The Path of Dreams Part 1

The Path of Dreams.

by Leigh Gordon Giltner.

To One Who Sleeps

(Obiit, June 8th, 1894.)

_Tho' storm and summer shine for long have shed Or blight or bloom above thy quiet bed, Tho' loneliness and longing cry thee dead-- Thou art not dead, beloved. Still with me Are whilom hopings that encompa.s.s thee And dreams of dear delights that may not be.

Asleep--adream perchance, dost thou forget The sometime sorrow and the fevered fret, Sting of salt tears and long unbreathed regret?

Liest thou here thro' long sunshiny hours, Holding sweet converse with the springing flowers, Harking the singing of the warm sweet showers That fall like happy tears ... dost hear The birds that unafraid a.s.sail thine ear-- And yet art silent when I whisper? Dear, Dost thou not hear?_

_Lying so low beneath the bending gra.s.s In long, still smiling tranced for aye--alas!

Thou dost not harken when my footsteps pa.s.s.

If haply I some tender thing should tell Thee of the springtime flowers thou once loved well-- Anemone and shining asphodel; Should steal from Nature some enchanted lay, Some bird-song lilted where green branches sway-- Heart-music that could stir thy heart alway; Should call thee by the old fond name again, Should tell thee all a heart's enduring pain And long rememb'ring, would'st thou mute remain?

Alas! nor sigh nor song can thrill the ear Tuned to Israfel's music in the sphere Where things to thee erst dear no more are dear.

Thou dost not hear!_

THE PATH OF DREAMS

In Woodland Ways

Out of the poignant glare, the shadeless heat Of summer noon, beseech thee follow me Into the dim, dream-haunted secrecy The cool, green glooms, the grottoed deep retreat, Of yon old wood; down aisles of lichened trees-- Grey Merlins clasped by lissom Viviens Of clinging vine--to cloistered sylvan glens, Where Nature weaves her fairest mysteries.

Here let us rest a little--find surcease For feet grown weary of the thridded street That echoes ever to the ceaseless beat Of human tread;--a brief while know the ease Of dreamful rest, to slumb'rous languors stilled On Orient rugs of dappled mosses spread In nooks where blossom, purple, white and red, The flowers Summer's lavish hands have spilled.

Wild woodland creatures near us unafraid, Some strange enchantment doth the forest hold-- Was that a sungleam, or a wand of gold By tricksy Puck or wanton Ariel swayed?

Old oaks and beeches open wide their doors And hamadryads veiled in golden sheen Floating diaphanous o'er robes of green Walk with still feet the forest's russet floors.

Lo, here are fairies hid in flower-bells, There wood-nymphs fleeing from pursuing fauns, And naiads fleshed with hues of rosy dawns Lie dreaming by white streams in dusky dells; We tread dim paths untrod by foot of man And hark the horn of Dian ringing clear; While faint, elusive, thin--now far, now near, Meseems I hear the oaten pipe of Pan.

And while o'erhead the plaining wood-dove grieves, The cardinal--a winged, scarlet flower-- Sprays all the air with song, a golden shower Of flutes-notes sifting downward thro' the leaves.

Ah, sweet enchantment doth the forest hold, For Nature's self doth haunt these woodland ways, My fevered brow on her cool breast she lays And care slips from me as a garment old.

Ashes of Roses

Skies glooming overhead, Autumn winds sighing; Bare yonder garden bed, Flowers low lying.

All their rich radiance fled, All their pale petals shed, Wan wraiths of Summer sped, In Autumn's closes; Crimson and cream and gold Strewn on earth's bosom cold, Mingling with umber mold-- Ashes of roses.

See, in yon waning West Rich roses blowing On Heaven's palimpsest G.o.d's message glowing; Rose hues and amethyst Drenched in purpureate mist, Darkness with Day keeps tryst, Night's curtain closes; Quenched is the burning gold, Shadowed the upland wold, Day's fires grow dull and cold Ashes of roses.

So on this heart of mine Shadows are lying; Lotus and rue entwine, Dim dreams are dying; Stilled is the thrill divine, Spilled is the amber wine, Dimly the cold stars shine; Wan age discloses All youth's bright blossoms dead, All love's rare radiance sped, All hope's pure petals shed-- Ashes of roses.

A Challenge

To have lived, to have loved, to have triumphed!--what more can the world bestow?

I stand at the close of the conflict, my foot on the neck of my foe.

p.r.o.ne in the dust lies the demon Despair, still shouting his shibboleth To the treacherous Amazon dark-browed Fate, and her grisly comrade, Death.

To have lived! To have felt in my veins the surge of the rich, red tide of life, The quickening stir of the strong man's heart that thrills to the sound of strife; To have wrested success from defeat, to have striven, and struggled, and won-- Shall this seem a small thing, think you, when the Battle of Ages is done?

To have loved! To have known of all raptures, the rapture supernal, divine, To have felt the throb of your heart on my heart and the bloom of your lips pressed to mine; To have ranked with the G.o.ds on Olympus--myths tell us immortal Jove Cleft with his swan-wings the blue of the sky for boon of a mortal's love....

I have lived, I have loved, I have triumphed! Let Death come, or early or late!

I hurl my challenging gauntlet full in the face of Fate!

Fate may make wreck of a future--how can she alter the past?

I have tasted the sweets of life's chalice--why shrink from the lees at the last?

How should I cavil at aught that shall come--I stand with your head on my breast-- I have fought as I might--I have gained _you_, beloved ... to G.o.d's mercy the rest!

Tho' the heavens darken above me and the sky be shrunk as a scroll, In the wreck and ruin of riven worlds, should I falter, O Soul of my soul?

Tho' the demon Despair, where he vanquished lies, still utter his shibboleth-- I fling my glove in the face of Fate and smile in the eyes of Death!

And Yet ...

Upon the meads where we were wont to stray, 'Guiling with springtime hopes the winter hours, The Spring has smiled; yon slope that late gloomed gray And sternly sad, 'neath April's tender showers Grows green and glad again. The rippled gra.s.s, A soundless sea o'er which white cloud-sails pa.s.s, Breaks at my feet in billows foamed with flowers; And blue-eyed myrtle blooms with lashes wet Smile to me thro' their tears. The skies are blue, And life is sweet to-day and hope seems true; My heart is barren of its long regret-- And yet...

The willow wears a wistful green. A dream Of Summer warmth the wine-sweet breezes hold, Fair wildings blow--bright b.u.t.tercups agleam Like shining sequins scattered on the wold, And daffodills--a wealth of faery gold.

The building birds their coming bliss presage With lilt and lyric br.i.m.m.i.n.g o'er the page Of Nature's volume bound in green and gold.

Here 'mid the birds and blossoms 'neath the blue-- My heart unburthened of the old regret-- Let me forget long striving to forget; For life is sweet to-day and hope seems true-- And yet...

The Master-Player

Mute was the mighty organ. None might break The silence that had thralled it since was stilled The master-hand beneath whose touch it thrilled To music such as choiring seraphs make-- Until a mightier Master came to wake Th' elusive chords and subtle harmonies That lay imprisoned in the cold white keys And once again the soul of Music spake.

Methought my soul's most perfect melodies No hand again to sonance could evoke-- A silent harp whose potence none might prove-- But, lo! one came who swept its chords and woke Celestial strains, divinest harmonies, Responsive to the master-touch of Love.

Afterbloom