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PATH FLOWER




_All rights reserved_




            PATH FLOWER
                AND
           OTHER VERSES

                BY
          OLIVE T. DARGAN


             [Device]


              MCMXIV
  LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
 NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS




CONTENTS


                                       PAGE
 PATH FLOWER                              1
 THE PIPER                                6
 TO A HERMIT THRUSH                       8
 THANKSGIVING                            14
 THE ROAD                                16
 LA DAME REVOLUTION                      23
 THE REBEL                               24
 THESE LATTER DAYS                       25
 ABNEGATION                              26
 THE LITTLE TREE                         27
 THE GAME                                28
 BALLAD                                  31
 A DIRGE                                 37
 HIS ARGUMENT                            39
 THE CONQUEROR                           40
 TO MOINA                                41
 "THERE'S ROSEMARY"                      42
 AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE                   43
 TO A LOST COMRADE                       45
 FOR M. L. P.                            46
 TO SLEEP                                47
 "LE PENSEUR"                            48
 VISION                                  49
 SAFE                                    50
 ON BOSWORTH FIELD                       52
 OLD FAIRINGDOWN                         53
 THE KISS                                58
 YOUTH                                   60
 TO MIRIMOND                             62
 SOROLLA                                 63
 IN THE BLUE RIDGE                       66
 YE WHO ARE TO SING                      70
 "AND THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST"           73
 MAGDALEN TO HER POET                    76
 FRIENDS                                 85
 TRYST                                   89
 IN THE STUDIO                           90
 LOVERS' LEAP                            91
 HAVENED                                 94
 MID-MAY                                102
 THE LOSS                               104
 CALLED                                 105
 SONG OF TO-MORROW                      108
 LITTLE DAUGHTERS                       110




    _The author thanks the editors of "Scribner's Magazine," "The
    Century," "The Atlantic Monthly," and "M'Clure's" for permission to
    reprint the greater part of the verse included in this volume._




PATH FLOWER


    A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
      A lark o'er Golder's lane,
    As I the April pathway trod
      Bound west for Willesden.

    At foot each tiny blade grew big
      And taller stood to hear,
    And every leaf on every twig
      Was like a little ear.

    As I too paused, and both ways tried
      To catch the rippling rain,--
    So still, a hare kept at my side
      His tussock of disdain,--

    Behind me close I heard a step,
      A soft pit-pat surprise,
    And looking round my eyes fell deep
      Into sweet other eyes;

    The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
      So clear and trustful brown,
    Without a bubble warning you
      That here's a place to drown.

    "How many miles?" Her broken shoes
      Had told of more than one.
    She answered like a dreaming Muse,
      "I came from Islington."

    "So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods,
      Then seemed to lift a wing,
    And words fell soft as willow-buds,
      "I came to find the Spring."

    A timid voice, yet not afraid
      In ways so sweet to roam,
    As it with honey bees had played
      And could no more go home.

    Her home! I saw the human lair,
      I heard the hucksters bawl,
    I stifled with the thickened air
      Of bickering mart and stall.

    Without a tuppence for a ride,
      Her feet had set her free.
    Her rags, that decency defied,
      Seemed new with liberty.

    But she was frail. Who would might note
      The trail of hungering
    That for an hour she had forgot
      In wonder of the Spring.

    So shriven by her joy she glowed
      It seemed a sin to chat.
    (A tea-shop snuggled off the road;
      Why did I think of that?)

    Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,--
      But she was passing on,
    And I but muddled "You'll accept
      A penny for a bun?"

    Then up her little throat a spray
      Of rose climbed for it must;
    A wilding lost till safe it lay
      Hid by her curls of rust;

    And I saw modesties at fence
      With pride that bore no name;
    So old it was she knew not whence
      It sudden woke and came;

    But that which shone of all most clear
      Was startled, sadder thought
    That I should give her back the fear
      Of life she had forgot.

    And I blushed for the world we'd made,
      Putting God's hand aside,
    Till for the want of sun and shade
      His little children died;

    And blushed that I who every year
      With Spring went up and down,
    Must greet a soul that ached for her
      With "penny for a bun!"

    Struck as a thief in holy place
      Whose sin upon him cries,
    I watched the flowers leave her face,
      The song go from her eyes.

    Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
      And of her charity
    A hand of grace put softly out
      And took the coin from me.

    A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
      A lark o'er Golder's lane;
    But I, alone, still glooming stood,
      And April plucked in vain;

    Till living words rang in my ears
      And sudden music played:
    _Out of such sacred thirst as hers
      The world shall be remade._

    Afar she turned her head and smiled
      As might have smiled the Spring,
    And humble as a wondering child
      I watched her vanishing.




THE PIPER


    I met a crone 'twixt wood and wood,
    Who pointed down the piper's road
    With shaken staff and fearsome glance,--
    "Ware, ware the dance!"

    But when the piper me did greet,
    The wind, the wind was in my feet,
    The rose and leaf on eager boughs
    Unvestalled them of dew-writ vows,
    And I as light as leaf and rose
    Danced to the summer's close.

    Now every tree is weary grown,
    Of singing birds there is not one;
    All, all the world droops into grey,--
    O piper Love, must thou yet play?
    The wildest note of all he blew,
    And fast my worn feet flew.

    Old is the year, the leaf and rose
    Are long, long gone;
    So chill, so chill the grey wind blows
    Through heart and bone;
    No grasses warm the winter ways
    That wound my feet;
    But with unwearied fingers yet,
    Bold, undelayed on stop and fret,
    Unmercifully sweet,
    The piper plays....




TO A HERMIT THRUSH


    Dweller among leaves, and shining twilight boughs
    That fold cool arms about thine altar place,
    What joyous race
    Of gods dost serve with such unfaltering vows?

    Weave me a time-fringed tale
    Of slumbering, haunted trees,
    And star-sweet fragrances
    No day defiled;
    Of bowering nights innumerable,
    And nestling hours breath-nigh a dryad's heart
    That sleeping yet was wild
    With dream-beat that thou mad'st a part
    Of thy dawn-fluting; ay, and keep'st it still,
    Striving so late these godless woods to fill
    With undefeated strain,
    And in one hour build the old world again.
    Wast thou found singing when Diana drew
    Her skirts from the first night?
    Didst feel the sun-breath when the valleys grew
    Warm with the love of light,
    Till blades of flower-lit green gave to the wind
    The mystery that made sweet
    The earth forever,--strange and undefined
    As life, as God, as this thy song complete
    That holds with me twin memories
    Of time ere men,
    And ere our ways
    Lay sundered with the abyss of air between?

          _List, I will lay
          The world, my song,
          Deep in the heart of day,
          Day that is long
          As the ages dream or the stars delay!
          Keep thou from me,
          Sigh-throated man,
          Forever to be
          Under the songless wanderer's ban.
          I am of time
          That counteth no dawn;
          Thy aeons yet climb
          To skies I have won,
          Seeking for aye an unrisen sun!_

    Soft as a shadow slips
    Before the moon, I creep beneath the trees,
    Even to the boughs whose lowest circling tips
    Whisper with the anemones
    Thick-strewn as though a cloud had made
    Its drifting way through spray and leafy braid
    And sunk with unremembering ease
    To humbler heaven upon the mossy heaps.
    And here a warmer flow
    Urges thy melody, yet keeps
    The cool of bowers; as might a rose blush through
    Its unrelinquished dew;
    Or bounteous heart that knows not woe,
    Put on the robe of sighs, and fain
    Would hold in love's surmise a neighbour's pain.

    Ah, I have wronged thee, sprite!
    So tender now thy song in flight,
    So sweet its lingerings are,
    It seems the liquid memory
    Of time when thou didst try
    Thy gleaning wing through human years,
    And met, ay, knew the sigh
    Of men who pray, the tears
    That hide the woman's star,
    The brave ascending fire
    That is youth's beacon and too soon his pyre,--
    Yea, all our striving, bateless and unseeing,
    That builds each day our Heaven new.
    More deep in time's unnearing blue,
    Farther and ever fleeing
    The dream that ever must pursue.

          _Heart-need is sorest
          When the song dies:
          Come to the forest,
          Brother of the sighs.
          Heart-need is song-need,
          Brother, give me thine!
          Song-meed is heart-meed,
          Brother, take mine!
          I go the still way,
          Cover me with night;
          Thou goest the will way
          Into the light.
          Dust and the burden
          Thou shall outrun;
          Bear then my guerdon,
          Song, to the sun!_

    O little pagan with the heart of Christ,
    I go bewildered from thine altar place,
    These brooding boughs and grey-lit forest wings,
    Nor know if thou deniest
    My destiny and race,
    Man's goalward falterings,
    To sing the perfect joy that lay
    Along the path we missed somewhere,
    That led thee to thy home in air,
    While we, soil-creepers, bruise our way
    Toward heights and sunrise bounds
    That wings may know nor feet may win
    For all their scars, for all their wounds;
    Or have I heard within thy strain
    Not sorrow's self, but sorrowing
    That thou did'st seek the way more free,
    Nor took with us the trail of pain
    That endeth not, e'er widening
    To life that knows what Life may be;
    And ere thou fall'st to silence long
    Would golden parting fling:

    _Go, man, through death unto thy star;
    I journey not so far;
    My wings must fail e'en with my song._




THANKSGIVING


    Supremest Life and Lord of All,
      I bring my thanks to thee;
    Not for the health that does not fail,
      And wings me over land and sea;
    Not for this body's pearl and rose,
      And radiance made sure
    By thine enduring life that flows
      In sky-print swift and pure;

    Not for the thought whose glowing power
      Glides far, eternal, free,
    And surging back in thy full hour
      Bears the wide world to me;
    Not for the friends whose presence is
      The warm, sweet heart of things
    Where leans the body for the kiss
      That gives the soul its wings;

    Not for the little hands that cling,
      The little feet that run,
    And make the earth a fitter thing
      For thee to look upon;
    Not for mine ease within my door,
      My roof when rains beat strong,
    My bed, my fire, my food in store,
      My book when nights are long;

    But, Lord, I know where on lone sands
      A leper rots and cries;
    Find thou my offering in his hands,
      My worship in his eyes.
    As thou dost give to him, thy least,
      Thou givest unto me;
    As he is fed I make my feast,
      And lift my thanks to thee.




THE ROAD


    On Gilead road the shadows creep;
      ('Tis noon, and I forget;)
    By Gilead road the ferns are deep,
      And waves run emerald, wind-beset,
    To some unsanded shore
      Of doe and dove and fay;
    And I for love of that before,
      Forget the hindward way.

    By Gilead road a river runs,
      (To what unshadowed sea?)
    Bough-hidden here,--there by the sun's
      Gold treachery unbared to me.
    O Beauty in retreat,
      From beckoned eyes you steal,
    But the pursuing heart, more fleet,
      Lifts your secretest veil.

    A thrush! What unbuilt temples rear
      Their domes where thrushes sing!
    My heart glides in, a worshipper
      At shrines that ne'er knew offering,
    Nor eye hath seen, and yet
      What soul hath not been there,
    Deep in song's fane where we forget
      To pray, for we are prayer.

    And now the shadows start and glide;
      I hear soft, woodland feet;
    And who are they that deeper bide
      Where beechen twilights meet?
    What tranced beings smile
      On things I may not see?
    As with a dream they would beguile
      Their own eternity?

    I too shall find my own as they;
      ('Tis eve, and I forget;)
    Here in this world where mortals play
      As gods with no god's leave or let.
    My hope in high purlieus
      Desire erst lockt and kept,
    On wing unbarred shall seek and choose,--
      Ay, choose, when I have slept.

    For happy roads may yet be long,
      And bliss must sometime bed.
    Fern-deep I fall, lose sight and song,
      The slim palms close above my head,
    And Life, the Shadow, weaves
      The charm on sleepers laid
    Till Time's spent ghost comes not nor grieves
      An hourless Gilead.

    Ay me, I dream my eyes are wet;
      I sigh, I turn, I weep.
    Alack, that waking we forget
      But to remember when we sleep!
    O vision of closed eyes,
      That burns the heart awake!
    O the forgotten truth's reprise
      For the forsaken's sake!

    Far land, blood-red, I feel again
      Thy hot, unsilenced breath;
    Meet thy unburied eyes of pain
      That, dying ever, find no death;
    See childhood's one gold hour
      Bartered for crust and bed,
    And man's o'erdriven noon devour
      His evening peace and bread.

    I hear men sob,--ay, men,--and shout
      To souls on Gilead road:
    "Tell us the way--we sent ye out--
      We bought ye free--we paid our blood!"
    Gaunt arms make signal mad;
      O, feel the woe-waves break!
    Does no one hear in Gilead?
      Will one, not one turn back?

    Rolls higher from the land blood-red
      That sea-surge of despair!
    A flame creeps over Gilead,
      Unseen, unfelt by any there.
    They look not back, the while
      Doom shadows round them dance,
    And smile meets slow, unstartled smile
      As in it sleep's mid-chance.

    "We give our days, we give our blood,
      We send ye far to see!
    We break beneath the double load
      That ye may walk unbowed and free!
    'Tis ours, the healing shade;
      'Tis ours, the singing stream;
    'Tis ours, the charm on sleepers laid;
      'Tis ours, the toil-won dream!"

    Dim grown is Gilead, ashen, lost
      To me who hear that cry.
    "Our every star is hid with dust;
      The way, the way! Let us not die!"
    Up from the trampled ferns,
      (O Beauty's praying hands!)
    I stricken start, as one who turns
      From plague's unholy lands.

    Pale is the dream we dream alone,
      An unresolving fire,
    Till beacon hearts make it their own
      And men are lit with man's desire.
    I mourn no Gilead fair,
      Back to my own I speed,
    And all my tears are falling where
      They sell the sun for bread.

    Mine too the blow, the unwept scar;
      Mine too the flames that sere;
    And on my breast not one proud star
      That leaves a brother's heaven bare.
    Life is the search of God
      For His own unity;
    I walk stone-bare till all are shod,
      No gold may sandal me.

    I come, O comrades, faster yet!
      For me no bough-hung shade
    Till every burning foot be set
      In ferns of Gilead.
    The old, old pain of kind,
      Once mine, is mine once more;
    And I forget the way behind,
      So dear is that before.




LA DAME REVOLUTION


    Red was the Might that sired thee,
      White was the Hope that bore thee,
    Heaven and Earth desired thee,
      And Hell from thy lovers tore thee;
    But barren to the ravisher,
      Thou bearest Love thy child,
    Immortal daughter, Peace; for her
      Waits Man, the Undefiled.




THE REBEL


    A riot-maker! Can the fruit
      Of frenzy be a gracious thing?
    His soul has hands; above the bruit
      They lift a song-bird quivering.

    World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go
      Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes
    Mourn a deserted earth? But no!
      Men go not down till men arise.

    The game is Life's. She plays to win;
      And whirls to dust her overlings;
    Her abluent winds shall spare no sin,
      Though hidden in the breast of kings;

    And Earth is smiling as she takes
      To her old lap their fallen bones,
    For down the throbbing ways there wakes
      The laughter of her greater sons.




THESE LATTER DAYS


    Take down thy stars, O God! We look not up.
      In vain thou hangest there thy changeless sign.
    We lift our eyes to power's glowing cup,
      Nor care if blood make strong that wizard wine,
    So we but drink and feel the sorcery
      Of conquest in our veins, of wits grown keen
    In strain and strife for flesh-sweet sovereignty,--
      The fatal thrill of kingship over men.
    What though the soul be from the body shrunk,
      And we array the temple, but no god?
    What though, the cup of golden greed once drunk,
      Our dust be laid in a dishonoured sod,
    While thy loud hosts proclaim the end of wars?
    We read no sign. O God, take down thy stars!




ABNEGATION


    Christ, dear Christ, were the wood-ways sweet
      By the long, white highway bare,
    Where the hot road dust made grey Thy feet?
      Ay,--but the woman's hair!

    Brother, my Christ, when thou camest down
      The cup of water to give,
    Did a poet die on the mount's cool crown?
      Ay,--and for that dost thou live!




THE LITTLE TREE


    It pushed a guided way between
      The pebbles of her grave;
    A poplar hastening to be green
      And silver signals wave.

    And we who sought her with the moon,
      Were met by branches stirred,
    And whiter grew as grew the croon
      That seemed her hidden word.

    "O, she would speak!" my heart-beat said;
      My eyes were on the mound;
    And lowlier hung my waiting head
      Above the prisoning ground.

    Then smiled the lad and whispered me,--
      The lad who most did love;
    "She stoops to us; the little tree
      Is wakened from above!"




THE GAME


    'Tis played with eyes; one uttered word
      Would cast the game away.
    As silent as a sailing bird,
      The shift and change of play.

    So many eyes to me are dear,
      So many do me bless;
    The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere
      Where leaves are flutterless;

    The brown that most bewildereth
      With dusking, golden play
    Of shadows like betraying breath
      From some shy, hidden day;

    The black whose torch is ever trimmed,
      Let stars be soon or late;
    The blue, a morning never dimmed,
      Opposing Heaven to fate;

    The grey as soft as farthest skies
      That hold horizon rain;
    Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise,
      They bring the gods again;

    And wavelit eyes of nameless glow,
      Fed from far-risen streams;
    But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know
      The silent game of dreams!

    Three times I've played. Once 'twas a child,
      Lap-held, not half a year
    From Heaven, looked at me and smiled,
      And far I went with her.

    Out past the twilight gates of birth,
      And past Time's blindfold day,
    Beyond the star-ring of the earth,
      We found us room to play.

    And once a woman, spent and old
      With unavailing tears,
    Who from her hair's down-tangled fold
      Shook out the grey-blown years,

    Sat by the trampled way alone,
      And lifted eyes--what themes!
    I could not pass, I sat me down
      To play the game of dreams.

    And once... a poet's eyes they were,
      Though earth heard not his strain;
    And since he went no eyes can stir
      My own to play again.




BALLAD


    When I with Death have gone on quest,
    And grief is mellowed in your breast;
        When you do nothing fret
    If jest come gently in with tea,
    And Purr is stroked for want of me;
    When thought robust bestirs your mind,
    And with a candid start you find
        The world must move
        To living love
    And you forthright on travel set;

    I do not ask you strive to keep
    Awake the woe that winks for sleep,
        Or swell the lessening tear;
    I do not ask; dear to me still
    May be the eyes regret would fill;
    And, sooth, in vain I'd Nature sue
    To go a little out for you;
        But whether 'tis
        Or that or this
    Is from the matter there and here.

    Forget the kisses dying not
    Till each a thousand more begot;
        Such easy progeny
    You with small trouble still may have;
    (Though women die, love has no grave;)
    Forget the quaint, the nest-born ways,
    And ponder things more to my praise,
        That I may long
        Be worth a song
    Though deep in tongueless clay I be.

    Admit my eye, than yours less keen,
    Still knew a bead of Hippocrene
        From baser bubbles bright;
    My ear could catch, or short or long,
    The echo of true-hammered song;
    And many a book we journeyed through;
    Some turned us home again, 'tis true,
        (Not all who pen
        Are more than men,)
    And some, like stars, outwore the night.

    Say I could break a lance with Fate,
    Took half, at least, my troubles straight,
        (Let women have their boast;)
    Homed well with chance, and passing where
    The gods kept house would take a chair,
    Perchance at ease, with naught ado,
    With Jove would toss a quip or two;
        The nectar stale,
        A mug of ale
    On goodly earth would serve a toast.

    And if I left thee by a stile
    Where thou didst choose to dream, the while
        I sought a farther mead,
    Or clomb a ridge for flowers that wore
    Of earth the less, of stars the more,
    I hastened back, confess of me,
    To lay my treasure on thy knee;
        Nor didst thou hear
        Of stone or brere,
    Or how my hidden feet did bleed.

    And in the piping season when
    The whole round world takes heart again
        To rise and dance with Spring;
    When robin drives the snow-wind home,
    And sweetened is the warmed loam,
    When deeper root the violets,
    And every bud its fear forgets
        With upward glance
        For lovers' chance
    In Venus' dear and fateful ring;

    Let not a thought of my cold bed
    Bechill thy warm heart beating red,
        And thy new ardours dim;
    But if, good hap, you rove where I
    Beneath the twinkling moss then lie,
    Be glad to see me decked so gay,
    (Spring's the best handmaid without pay,)
        I like things new,
        In season too,
    And fain must smile to be so trim.

    Then hie thee to some bonny brake
    Another mate to woo and take,
        And as thy soul to love.
    Rise with the dew, stay not the noon,
    What's good cannot be found too soon,
    The wind will not be always south,
    Nor like a rose is every mouth,
        Time's quick to press,
        Do thou no less,
    And may the night thy wisdom prove.

    And as all love doth live again
    In great or small that loved hath been,
        Keep this sole troth with me,--
    Forget my name, my form, my face,
    But meet me still in every place,
    Since we are what we love, and I
    Loved everything beneath the sky.
        So may I long
        Be worth a song,
    Though I who sang forgotten be.




A DIRGE


    Mortal child, lay thee where
      Earth is gift and giver;
    Midnight owl, witch, or bear
      Shall disturb thee never!

    Softly, softly take thy place,
    Turn from man thy waning face;
    Fear not thou must lie alone,
    Sleep-mates thou shalt have anon.

    (Clock of Time none commands,
      Driveth not the winter floods,
    Where the silent, tireless sands
      Run the ages of the gods.)

    Thine is not a jealous bed;
    Pillow here hath every head;
    All that are and all to be
    Shall ask a little room of thee.

    (Feet of flame, haste nor creep
      Where the stars are of thy pace;
    Heart of fire, in shadows sleep,
      With the sun in thy embrace.)

    Babe of Time, old in care,
      Sweet is Earth, the giver;
    Owlet, witch, or midnight bear
      Shall disturb thee never.




HIS ARGUMENT


    One time I wooed a maid (dear is she yet!)
      All in the revel eye of young Love's moon.
    Content she made me,--ah, my dimpling mate,
      My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon!
    But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maid
      With creeping glance that sees and will not see,
    And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,--
      O, might I woo her nor inconstant be!
    But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring?
      (Yon scarlet fruit-bell is a flower asleep;)
      And I am not forsworn if yet I keep
    Dream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss.
      Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring,
    And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.




THE CONQUEROR


    O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by,
      To drop thy buds before his frosty feet,
    Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lie
      In trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet?
    Yet must thou cast thy tender offering,
      And make thy way above thy mourned dead,
    Or frowning Winter would be always king,
      And thou wouldst never walk with crowned head.
    So gentle Love must make his venturous way
      Among the shaken buds of his own pain;
    And many a hope-blown garland meekly lay
      Before the chilly season of disdain;
    But as no beauty may the Spring outglow,
    So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.




TO MOINA


    There were no heaven but for lovers' eyes;
      Save in their depths do all Elysiums fade;
    And gods were dead but for the life that lies
      In kisses sweet on sweeter altars laid.
    There were no heroes did not lovers ride,
      And pyramid high deeds upon new time;
    Nor tale for feast, or field, or chimney-side,
      And harps were dumb and song had ne'er a rhyme.
    Then live, proud heart, in happy fealty,
      Nor sigh thee more thy dear bonds to remove;
    Thou art not thrall to liege of mean degree,
      For all are kings who bear the lance of love;
    No wight so poor but may his tatters lose,
    And find his purple if his lady choose.




"THERE'S ROSEMARY"


    O love that is not love, but dear, so dear!
      That is not love because it goes so soon,
      Like flower born and dead within one moon,
    And yet is love for that it comes full near
    The guarded fane where love alone may peer,
      Ere like young Spring by Summer soon outshone,
      It trembles into death, but comes anon,
    As thoughts of Spring will come though Summer's here.

    O star full sweet, though one arose more fair,
      Within my heart I'll keep a heaven for thee
        Where thou mayst freely come and freely go,
    Touching with thy pale gold the twilight air
      Where dream-closed buds could never flower show,
        Yet fragrant keep the shadowy way for me.




AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE


        South-heart of song
          In winter drest,
        Death mends thy wrong;
          That is life's best.

        Bird, who didst sing
          From a bare bough,
        Call, and what Spring
          Will answer now!

        And haste with her
          Bud-legacy,--
        O, not to share,
          To take of thee!

        Thy night, slow, dark,
          Yet song-lit shone,
        Till who did hark
          Missed not the moon;

        When Morning found
          Thy cold, pierced breast,
        'Twas she who moaned,
          To thy thorn pressed.

    _Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn
    Through whose high morn the bird sings on._




TO A LOST COMRADE


    We found the spring at eager noon,
      And from one cup we drank;
    Then on until the forest croon
      In twilight tangle sank;

    The night was ours, the stars, the dawn;
      The manna crust, bird-shared;
    And never failed our magic shoon,
      Whatever way we fared.

    If caged at last, ceased not the flow
      Of sky-gleam through the bars;
    And where were wounds I only know
      Tear-kisses hid the scars.

    And when, as round the world death-free
      We wind-embodied roam,
    I hear the gale that once was thee
      Cry "Hollo!" I will come.




FOR M. L. P.


    Rose Love lay dreaming where I passed,
      Like flower blown from careless stem;
    So still I dared to touch at last
      Her white robe's hem.

    Rose Love looked up and caught my hand,
      Though in her eyes the sea-birds were;
    When o'er my brow there blew a strand
      Of cold, grey hair.

    Rose Love stood up unriddling this,
      Till shadows in my eyes grew old;
    Then warmed the lock with sudden kiss;
      Now flames it gold.




TO SLEEP


    O silent lover of a world day-worn,
      Taking the weary light to thy dusk arms,
    Stealing where pale forms