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      SWEET HOURS


           BY
      CARMEN SYLVA


         LONDON
R. A. EVERETT & CO., LTD.
  42 ESSEX STREET, W.C.

          1904

 [_All rights reserved_]




CONTENTS


                                         PAGE
  TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA           1

  A FRIEND                                  4

  OUT OF THE DEEP                           7

  A CORONATION                             10

  DOWN THE STREAM                          13

  IN THE RUSHING WIND                      16

  UNDER THE SNOW                           19

  SOLITUDE                                 21

  THE GNAT                                 24

  REST                                     27

  THE SHADOW                               32

  THE GLOWWORM                             35

  A DREAM                                  37

  IN THE DARK                              40

  THE SENTINEL                             43

  LETHE                                    47

  A DEBTOR                                 51

  "VENGEANCE IS MINE," SAITH THE LORD      54

  NIGHT                                    58

  ROUSED                                   62

  SADNESS                                  66

  WHEN JOY IS DEAD                         68

  A ROOM                                   71

  UNREST                                   74




TO THE MEMORY OF QUEEN VICTORIA

[Illustration]


  These ever wakeful eyes are closed. They saw
  Such grief, that they could see no more. The heart--
  That quick'ning pulse of nations--could not bear
  Another throb of pain, and could not hear
  Another cry of tortur'd motherhood.
  Those uncomplaining lips, they sob no more
  The soundless sobs of dark and burning tears,
  That none have seen; they smile no more, to breathe
  A mother's comfort into aching hearts.
  The patriarchal Queen, the monument
  Of touching widowhood, of endless love,
  And childlike purity--she sleeps. This night
  Is watchful not. The restless hand, that slave
  To duty, to a mastermind, to wisdom
  That fathom'd history and saw beyond
  The times, lies still in marble whiteness. Love
  So great, so faithful, unforgetting and
  Unselfish--must it sleep? Or will that veil,
  That widow's veil unfold, and spread into
  The dovelike wings, that long were wont to hover
  In anxious care about her world-wide nest,
  And now will soar and sing, as harpchords sing,
  Whilst in their upward flight they breast the wind
  Of Destiny. No rest for her, no tomb,
  Nor ashes! Light eternal! Hymns of joy!
  No silence now for her, who, ever silent,
  Above misfortunes' storms and thund'ring billows,
  Would stand with clear and fearless brow, so calm,
  That men drew strength from out those dauntless eyes,
  And quiet from that hotly beating heart,
  Kept still by stern command and unbent will
  Beneath those tight shut lips. Not ashes, where
  A beacon e'er will burn, a fire, like
  The Altar's Soma, for the strong, the weak,
  The true, the brave, and for the quailing. No,
  Not ashes, but a light, that o'er the times
  Will shed a gentle ray, and show the haven,
  When all the world, stormshaken, rudderless, will pray:
  If but her century would shine again!
  Oh, Lord! Why hast thou ta'en thy peaceful Queen?




A FRIEND

[Illustration]


  Old age is gentle as an autumn morn;
  The harvest over, you will put the plough
  Into another, stronger hand, and watch
  The sowing you were wont to do.
                                    Old age
  Is like an alabaster room, with soft
  White curtains. All is light, but light so mild,
  So quiet, that it cannot hurt.
                                  The pangs
  Are hushed, for life is wild no more with strife,
  Nor breathless uphill work, nor heavy with
  The brewing tempests, which have torn away
  So much, that nothing more remains to fear.
  What once was hope, is gone. You know. You saw
  The worst, and not a sigh is left of all
  The heavy sighs that tore your heart, and not
  A tear of all those tears that burnt your cheeks,
  And ploughed the furrows into them.
                                You see
  How others work again and weep again,
  And hope and fear. Thy alabaster room
  With marble floor and dainty hangings has
  A look so still, that others wonder why
  They feel it churchlike. All thy life is here;
  Thy life hath built the vault and paved it, and
  Thy hands have woven yonder curtains that
  Surround thy seat, a shady sunshine.
                                      Age
  Is feeble not to thee, as all thy wishes
  Are silent and demand no effort. Age
  Is kind to thee, allows thee all the rest
  That never came, when life was hard and toilsome.
  Receive it with a smile and clothe thyself
  In white, in Nature's silver crown, and sing
  A lullaby of promise and of comfort.
  Tell them that life is precious, after work,
  And after grief and after all the deaths,
  And not a loathsome burden of a life.
  Old age is like a room of alabaster,
  The curtains silken; thou art priest and Druid!
  No mystery for thee, but Light from heaven!




OUT OF THE DEEP

[Illustration]


  Thy soul grows silent, when its accents are
  Disturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burden
  Has deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.
  When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,
  Then art thou rich.
                      Our life is seldom open,
  For love and fear have shut it. When we lay
  It open, there is nought to show in it,
  But wounds and burning pain.
                              Mysterious is
  Thy power, great as it may be, a trial
  Of thine own will and of the curb upon
  Thyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,
  The greater it has grown, surrounded as
  We are by fear and pain.
                            And when the soul
  Lifts up her voice and speaks, then must she go
  Against the will of people, not her own,
  The will that is herself, the soul's own might.
  When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dear
  Beloved business put into our hands.
  We dream at first to make it daintily,
  Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich,
  And then the dream becomes a wish, then changes
  To action, to be called by us our own
  Free will. And when we feel alleviated
  Of suffering, we call it hope. In each
  Hard battle of our life, free will is quite
  The same, unbending and undone, and gave
  Us never yet a ray of satisfaction,
  Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror.
  And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth not
  In hearts that are too great for hope, too great
  For wishes, and that fearless never ask
  Why will is but obedience, power worthless,
  The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo.
  Great hearts are free of either want or wish;
  They may be proud and richly clothe themselves
  In lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.




A CORONATION

[Illustration]


  When in Bohemia there were kings and queens,
  The crown was laid upon the head that had
  To bear and to exalt it--on the King's,
  And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.
  The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;
  The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. Great
  For both the heaviness, the endless pain,
  For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thankless
  Unending work, the sorrow of their people,
  The care of each and all, the scorching tears
  Of all, that make their path a desert, and
  Their robe so heavy, as if dew had changed
  Into the icy hangings of the frost.
  The shoulder oftentimes is wounded by
  The crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,
  Much heavier than all that heavy weight,
  And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulder
  Resist the load, and still her smiling eyes
  And gentle lips make all the world believe
  Her shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,
  The load they put upon her without asking
  How great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!
  Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sigh
  Escape your loving hearts, and no complaint
  Break from the lips God made to heal and bless!
  Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slaves
  For looking overworked. If thou canst bear
  No more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!




DOWN THE STREAM

[Illustration]


  From whence the brook? From where the waters gather
  In mountains' deep recesses, stone-black lakes
  And dripping crevices. It ripples forth
  Into the shining day with scarce a voice,
  And with no strength at all, till mountain showers
  And winter's snow and spring storms pour their flood
  Into the dancing brook, that foams and starts
  And rushes headlong down the steeps and throws
  Into the Unknown all its youth and strength,
  And thunders into hell, to rise again
  In sheets of whiteness into dreamy veils,
  To kiss the flowers' feet and overflow
  The meadows; thence, o'erbridged and caught and fastened
  To wheels, to grind and grind with irksome noise,
  To lose all liberty, all winsome frolic,
  And work till doomsday. On and on the stream
  Goes widening into calm and mighty strength,
  A hero of a stream, that bears the ships
  Like toys, and carries legions.
                                  Wider still
  He grows, and stronger, as he drags the waters
  Of hundred rivers with him to the sea.
  At last his course is sluggish, tired, slow,
  A living death, till, blended with the sea,
  A rising tide will carry him away
  Into oblivion. Such is life! A stream
  From unknown heights through storm and dangerous fall,
  Through unknown land and never-ending work
  Unto Eternity's great, unknown sea.
  You cannot rise above the height you come from,
  You only widen and expand--but downwards,--
  Your strength is gone, your impetus is quenched.
  And then the world will call you great and grand,
  And make a fortune out of all those waters:
  Your tears, your blood, your work, and what you spent;
  The strength of all your aims and all your falls!




IN THE RUSHING WIND

[Illustration]


  The wind hath whirled the leaves from off the tree.
  The leaves were yellow, they had lived their time,
  And lie a golden heap or fly away,
  As if the butterflies had left their wings
  Behind, when love's short summertime had gone,
  And killed them. Lightly doth the leaves' great shower
  Whirl on and skim the ground, where ancient leaves
  Lie rotten, trampled on, so featureless,
  That you can hardly tell what formed that mould,
  That never-ending burial-place of leaves.
  And then the wind will shake and bend the tree,
  And twist its branches