Sonnets and Songs Part 3

Take all of me, pour out my life as wine, To dye your soul's sweet shallows. Violent sin Blazed me a path, and I have walked therein, Strong, unashamed. Your timorous hands need mine, As the white stars their sky, your lips' pale line Shall blush to roses where my lips have been.

I ask no more. I do not hope to win-- Only to add myself to your design.

Take all of me. I know your little lies, Your light dishonor, gentle treacheries.

I know, I lie in torment at your feet, Shadow to all your sun. Take me and go, Use my adoring to your honor, sweet, Strength for your weakness--it is better so.

XXIII

_Aspiration_

I

The pale and misty particles of Time Hover about us; scarce our eyes can see Youth's far-off dream of what we were to be.

Life's truth, which once we would redeem with rhyme, Has proved instead a world-worn pantomime.

The running river of expediency Has drowned the hopes that Fortune held in fee-- Why fall upon the track so many climb?

Why strive to speak what all the earth has heard?

Why labor at a work the ages plan?-- Life has been lived so oft--an outworn thing!

Then hark! the time-sweet carol of a bird, New as a flower; and see--ah, shame to man!

The endless aspiration of the Spring.

XXIV

_Aspiration_

II

The full throat of the world is charged with song, Morning and twilight melt with ecstasy In the high heat of noon. Simply to be, Palpitant where the green spring forces throng, Eager for life, life unashamed and strong-- This is desire fulfilled. Exalted, free, The spirit gains her ether, scornfully Denies existence that is dark or wrong.

This is enough, to see the song begun Which shall be finished in some field afar.

Laugh that the night may still contain a star, Nor idly moan your impotence of grace.

Life is a song, lift up your care-free face Gladly and gratefully toward the sun.

XXV

_The Gypsy Blood_

He gives me happiness, as flowers depend On loyal sun and shower. I look to love To give me life. Why is it not enough?

Divine contentment, stretching without end O'er happy meadows. He's my love, my friend, And peace is in the word. You--heart's despair-- Sweep like a tempest through my sunsweet air, Wail like a lost soul through my blossomed grove.

Tempest and calm, with him my heart might rest, Lulled by eternal spring. The dream is blest, Yet the wild grapes you crush make life divine.

Out in the pathless dark, all yours, I go, Brave with the purple promise of the wine.

You, you I love, because you bring me woe.

XXVI

_Not Dead but Sleeping_

And if I came, ah, if I came again, And laid my hand on your forgetful heart, Where once it lay so warm, could the pulse start, Remembering Spring? Now, at the sound of rain, I do but turn a little in disdain To see the flowers renew their lovely part, Blooming afresh. For memory holds no smart, Love aches no more to know how it was slain.

Yet if I came to you who heed no more My name upon the wind? Love's ghost, lean near, I have a word that only you may hear.

If you should come to me with dear desire, My soul's dry staff should tremble to its core And flame against your touch in buds of fire.

XXVII

_The Last Gift_

What shall I give to her who will not care If I give soul or roses, will not know How that, for sweets she'll spend, light smiles she'll sow, I will reap bitter tears? If she could wear Those tears as stars to sparkle in her hair!

What shall I give? I have not fall'n so low I may not lay one gift before I go Upon the altar of my heart's despair.

She will not know; yet, in my love a king, I must be worthy of my crown and throne, And so can sacrifice no little thing.

My life, my soul are worthless since her scorn.

Slay we then love on love's red altar-stone-- Beggared of all, I face the world forlorn.

XXVIII

_Amor Mysticus_

Not you, nor all the gauds that Fate bestows, Can make me swerve so little from my dream.

Across my veil of mystery you seem Perhaps a little dearer than the rose, Perhaps more fair than the long light that flows Between the lids of twilight. But the gleam Of iris on the breast of wisdom's stream Is of a radiance that no rival knows.

My heart is not my heart, or it might chance To sorrow for the sorrow in your tears; My soul is locked against all circ.u.mstance Of life or love or death or heaven or h.e.l.l; I have no place for laughter in my years, No room where little, little love might dwell.