Weeds by the Wall Part 13

SLEEP IS A SPIRIT.

Sleep is a spirit, who beside us sits, Or through our frames like some dim glamour flits; From out her form a pearly light is shed, As from a lily, in a lily-bed, A firefly's gleam. Her face is pale as stone, And languid as a cloud that drifts alone In starry heav'n. And her diaphanous feet Are easy as the dew or opaline heat Of summer.

Lo! with ears--aurora pink As Dawn's--she leans and listens on the brink Of being, dark with dreadfulness and doubt, Wherein vague lights and shadows move about, And palpitations beat--like some huge heart Of Earth--the surging pulse of which we're part.

One hand, that hollows her divining eyes, Glows like the curved moon over twilight skies; And with her gaze she fathoms life and death-- Gulfs, where man's conscience, like a restless breath Of wind, goes wand'ring; whispering low of things, The irremediable, where sorrow clings.

Around her limbs a veil of woven mist Wavers, and turns from fibered amethyst To textured crystal; through which symboled bars Of silver burn, and cabalistic stars Of nebulous gold.

Shrouding her feet and hair, Within this woof, fantastic, everywhere, Dreams come and go; the instant images Of things she sees and thinks; realities, Shadows, with which her heart and fancy swarm That in the veil take momentary form: Now picturing heaven in celestial fire, And now the h.e.l.l of every soul's desire; Hinting at worlds, G.o.d wraps in mystery, Beyond the world we know and touch and see.

KENNST DU DAS LAND.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

Know'st thou the land where the lemon-tree flowers; The orange glows gold in the darkness of bowers, Out of blue heaven a softer zephyr blows, And still the myrtle, tall the laurel grows?

Know'st it indeed?

Thither, ah, me! ah, me!

Would I with thee, O my beloved, flee.

Know'st thou the house? Columns support its beams, Its long hall glitters and its gallery gleams; And sculpture glows and asks, in marble mild, "What have they done to thee, thou poor, poor child?"

Know'st it indeed?

Thither, ah, me! ah, me!

Would I with thee, O my protector, flee.

Know'st thou the mountain and its cloud-built bridge?

In mist the mule treads cautiously its ridge; The dragon's ancient brood still haunts its caves; Down the loud crag the plunging torrent raves.

Know'st it indeed?

Thither, ah, me! ah, me!

Our pathway leads! O father, let us flee!

AT MIDNIGHT.

At midnight in the trysting wood I wandered by the waterside, When, soft as mist, before me stood My sweetheart who had died.

But so unchanged was she, meseemed That I had only dreamed her dead; Glad in her eyes the love-light gleamed; Her lips were warm and red.

What though the stars shone shadowy through Her form as by my side she went, And by her feet no drop of dew Was stirred, no blade was bent!

What though through her white loveliness The wildflower dimmed, the moonlight paled, Real to my touch she was; no less Than when the earth prevailed.

She took my hand. My heart beat wild.

She kissed my mouth. I bowed my head.

Then gazing in my eyes, she smiled: "When did'st thou die?" she said.

THE MAN IN GRAY.

_Written for the Reunion of the Confederate Veterans at Louisville, Ky., May and June, 1900._

I.

Again, in dreams, the veteran hears The bugle and the drum; Again the boom of battle nears, Again the bullets hum: Again he mounts, again he cheers, Again his charge speeds home-- O memories of those long gone years!

O years that are to come!

We live in dreams as well as deeds, in thoughts as well as acts; And life through things we feel, not know, is realized the most; The conquered are the conquerors, despite the face of facts, If they still feel their cause was just who fought for it and lost.

II.

Again, in thought, he hears at dawn The far reveille die; Again he marches stern and wan Beneath a burning sky: He bivouacs; the night comes on; His comrades 'round him lie-- O memories of the years long gone!

O years that now go by!

The vintager of Earth is War, is War whose grapes are men; Into his wine-vats armies go, his wine-vats steaming red: The crimson vats of battle where he stalks, as in a den, Drunk with the must of h.e.l.l that spurts beneath his iron tread.

III.

Again, in mind, he's lying where The trenches slay with heat; Again his flag floats o'er him, fair In charge or fierce retreat: Again all's lost; again despair Makes death seem three times sweet-- O years of tears that crowned his hair With laurels of defeat!

There is reward for those who dare, for those who dare and do: Who face the dark inevitable, who fall and know no shame; Upon their banner triumph sits and in the horn they blew,-- Naught's lost if honor be not lost, defeat is but a name.

HALLOWE'EN.

It was down in the woodland on last Hallowe'en, Where silence and darkness had built them a lair, That I felt the dim presence of her, the unseen, And heard her still step on the ghost-haunted air.

It was last Hallowe'en in the glimmer and swoon Of mist and of moonlight that thickened and thinned, That I saw the gray gleam of her eyes in the moon, And hair, like a raven, blown wild in the wind.

It was last Hallowe'en where starlight and dew Made mystical marriage on flower and leaf, That she led me with looks of a love that I knew, And lured with the voice of a heart-buried grief.

It was last Hallowe'en in the forest of dreams, Where trees are eidolons and shadows have eyes, That I saw her pale face like the foam of far streams, And heard, like the leaf-lisp, her tears and her sighs.