The Rainbow and the Rose Part 5

The dearest fairy of all--green is her gown-- She kissed the plane-trees in the tiresome town, She smoothed the pastures and the lawn's pale sheen, She decked the boughs with hangings fresh and green, She showed each flower the one and only way Its beauty of shape and colour to display; She taught the world to be a Paradise Of changing leaf and blade, for tired eyes.

Then, one and all, they came where you were laid In your strait bed, my little lovely maid; The red-robed fairy kissed your lips, your face, The white-robed made your heart her dwelling-place.

Into your eyes the green robed fairy smiled; The golden fairy touched your dreams, my child, And one, not named, but mightiest, made my Dear The innermost rose of the re-flowered year.

May, 1898.

BIRTHDAY TALK FOR A CHILD.

(IRIS.)

DADDY dear, I'm only four And I'd rather not be more: Four's the nicest age to be-- Two and two, or one and three.

All I love is two and two, Mother, Fabian, Paul and you; All you love is one and three, Mother, Fabian, Paul and me.

Give your little girl a kiss Because she learned and told you this.

TO ROSAMUND.

AND it is fair and very fair This maze of blossom and sweet air, This drift of orchard snows, This royal promise of the rose Wherein your young eyes see Such buds of scented joys to be.

A gay green garden, softly fanned By the blythe breeze that blows To speed your ship of dreams to the enchanted land.

But I--beyond the budding screen Of green and red and white and green, Behind the radiant show Of things that cling and grow and glow I see the plains where lie The hopes of days gone by: Gray breadths of melancholy, crossed By winds that coldly blow From that cold sea wherein my argosy is lost.

FROM THE TUSCAN.

WHEN in the west the red sun sank in glory, The cypress trees stood up like gold, fine gold; The mother told her little child the story Of the gold trees the heavenly gardens hold.

In golden dreams the child sees golden rivers, Gold trees, gold blossoms, golden boughs and leaves, Without, the cypress in the night wind shivers, Weeps with the rain and with the darkness grieves.

MOTHER SONG.

_From the Portuguese._

HEAVY my heart is, heavy to carry, Full of soft foldings, of downy enwrapments-- And the outer fold of all is love, And the next soft fold is love, And the next, finer and softer, is love again; And were they unwound before the eyes More folds and more folds and more folds would unroll Of love--always love, And, quite at the last, Deep in the nest, in the soft-packed nest, One last fold, turned back, would disclose You, little heart of my heart, Laid there so warm, so soft, so soft, Not knowing where you lie, nor how softly, Nor why your nest is so soft, Nor how your nest is so warm.

You, little heart of my heart, You lie in my heart, Warm, safe and soft as this body of yours, This dear kissed body of yours that lies Here in my arms and sucks the strength from my breast, The strength you will break my heart with one of these days.

VI.

THE ISLAND.

DOES the wind sing in your ears at night, in the town, Rattling the windows and doors of the cheap-built place?

Do you hear its song as it flies over marsh and down?

Do you feel the kiss that the wind leaves here on my face?

Or, wrapt in a lamplit quiet, do you restrain Thoughts that would take the wind's way hither to me, And bid them rest safe-anch.o.r.ed, nor tempt again The tumult, and torment, and pa.s.sion that live in the sea?

I, for my part, when the wind sings loud in its might, I bid it hush--nor awaken again the storm That swept my heart out to sea on a moonless night, And dashed it ash.o.r.e on an island wondrous and warm Where all things fair and forbidden for ever flower, Where the worst of life is a dream, and the best comes true, When the harvest of years was reaped in a single hour And the G.o.ds, for once, were honest with me and you.

I will not hear when the wind and the sea cry out, I will not trust again to the hurrying wind, I will not swim again in a sea of doubt, And reach that sh.o.r.e with the world left well behind; But you,--I would have you listen to every call Of the changing wind, as it blows over marsh and main, And heap life's joys in your hands, and offer them all, If only your feet might touch that island again!

POSSESSION.

THE child was yours and none of mine, And yet you gave it me to keep, And bade me sew it raiment fine, And wrap my kisses round its sleep.

I carried it upon my breast, I fed it in a world apart, I wrapped my kisses round its rest, I rocked its cradle with my heart.

When in mad nights of rain and storm You turned us homeless from your door, I wrapped it close, I kept it warm, And brought it safe to you once more.

But the last time you drove us forth, The snow was wrapped about its head, That night the wind blew from the North, And on my heart the child was dead.

The child is mine and none of yours, My life was his while he had breath, What of your claim to him endures, Who only gave him birth and death?

ACCESSION.

ONCE I loved, and my heart bowed down, Subject and slave, for Love was a King; He sat above with sceptre and crown, Turning his eyes from my sorrowing.

The laugh of a G.o.d on his lips lay light-- His lips victorious that mocked my pain, And I mourned in the cold and the outer night, And my tears and my prayers were vain.

Now the old spell is over and done, Myself I wear the ermine and gold, My brows are crowned, I ascend the throne, I have taken the sceptre and orb to hold.

I smile victorious, set far above The music of voices that moan and pray, My feet are wet with the tears of love, And I turn my eyes away.

THE DESTROYER.

ACROSS the quiet pastures of my soul The invading army marched in splendid might My few poor forces fled beyond control, Scattered, defeated, hidden in the night.

My fields were green, their hedges white with May, With gold of b.u.t.tercups made bright and fair, The careless conquerors did not even stay To gather one of all the blossoms there.

Only when they had pa.s.sed, the fields were brown, The gra.s.s and blossoms trampled in the mud: The flowering hedges withered and torn down, And no one richer by a single bud.

THE EGOISTS.

TWO strangers, from opposing poles, Meet in the torrid zone of Love: And their desire seems set above The limitation of their souls.

This is the trap; this is the snare, This is the false, enchanting light, And when it smoulders into night, How can each know the other is there?

They own no bond of common speech; Each, from far sh.o.r.es by wild winds brought, Gropes for some cord of common thought To draw the other within reach.

Each when the dark tide drowns their star, Cries out, "Thou art not one with me: One flesh we seemed when eyes could see, But now, how far thou art! How far!"

Each calling, "Come! be mine! be wise!"

Stands obstinately in his place, How can these two come face to face, Till light spring from their meeting eyes?