The Path of Dreams Part 9

Requital

What tho' you loved me once? Man's love at best Is but a mood--the fancy of an hour, You held all faith and truth a theme for jest, Love's recompense, a smile. You knew your power.

What tho' you loved me then? You went away And left my life an arid waste of pain; And now--your best years spent, your idols clay-- You stretch imploring arms to me again.

What tho' you love me still? What tho' you say The current of your life toward mine is set, As vagrant stars obey the planets' sway, Or perfume clingeth to the violet?

What tho' I once loved you? See in yon West Day's fires have burned to ashes cold and gray; So in my quiet heart love's wild unrest By its own flame consumed, is dead for aye.

When Fades the Light

When fades the light along the western sky, When dies the last dim rose to subtlest gray, When darkling mere and mead enshadowed lie, And Night's wide arms enfold the wearied Day; When tired lilies ring their vesper bells And dusking leaves speak whispered orison, When ca.s.socked Twilight breathing benison His rosary of flashing fireflies tells-- Then ends the day-long struggle. Strong no more I drift far out on Fancy's phantom sea, Setting full sail for that forbidden sh.o.r.e Where waiteth Love for me.

When fades the light from out my dying eyes, And soul and sense seem slipping soft away, When Death's swift shallop launched on Lethe lies Waiting to wing me to the unknown Gray; When things of time and thought grow strangely dim, And the pent spirit strains to loose its bands Till from the fettered feet and helpless hands Shall fall life's shackles pitiless and grim-- Then shall the conflict cease. Enchained no more My soul shall sail the silent unknown sea Until it touch the unforbidden sh.o.r.e Where Love awaiteth me.

b.u.t.terflies

As if a bed of bloom had taken wing-- Bright marigolds, nasturtiums, zinnias gay-- They breast the breeze or, lightly poising, cling To other flowers not animate as they.

In the Dark Forest

The long gray twilight falls and deeper glooms Close round the graying wood that dimmer grows As dies the Day's last yearning tint of rose, And Dusk spins shadows on her eldritch looms.

The black bat flits, the eerie white moth flies-- Wan ghost of yesterday's bright b.u.t.terfly-- The dusking forest pools uplooking lie Like graveless dead men's staring, sightless eyes.

Ah, eerie, eerie is the lonely wood, But lo! the faeries light their firefly lamps, Elusive foxfire flames from marish damps; Hastes to the morris-dance an elfin brood; A far bell chimes, the cricket cheerly shrills, The droning beetle sounds his hoa.r.s.e ba.s.soon And hylas trill; eftsoon the rising moon The ambient air to molten silver thrills.

Then all the lyric night is set to song!

The cuckoo calls, the plaining whippoorwill Cries faint and far away; more distant still The hoopoe, hid his marshy haunts among, Wails with the cry of some lost soul in pain; The nightingale engilds the pulsant dark With golden-throated melody--but hark!

The night-jar's discord mars the perfect strain.

The night wears on, black shadows throng apace, The wood is still, the moon grows wan and old, White marsh-mists wreathe like clammy arms, death-cold, And moth-wings like dead fingers sweep my face; The bittern wailing leaves the sombre pool, Voicing the world-old pain that never dies; The owl with ghoulish laughter outward flies Like some weird Vivien shrieking, "Fool!" and "Fool!"

Insatiate

What though she lieth mute on yonder hill?

Though ivy green and shadowy eglatere Have held in tender fold through many a year Her quiet grave, I fear her--fear her still.

He loved her once. Ay, though he hold me fast And sear my lips with kisses burning-sweet, No touch of mine can make his life replete For man's first love is oftentimes his last.

A still face glimmers through my dreams for aye.

E'en when I strain him close with feverish grasp Wan grave-cold fingers loose the clinging clasp, And grave-cold lips my fervid kisses stay.

She lives incarnate in each flower fair, Her eyes illume the violets in my hand, The golden-rod that lights the Autumn land Seems but the scattered star-dust of her hair.

Love's perfect flower may never bloom for me-- For me his wife. For ah! I fear her still Who lies forever mute on yonder hill.

He loved her once. Would G.o.d that I were she!