on his uncertain tenderness, A wave tossed up the sh.o.r.e of his desire, To ebb and flow whene'er it pleaseth him; Remembered at his leisure, and forgot, Worshiped and worried, clasped and dropped at mood, Or soothed or gashed at mercy of his will, Now Paradise my portion, and now h.e.l.l; And every single, several nerve that beats In soul or body, like some rare vase, thrust In fire at first, and then in frost, until The fine, protesting fibre snaps?

Oh, who Foreknowing, ever chose a fate like this?

What woman out of all the breathing world Would be a woman, could her heart select, Or love her lover, could her life prevent?

Then let me be that only, only one; Thus let me make that sacrifice supreme, No other ever made, or can, or shall.

Behold, the future shall stand still to ask, What man was worth a price so isolate?

And rate thee at its value for all time.

For I am driven by an awful Law.

See! while I hesitate, it mouldeth me, And carves me like a chisel at my heart.

'T is stronger than the woman or the man; 'T is greater than all torment or delight; 'T is mightier than the marble or the flesh.

Obedient be the sculptor and the stone!

Thine am I, thine at all the cost of all The pangs that woman ever bore for man; Thine I elect to be, denying them; Thine I elect to be, defying them; Thine, thine I dare to be, in scorn of them; And being thine forever, bless I them!

Pygmalion! Take me from my pedestal, And set me lower--lower, Love!--that I May be a woman, and look up to thee; And looking, longing, loving, give and take The human kisses worth the worst that thou By thine own nature shalt inflict on me.

PART OF THE PRICE.

Take back, my friend, the gifts once given.

No fairer find I this side Heaven With which to bless thee, than thine own Resource of blessing. Mine alone To render what is mine to lose.

No n.i.g.g.ard am I with it. Choose!

Lavish, I keep not any part Of that great price within my heart.