The Garden of Dreams Part 14

The mist and morn spake unto me, Drearily: "What is this thing G.o.d gives to thee?"

(Wearily.)

I said unto the morn and mist, Drearily: "The babe unborn whom sin hath kissed."

(Wearily.)

The morn and mist spake unto me, Drearily: "What is this thing which thou dost see?"

(Wearily.)

I said unto the mist and morn, Drearily: "The shame of man and woman's scorn."

(Wearily.)

"He loved thee not," they made reply.

Drearily.

I said, "Would G.o.d had let me die!"

(Wearily.)

II.

My dreams are as a closed up book, (Drearily.) Upon whose clasp of love I look, Wearily.

All night the rain raved overhead, Drearily; All night I wept awake in bed, Wearily.

I heard the wind sweep wild and wide, Drearily; I turned upon my face and sighed, Wearily.

The wind and rain spake unto me, Drearily: "What is this thing G.o.d takes from thee?"

(Wearily.)

I said unto the rain and wind, Drearily: "The love, for which my soul hath sinned."

(Wearily.)

The rain and wind spake unto me, Drearily: "What are these things thou still dost see?"

(Wearily.)

I said unto the wind and rain, Drearily: "Regret, and hope despair hath slain."

(Wearily.)

"Thou lov'st him still," they made reply, Drearily.

I said, "That G.o.d would let me die!"

(Wearily.)

FINALE.

So let it be. Thou wilt not say 't was I!

Here in life's temple, where thy soul may see, Look how the beauty of our love doth lie, Shattered in shards, a dead divinity!

Approach: kneel down: yea, render up one sigh!

This is the end. What need to tell it thee!

So let it be.

So let it be. Care, who hath stood with him, And sorrow, who sat by him deified, For whom his face made comfort, lo! how dim They heap his altar which they can not hide, While memory's lamp swings o'er it, burning slim.

This is the end. What shall be said beside?

So let it be.

So let it be. Did we not drain the wine, Red, of love's sacramental chalice, when He laid sweet sanction on thy lips and mine?

Dash it aside! Lo, who will fill again Now it is empty of the G.o.d divine!

This is the end. Yea, let us say Amen.

So let it be.

THE CROSS.

The cross I bear no man shall know-- No man can ease the cross I bear!-- Alas! the th.o.r.n.y path of woe Up the steep hill of care!

There is no word to comfort me; No sign to help my bended head; Deep night lies over land and sea, And silence dark and dread.

To strive, it seems, that I was born, For that which others shall obtain; The disappointment and the scorn Alone for me remain.

One half my life is overpast; The other half I contemplate-- Meseems the past doth but forecast A darker future state.

Sick to the heart of that which makes Me hope and struggle and desire, The aspiration here that aches With ineffectual fire;

While inwardly I know the lack, The insufficiency of power, Each past day's retrospect makes black Each morrow's coming hour.

Now in my youth would I could die!-- As others love to live,--go down Into the grave without a sigh, Oblivious of renown!

THE FOREST OF DREAMS.

I.

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the forest of dark dreams Following the blur of a goblin-light, That led me over ugly streams, Whereon the sc.u.m of the sp.a.w.n was spread, And the blistered slime, in stagnant seams; Where the weed and the moss swam black and dead, Like a drowned girl's hair in the ropy ooze: And the jack-o'-lantern light that led, Flickered the fox-fire trees o'erhead, And the owl-like things at airy cruise.

II.

Where was I last Friday night?-- Within the forest of dark dreams Following a form of shadowy white With my own wild face it seems.

Did a raven's wing just flap my hair?

Or a web-winged bat brush by my face?